Sunday, January 27, 2013

Ladies and Good Ol' Boys

She paused abruptly while taking the dishes from the dishwasher and placing them back in the cupboards. She had been hit with a little glimmer of horror and satisfaction all at once and smirked as she presented herself into the dining room and announced, "You know, I just realized in some sort of way it was probably completely inappropriate for me to be discussing gun control with you and the guys last night."

Her husband looked quizzically at his wife. "Why would you say that?"

"All the women were in another corner talking about decorating their houses and Magic Mike and it was like I completely didn't fit in with them. I mean, did you not pick up on how the women were all so proper and in their own world?"

Her husband didn't notice then, nor did he care to try to remember. To him, it was unimportant. He just exclaimed, "Well, I think we've worked our way into the 'good-ol'-boys' club!"

She gave her usual grimace, the one that she would say meant she was fine, but really meant thoughts were brewing in her head. She knew those women she tried so hard to fit in with, who spent a good part of dinner discussing their weddings, the joys of Pintrest, and all their favorite southern hot-spots didn’t welcome her into their elitist clique.

"My husband and I got married in a court house and shot machine guns on our wedding day," elicited looks of pity and disgust.

"Bless your heart," they agreed. She had been in the south long enough to know this was a condescending insult on their part. It was them saying something that sounded like they cared, but really, they didn’t.

Even trying to gain their acceptance resulted in failure.

"It's just such a cute photo, but I can't possibly put it up because of his booger nose," one lady complained, in regards to a sweet photo of her son with a runny nose.

She, on the other hand, wouldn’t hesitate to put up a grotesque photo if it captured the essence of a beautiful moment. Yet she tried again to wedge her way into their clique, "I can photoshop that out if you want. I can do that..."

The ladies looked at her, almost interested for a minute, but could see through her desperate attempt for acceptance. The hostess changed the subject to complain about a scuff of paint on a walkway that wasn't even noticeable until they pointed it out. At this point, she no longer cared about anything they had to say. All they did was complain about their perfect lives. How a backyard wedding was completely unacceptable, and they didn't have enough in the budget to do a better venue so they would need to wait another year. How the wreath they made from a Pintrest post wasn't good enough because they ran out of burlap. How they didn't have any more paint to cover the scuff that was on the walk way no one would even see if they didn't bring it up in the first place. How they had so much, but it still wasn't enough. “This,” she thought, “is what it is like to be a southern lady?

Yet she was no southern woman. She was a westerner. No matter how hard she tried, she would never be like them. She just didn’t have it in her to be so petty. She found more welcome talking to their husbands along with the company of her own husband. She did everything a southern lady was not to do: fraternizing with the men, drinking liquor and beer, and discussing politics. This made her even more of an outsider to the southern ladies she was trying so hard to impress.

It was then, at that moment, when she drank another beer with her husband and the men, she realized she would rather be a happily married westerner who would never fit into the world of the miserable southern ladies. She wondered, however, if her actions would result in her husband being ostracized from the good-ol'-boys club. Even though the men chatted with her and her husband, at the end of the day, they would most likely have account to their wives, who would criticize how improper it was of her and how her husband shouldn’t allow his wife to act as she did.

Of course, at the end of the day, those men would never hold it against her. Unlike her husband, she was one of the good-ol'-boys. She knew some other men who were friends with the husbands of those women. She knew of many stories that would truly give those women something to complain about. And the husbands of those catty southern women knew this.

She looked at her husband triumphantly. Her hair was completely out of place, her face was greasy, yet she proudly declared, "Yes, dear, we've made it. We are officially good-ol'-boys."

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