I loved what a friend had to say to me the other day. The conversation was about meeting the type of man who clearly has nothing to offer and yet promises one everything… and the world… on their first meeting… in a situation where it is clear that it would be nothing more than a fleeting moment. She said that this kind of man has a story to tell. A story with the sort of fantastical magic that could bring any acclaimed alchemist to shame. She also adds that she is always willing to hear this story, in the comfort of her holding her favourite drink, offered by this gentleman of course. She says the climax of all such stories, is seeing how such a man could convince her that indeed he could provide all the material he deems fit for her and all the intelligence, wit and charm she seeks. Of course none of these meetings would have the fantastical wonder of the Brothers Grimms’ forever after or I wouldn’t have a story to tell. I cannot seem to accept such blatant chancing on my part, especially when I am trying to coordinate my joints to the hot sounds of soulful house after their coordination has been swung helter skelter by a few drinks. Damn these ‘lack of coordination’ inducing addictive waters! I do feel a spot of bother when a gentleman approaches and attempts to strike some sort of conversation. Even when his shoes and belt match, I find myself unfairly discriminating against him as quickly as it takes to roll my eyes. It’s so unfortunate, but at that moment I know and feel the need to let the guy know that I don’t believe there is any chance at all! At… what? I don’t even know at what! But I already shut down. Then those hot moves, that just a moment ago, I had been slick about on the dance floor turn robotic and freeze into one silly pose – legs apart, arms crossed across my chest and head tilted to the side. And if I am with my girls I can already see them shaking their heads and thinking I am a lost cause. Shame a guy in Durbs once had the gall to tell me to stop taking myself seriously – I took a sharp intake of breath after that, could have left me dead had I not decided to stop being melodramatic. It turned out that he was my best dancing partner that night and he was witty too. Or maybe I’d become bias because dude had called me out for my rubbish and that in it self was admirable. Back to the friend who prompted this piece, she too felt it crucial to call me out on my ish – what is up with these people, being all vocal when no one asked them to and throwing a Julius my way? My friend, with her non-existent psychology degree decided to break down what was wrong with me. Had a few drinks of addictive waters not heightened my tolerance levels I doubt I would be calling her a friend still. Her theory is that my problem was I had the tendency to emasculate men. These were deep words to be sprouting after a few pops of Savannah, while stuck in a tent, in the middle of the bundus of Mpumalanga. I was taken a back, such philosophy usually comes out of many bottles of red wine and hot jacuzzis where the bubbles and steam evoke great deepness in one. Not there- sitting on a cooler box, in the dark, whilst waiting for a lift! I was about to brush her off until a male colleague started agreeing with her. That was NOT ayoba! I was compelled to listen, could have been being a minority or perhaps that I too was having a few pops of Savannah and was compelled to drink in the depth of her words. She says she’s seen me in action even the simplest gestures by males to throw courtesy my way have me shrugging these off in a bid to prove my independence. What?! Yet I was starting to shrink back. She breaks it down; sometimes it is ok to let someone else handle the stuff that you can quite capably take care of. What ever it is, be it paying for a holiday, getting your hair done – even if you have been doing it before it means more to the gentleman to handle this. Which is why he offers. Declining is never about your display of independence, but it talks more to his capability as a man to handle this. Basically, in it’s simplest form it’s about him handling ish as a man, they way he wants to and the way he feels he should. Admitting this must irk my bra burning sisters – but I had to agree AND I do have a few singed bras in my drawers! I am not trying to give people any more ammunition to believe that we are the weaker gender but this isn’t even about that. It’s not about asserting our independence. I know I can do this and that and a whole long list of things, but this is more about what he wants to do and what he should be given the space to do because it means more to him giving than, me receiving. Perhaps this is when we need to go back to the basics of Tarzan and Jane. Before the conundrum of gender equality and politics made things hazy, multi faceted and at times confusing. Makes me want to burn my bra in protest at the confusion! But I am willing to embrace these moments of “non sweat and no broken nails” whilst sitting pretty. Because sometimes one does not having to prove anything at all and that in it self is perfectly ok.