One of our greatest strength as women is our softness, our femininity.
All that muscle-flexing we engage in, particuarly in the work world, doesn’t buy us respect, or love, or security; it drives men away.
Insisting that you can kick his ass will not get a man all hot and bothered.
Years ago I worked at a chemical company in Waterbury, Connecticut. As with most companies of any size there was an it girl who every male employee seemed to love. A delicate blond who could pass for Faith Hill, a popular country singer at the time.
I was mesmerized by this woman because I couldn’t quite make out the source of her beguiling powers. She was very pretty, and very sweet, but there was something else. Around her my fellow salesmen, a normally foul-mouthed and horny lot, became charming schoolboys, tripping over themselves to make her laugh, or to pull out her chair. Without lifting a finger, this woman owned their souls.
I was a single woman, reasonably attractive, and, believe me, I held no such sway over men.
We went to lunch one day at a local restaurant, this it girl and I, and, much to my surprise, she told me how much she’d always admired me. She envied my strength, my financial acumen, and my air of independence. As the wife of a successful alpha male, she’d never had the opportunity to develop herself in this way.
When we got up to leave, the waitress all but dropped her tray and rushed over to help my friend on with her coat. It took me several moments, standing there expectantly with my outerwear slung over one arm, to realize that the same assistance would not be offered me.
As if I were some 350-lb. linebacker. Or Crocodile Dundee.
I realized then that people—men and women—sensed in her a childish defenselessness, a doe-eyed openness, that made them want to rescue her. A vibe, I had to note, nobody picked up from me.
At the time I took great pride in my ability to do EVERYTHING on my own. After a marriage that had left me disempowered, I’d figured out how to do some incredibly daunting stuff: Raise my kids, buy a house, do my taxes, mow my lawn, learn the stock market, deal with testosterone-crazed colleagues, run marathons….
But behind this pride I waved around like a matador’s red cape was a great deal of fear. What if I wasn’t nearly as independent as I fancied myself to be? What if I were genetically predisposed to hand the car keys of my life over to the first man that came along, like I’d done when I’d gotten married? What if my weaknesses were discovered and used against me in some nefarious way? What if men started circling and I didn’t know how to manage them?
For a long time I drew men to me who weren’t interested in (or capable of) a lasting relationship. I was perfect for them because I could support myself, fix my own problems, and carry on with life if they didn’t show up for weeks on end.
Nice, emotionally available guys, who wanted nothing more than to be needed, took one look at my paw prints in the snow and headed straight for the hills.
It was my Italian boyfriend who summed up what men, real men like him, didn’t like about me. My competitive nature was problematic. Guys weren’t impressed with my ability to run faster than them. Or make plenty of money. Or prove more points. My bravado was off-putting. I wasn’t one of the guys, and yet I insisted on acting like one.
I know. European foreplay is totally weird.
What a man, he claimed, really wanted from a woman was softness, gentleness, and approval; not a constant challenge. He wanted someone who would relax into him and let him be the man.
This assessment made me sad for so very many reasons. Mostly because what I yearned for, so desperately, was a strong man who could see beyond the saber rattling straight into my aching heart. A man who could spot the six-year-old girl looking for Daddy’s approval (someone, BTW, who despised girlie-girls). A man who could see these challenges for what they really were: a test of his mettle. A way to separate out the mice from the men.
Meeting a powerhouse like Walt (read: equally messed up) allowed me to drop the act and reveal how badly I needed someone else. His delight in who I was allowed me to take a deep breath and close my eyes.
But, for me to be able to relax and slip into my softer side I had to feel that someone solid:
- Had things under control.
- Had my best interest at heart.
- Would protect me with his life.
- Appreciated what I was capable of doing under my own steam, but would gladly break trail for me.
- Was confident with his masculine power.
I’m here to tell you that cutting the crap feels really, really nice.
I’ve been thinking about the it girl and the Italian boyfriend and my fears and Walt. About what point I’d like to make.
I think I wasted a lot of time and pushed a lot of people away by being so damn insecure. I think I misunderstood what it was that made me strong. To be feminine—gentle and nurturing and playful—isn’t a weakness, it’s an incredible gift. This isn’t about playing the damsel in distress, or the sex kitten, because that’s just lame. It’s about having the courage to be vulnerable.
Do you remember the movie The Bodyguard? What a bitch Whitney Houston was because she was afraid she’d be eaten alive? And it was only when she met the strong, silent Kevin Costner that she could let her guard down? Well, I know just how she feels.
