Object of Affection

When Husband and I moved in together, we had only known each other three weeks.

Think about that.

It's the kind of thing that now, as a mother, would send me over the edge with worry. He could have been a serial killer. A crossdresser. A BDSM fetishist. A CIA operative.

He was none of those things of course. But he was Southern.

I didn't realize at first exactly how deeply that would affect our life and our relationship. Being Southern is not just a geographical designation. It's a very deeply entrenched set of values and beliefs; some admirable, some disconcerting, some incredibly odd and some downright frightening.

What has always been the most difficult for me to reconcile is the way Southerners view women.

In one respect, they are revered as paragons of familial constancy, loyalty and morality. They are respected and cherished. In the South, menfolk always hold the door, always say Ma'am, and always tip their hats.

They never cuss in the presence of a lady. And they never, ever speak ill of another's mother or grandmother. To do so is an unpardonable affront, one which usually results in a posse of rancorous rednecks coming to call upon one's front porch.

But in another respect, women are overlooked and undervalued. Their thoughts, needs and opinions are not considered consequential when it comes to matters of import. They are incidental and largely...ornamental.

As a survival mechanism, Southern women have developed a strange, simpering manner that belies a core of strengh and cunning and a talent for manipulation.

I found out pretty quickly that most Southern men don't know how to deal with a woman who is direct. And Husband was no different.

I had to kiss him first, if that tells you anything.

In the early days of our co-habitation, he would do this thing that I absolutely could not tolerate. But I wasn't sure how to tell him to knock it off already without sounding shrewish as well as unwilling or unable to participate in the kind of love banter that newly minted couples often indulge in.

Truly that kind of thing is not my style at all, but I don't mind doing it as part of the courtship dance. Far be it form me to flaut convention when it comes to mating rituals that have been a part of our societal norms for thousands of years.

But this one...I just couldn't stand it.

Here's how it went:

Husband: Whooooooooo's purty?

Me: What?

Husband: Whooooooo's purty?

Me: Ummmm. Me.

I know, I know. It was a small thing. Too small to get my panties in a wad over. So for a while I played along, telling myself that my dignity was a small price to pay for a guy who had a real job, lifegoals, and paternal aspirations.

But the more he did it, the more I hated it. Eventually, it got to the point that it was all I could do not to scream at him...ME! MOTHERFUCKER! OKAY? ME! I AM. I AM FUCKING PURTY!!!!!

At first, I wasn't even exactly sure why I hated it so much. But then I realized that I resented the implication that I needed constant validation of my physical attractiveness to feel valued. It made me feel objectified and also somewhat infantalized, which completely icked me out. And it made me afraid that he didn't have anything substantial to say to me, and so resorted to such meaningless banality just to fill the silence.

But as I said, I really didn't know how to tell him that I hated it. It was a new relationship, still tentative and exploratory. It was also the first really mature and healthy relationship that I'd had for quite some time and I didn't want to sabotage it.

And, yannow, I kind of loved him.

But it finally got the best of me and one day, I just snapped. Well, not really snapped so much as just decided enough was enough.

Here's how it went:

Me: I have to tell you something that might make you feel bad.

Husband: Oh shit. You want to move out, don't you?

Me: NO! It's just that...that thing you do...asking me "Who's purty?"?

Husband: Yeah?

Me: I hate that. Like....really, really a lot.

Husband: Uh. Okay. You don't want me to do it anymore?

Me: No. Sorry.

Husband: It's okay. How long have you felt like this?

Me: Pretty much since the first time you did it.

Husband: Why didn't you say something???

Me: I didn't want to hurt your feelings.

Husband: Oh, baby. It doesn't matter. It's just a dumb thing my Dad used to say to my sister and...I don't know, it just stuck with me I guess.

Me: Did you say it to Megan?

Husband: Yeah.

Me: Did she like it?

Husband(shrugging): She never said she didn't like it.

Me: Hmmm.

Husband: Why don't you like it?

Me: I don't know, I just feel....really dumb saying it. And it makes me feel...like an object. Like, all I am is pretty.

Husband: Really?

Me: Really.

Husband: I didn't mean it that way. I won't do it anymore, I promise.

Me: Okay, thanks. You're not...upset?

Husband: No. I just feel kind of like an idiot, is all.

I had hurt his feelings, just a little. And then I wondered why I had to go and make such a big deal out of something so stupid. I felt compelled to explain further.

Me: You know, I'd really like it if you would ask me something else though. Something meaningful.

Husband: Like what?

Me:Well, you could ask me how my day was. Or what I think about global warming. Or saving the environment. Or if I've read any good books lately. You could ask me if I have an opinion on the Gulf War. You could ask me what my fondest childhood memory is.

Husband: Okay, baby, I get what you're saying, I really do.

And he did.

I'm happy to say that we survived that particular tempest in a teapot and went on to have some very gratifying and meaningful conversations. Despite my fears, it turned out we had plenty to talk about.

Fifteen years later, we've grown and matured together, and gained a lot of insight into one another. He understands now, knowing me as well as he does, exactly why I would find such a thing completely offensive. And I have learned that such things aren't really worth getting all upset about and aren't meant to be insulting or demeaning.

I can't change hundreds of years of habitude. But I sure can enlighten one little ole redneck boy. And I can raise his children without the gender bias that has plagued generations of their Southern forebearers.

Now, when a Southern gentleman calls me "sugar" or "darlin" or "sweetheart", I scarcely bat an eyelash.

I do teach my boys to open doors and say "Ma'am". But I also teach them a pretty face is not the sum total of a woman's worth.

Recently, I was talking to Pre-Pubescent One about a new girl upon whom he has a fairly wicked crush.

Me: Tell me about her. What is it that you like about her?

PPO: I don't want to tell you. You'll laugh.

Me: I would never laugh. You know that.

PPO: Well....She's interesting and smart. And she's not all giggly and stupid.

Me: DUDE. Why would I laugh at that?!?! That's the BEST reason to like someone.

PPO: I know, but, not everyone thinks so. Most of my friends think that being pretty and like....having big boobs and stuff is the most important.

Me: Well, it's not. And I'm really proud of you for seeing beyond the superficial to the person underneath.

PPO: Well, she's pretty too.

Me: Icing on the cake, my boy.

PPO: Huh?

Me: Nevermind.

So, despite the culture of superficiality and ojectification in which my boys are steeped here in the South, I think they are getting the message that women are to be valued for more than their physical assetts. I think they are developing a preference for girls who are direct and honest and forthright, smart and interesting and strong.

Of course, a nice pair can still turn their heads, but I have to accept that I can't overcome eons of biological programming either.

Anyway, I think it all bodes well for my futher as a mother-in-law. Unless contrary to all that I have taught them, one of them marries a Beauty Queen.

Then there might have to be bloodshed. Or at least some gnashing of teeth and rending of garments.

I'm getting ahead of myself, aren't I?

Go figure.