There was a time in my life when I thought only men had loins. According to what I read in school they were always “girding” them for battle.
I have always been a voracious reader. In my mid-teens I went through a phase where I read countless “bodice rippers”, otherwise known as romance novels. Living here in the valley it was easy to give an overactive imagination free reign and see a tall, dark hero type with flashing white teeth ride out from under every oak. Or visualize an attractive, surprisingly well groomed pirate band dropping in from Santa Barbara for a casual pillage.
Naturally, all these testosterone types were overwhelmed by my bespectacled, underdeveloped beauty. Through these novels I was amazed to learn women also had loins. Women’s loins would catch on fire, burn, or otherwise cause discomfort when a man’s glistening chest or muscular thighs were present. Thus, for years I had a very politically incorrect view of the function of loins in the sexes. Men dressed them and women suffered through them.
Now I am a mature, emancipated woman and I realize I can gird my loins as needed when facing a stressful event. What a relief.
I labored under many misconceptions because of those novels. They made finding out about the reality of romance a confusing, and usually disappointing, undertaking. The following is meant to be more romance novel bashing rather than male bashing, so please don’t take offense, guys.
In the novels when the heroine faced a dangerous situation the hero always showed up just in the nick of time to save her. In real life how many times do men appear when you want them to? Say it with me ladies—“Never”. If they should blunder into your life at a correct moment do they respond to the problem as you want them to? Doubtful.
Picture this: Our heroine is in obvious distress. Her back pressed against the sink, she is shrinking away from the foe that threatens her. Every tensed muscle cries for relief. A scream gathers in her throat. Who will help her overcome the danger that lurks in her own home?
Suddenly the light dims as the silhouette of her champion fills the doorway. “You’ve come,” she breathes.
“Commercial break,” he says.
Her gaze is pulled back to the overflowing garbage can. It seems as if the trash is crawling out under its own power to attack her. She gestures towards it. “Didn’t you say you would empty that?”
“I’ll get to it. The game is starting again,” he says as he grabs another brew out of the fridge.
“Fine,” she is talking to his back as he disappears into the family room. “Whatever.”
Real romance in action.
The hero in the novels always knows the right thing to say or do. He pours champagne in a sophisticated manner to set the stage for romance or reconciliation. The gifts he brings are thoughtful, when not outrageously expensive. His clothes show off his sculpted body to best effect. The hair on his head is full and shiny and begs the hands of the heroine to stroke it. The hair on his chest is curly and perfect for running her fingers through. And his loins! Well, I won’t even go there for fear of losing my train of thought.
My point is this, these men are written by women. Do they exist in real life? Maybe, but I’ve yet to meet one. Actually, I am not sure I want to. No woman in her right mind wants a man she has to kill herself living up to.
You can see how I developed unrealistic expectations in the romance department. It was only due to some sensible advice that my mother gave me that I have been able to function in this arena. She told me if I was going to wait for the knight in shining armor to appear on a white charger to sweep me off my feet, I was going to be sorely disappointed. There would be nowhere to go in that relationship, but down. The horse was going to roll in the mud someday and the armor was going to get rust spots.
The trouble is it is real hard to see the potential of the court jester in the tri-colored suit trying to put the moves on you while he steps on your toes. Mud and rust seem like far off threats at a time like that.
Romance is hard.
I have always been a voracious reader. In my mid-teens I went through a phase where I read countless “bodice rippers”, otherwise known as romance novels. Living here in the valley it was easy to give an overactive imagination free reign and see a tall, dark hero type with flashing white teeth ride out from under every oak. Or visualize an attractive, surprisingly well groomed pirate band dropping in from Santa Barbara for a casual pillage.
Naturally, all these testosterone types were overwhelmed by my bespectacled, underdeveloped beauty. Through these novels I was amazed to learn women also had loins. Women’s loins would catch on fire, burn, or otherwise cause discomfort when a man’s glistening chest or muscular thighs were present. Thus, for years I had a very politically incorrect view of the function of loins in the sexes. Men dressed them and women suffered through them.
Now I am a mature, emancipated woman and I realize I can gird my loins as needed when facing a stressful event. What a relief.
I labored under many misconceptions because of those novels. They made finding out about the reality of romance a confusing, and usually disappointing, undertaking. The following is meant to be more romance novel bashing rather than male bashing, so please don’t take offense, guys.
In the novels when the heroine faced a dangerous situation the hero always showed up just in the nick of time to save her. In real life how many times do men appear when you want them to? Say it with me ladies—“Never”. If they should blunder into your life at a correct moment do they respond to the problem as you want them to? Doubtful.
Picture this: Our heroine is in obvious distress. Her back pressed against the sink, she is shrinking away from the foe that threatens her. Every tensed muscle cries for relief. A scream gathers in her throat. Who will help her overcome the danger that lurks in her own home?
Suddenly the light dims as the silhouette of her champion fills the doorway. “You’ve come,” she breathes.
“Commercial break,” he says.
Her gaze is pulled back to the overflowing garbage can. It seems as if the trash is crawling out under its own power to attack her. She gestures towards it. “Didn’t you say you would empty that?”
“I’ll get to it. The game is starting again,” he says as he grabs another brew out of the fridge.
“Fine,” she is talking to his back as he disappears into the family room. “Whatever.”
Real romance in action.
The hero in the novels always knows the right thing to say or do. He pours champagne in a sophisticated manner to set the stage for romance or reconciliation. The gifts he brings are thoughtful, when not outrageously expensive. His clothes show off his sculpted body to best effect. The hair on his head is full and shiny and begs the hands of the heroine to stroke it. The hair on his chest is curly and perfect for running her fingers through. And his loins! Well, I won’t even go there for fear of losing my train of thought.
My point is this, these men are written by women. Do they exist in real life? Maybe, but I’ve yet to meet one. Actually, I am not sure I want to. No woman in her right mind wants a man she has to kill herself living up to.
You can see how I developed unrealistic expectations in the romance department. It was only due to some sensible advice that my mother gave me that I have been able to function in this arena. She told me if I was going to wait for the knight in shining armor to appear on a white charger to sweep me off my feet, I was going to be sorely disappointed. There would be nowhere to go in that relationship, but down. The horse was going to roll in the mud someday and the armor was going to get rust spots.
The trouble is it is real hard to see the potential of the court jester in the tri-colored suit trying to put the moves on you while he steps on your toes. Mud and rust seem like far off threats at a time like that.
Romance is hard.
