I hate how much I love to grill. It’s not that I’m inclined to vegetarianism or that I otherwise object to the practice itself. But I’m uncomfortable with the pleasure I take in something so conventionally masculine. Looming over the coals, tongs in hand, I feel estranged from myself, recast in the role of suburban dad. At such moments, I get the sense that I’ve fallen into a societal trap, one that reaffirms gender roles I’ve spent years trying to undo. The whole business feels retrograde, a relic of some earlier, less inclusive era.
I take food prep a little too seriously, curtly brushing others out of the way when I step up to the kitchen counter. In my online dating days, I tried to spin this fault as a feature, describing myself as “a finicky, meticulous cook.” On reflection, I’m probably just kind of a jerk, but when I’m grilling I worry that I’ve become something even worse. Am I shoving others out of the way because it makes me feel like a man? Have I become some sort of monster?
I suppose when resources are freely available, and angry, manly, ape-women are looking for a guy to rape whose male children definitely won’t endure the unnecessary danger of fighting on their way to the free buffet of r-selection, this guy would be ideal. He grovels reflexively, and being so skinny, he can probably sprint away from danger fairly quickly.
But check the picture, and you can see why women might go another way in an environment where angry, savage men routinely brain those who annoy them, in an environment where you have to fight for a share of the limited food.
It touches on another point, and that is the fact narcissists hate seeing other people happy. One can’t help but be struck by how feminists, out of envy, seem hell-bent on making men feel bad over anything they enjoy.
One more reason that if you marry a feminist, you will deserve everything that you will have coming.
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