Primal Fears
Living with my two sisters, one elder, one younger, has its tradeoffs - usually gender-cliched, which is fine by me since I have somewhat cliched views about men and women's roles at home.
For example, they do the laundry, the washing-up, and the general groundwork for ensuring the maintenance of the home, while I, as the male, only perform "special operations"when required, such as unclogging the sink or other such manly duties.
In short, the gals are like beat cops and I'm the SWAT team.
Which is all fine and dandy, I'm contented with the status quo, except when it comes to the little matter of dealing with cockroaches.
Now, in the great book of sexism, of which I'm an ardent subscriber, the chore of dealing with pests clearly falls in the men's domain. It's normal, expected even, for girls to scream when they encounter those creepy critters, and shout for their brother to "come and kill'em". And it's duty-bound, expected even, for said brother to enter the scene with a bored "just another job for Superman" look and a rolled up newspaper.
Here's the scoop: I totally fake the routine. Right up to the bored Superman look. Even as I pretend to get in position to whack the fucker senseless, in fact, I'm positioning myself for a speedy getaway should that roach decide to go airborne.
Because if there's one thing that can make me lose all sensation in my legs, it's a cockroach flying towards me. I tell you, something primal in me awakens and all hell breaks loose when I hear that fluttering of wings.
While rats and lizards and worms I can stand, I just wonder where my innate fear of cockroaches originated.
Huh. *ponders*
For example, they do the laundry, the washing-up, and the general groundwork for ensuring the maintenance of the home, while I, as the male, only perform "special operations"when required, such as unclogging the sink or other such manly duties.
In short, the gals are like beat cops and I'm the SWAT team.
Which is all fine and dandy, I'm contented with the status quo, except when it comes to the little matter of dealing with cockroaches.
Now, in the great book of sexism, of which I'm an ardent subscriber, the chore of dealing with pests clearly falls in the men's domain. It's normal, expected even, for girls to scream when they encounter those creepy critters, and shout for their brother to "come and kill'em". And it's duty-bound, expected even, for said brother to enter the scene with a bored "just another job for Superman" look and a rolled up newspaper.
Here's the scoop: I totally fake the routine. Right up to the bored Superman look. Even as I pretend to get in position to whack the fucker senseless, in fact, I'm positioning myself for a speedy getaway should that roach decide to go airborne.
Because if there's one thing that can make me lose all sensation in my legs, it's a cockroach flying towards me. I tell you, something primal in me awakens and all hell breaks loose when I hear that fluttering of wings.
While rats and lizards and worms I can stand, I just wonder where my innate fear of cockroaches originated.
Huh. *ponders*
posted by caffeinated at 12:26 AM
2 Comments:
damnitt..your posts are still so romantic. the way you weave your words...
I didn't even have to ask and yet I can tell it's you.
You're one of the very very few.. okay, ONLY older man that I've ever developed a slight crush on.
Love your writing, love what's going on inside your head.
I guess many had this very idea of fear that flying roaches would end up landing at their heads.. you know how messy things can get if it does.
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