I honestly believe that on one actually gives a crap about someone’s else’s childhood stories, or even life stories, as long as it didn’t mesh with their own.
Having said that, I was raised in a small Mississippi Delta town that was a clone of Scout’s town in Harper Lee’s, To Kill a Mockingbird. My grandmother, who raised me, was born in the 1800’s and was a ‘southern lady’ as in Faulkner’s, A Rose for Emily. I had no friends who had sisters, so girls (and women) were an exotic mystery to me. They wore dresses, had long hair, they talked different, they walked different, they would get together and giggled and they had, or would have, tits. They were these rarified creatures like unicorns and fairies. If they noticed me at all I would act silly. Hell, I didn’t even believe girls farted.
This seems funny, almost ridiculous now, but that’s how it was in the deep south of the 1930’s and 40’s. Children were taught to be respectful of adults (yes sir and yes ma’am) and especially women.
Women probably don’t want that kind of adoration now – they want to be looked at as equal. The curtain has been pulled back to expose the wizard – and perhaps that is good – but it has lost its magic.
Young boys grow up now seeing women with week bladders and pissy diapers dancing around in TV adds; they see adds for feminine hygiene sprays and for feminine napkins and tampons; women seductively lounging on a bed concerned about their husband’s erectile dysfunction; and a women followed around by her intestinal track concerned about diarrhea and gas.
Women in combat, a woman President, women super heroes - goddess bless um – the world will be a better place with women at the wheel and the old stereotypes broken down.
BUT THE THRILL IS GONE!
I still open doors for my wife, I view her as a magical being, I feel protective of her, I walk on the street side with her on my arm when we walk downtown – because my grandmother told me a gentleman walking with a lady always walks next to the street so he can beat off the horses.