Man of the year
My only sister who lives in
Third place went to a snapshot of a man and a woman — a young couple — in what seems to be a parking lot. It is a rainy day. The man walks nonchalantly, holding up an umbrella to protect himself. Several paces behind him steps the woman, laboring to keep pace while balancing a towering stack of beer crates. She obviously can’t see where she’s headed so she peers around the side of the crates, putting herself in an even more precarious situation.
Second place went to the photo of an overweight man and an average-sized woman in a rowboat on a lake. The man, comfortably seated at the stern of the boat — all but tipping over the craft because of his weight — is reclining and smoking a cigarette. The woman is meanwhile seated at the fore, working away at both oars.
The first prize goes to a photo of yet another young couple, this time camping. There is a two-person tent pitched on the ground. Inside is a man, sleeping snugly and cradling his bicycle. The woman, for lack of space, is shown shivering outside the protective enclosure of the tent, lying on a thin blanket.
When I opened the e-mail attachment and viewed the photos as a slide show, counting down from the runners-up to the winner, I was at once dumbstruck and convulsed with laughter. Dumbstruck at wondering how in the world the women got themselves into such compromising situations with a camera nearby, and laughing because of the comedic element in every shot. I might have been appalled at one point but I quickly realized that you can only view the irony of each photo with a good sense of humor; otherwise, a gal would definitely start foaming at the mouth.
I then called my sister to discuss the photos. We were in stitches in no time. Here’s the thing: what kind of woman would allow herself to be bullied into hauling six crates of beer with her bare hands, while her boyfriend walks leisurely ahead of her under an umbrella?
My sister answered, “Well, someone who doesn’t have much of a brain. Or maybe a feminist?”
“A feminist wouldn’t be caught dead with a man like that,” I countered. “A post-feminist would. If a woman had the strength to carry all those, why the heck not?”
My sister wasn’t quite satisfied with that answer and speculated: “Maybe he looks like Jude Law.”
“Hard to tell,” I said. “It’s only his profile that shows; I can’t say.”
We broke out into scandalous giggles because we caught ourselves so quick-on-the-draw to forgive on account of good looks. “Nakakahiya tayo,” we were unanimous in saying.
“Okay,” she continued. “What about the second one, the one with the gargantuan, mean-looking man, sitting pretty on the boat and the woman rowing away? Whatcha think?”
“That’s a hard call. The dude’s scary; he looks like he’ll probably beat her up if she stops rowing. That’s how I see it. I mean, it can’t be his looks, right? No way! He’s a cross between Yogi Bear and Max Alvarado.”
“You’re right,” she agreed. “That woman is doing it because of fear.”
“More like terror,” I said.
“Well, maybe she really loves him; she doesn’t mind doing all the work.”
I check the photo again for a close look. “Naaah,” we simultaneously agreed — again.
Then we came to the final photo, the winner of the contest. A young man sleeps with his bicycle inside a cramped tent, sheltered from the elements, while his girlfriend sleeps outside in the shivering cold.
“Champion!” my sister cheered. “Just look at him, sound asleep in that tent, hugging his bike… and the poor girl…”
“Yeah. A**hole,” I sneered. “Wait. She was probably hot inside the tent; that’s why she crawled out.”
“You think?” was her disbelieving response.
“I don’t know; could be. Maybe the bike’s new; maybe it was her present to him and she wanted to keep it indoors for the night.”
We both thought this over for a few seconds and then blurted: “No way! She’s stupid, that’s what she is. What a loser!”
“You’re right.”
“Yeah, you’re so right.”
“Okay, bye.”
“Bye.”
And that’s how it went.
I was so entertained by the photos that I couldn’t get my mind off of them. And then I had a brilliant idea. I decided to show them around to other men and check their reactions.
First in line was my nine-year-old son, to whom I have been trying to introduce the concept of chivalry. He was fixated on my monitor when I began the slide show. His eyes lit up after the first photo and then his mouth curled up into a sly smile. “Sweet,” he whispered under his breath and then started chuckling.
“What do you think?” I asked him immediately afterward.
“Nothing.”
“What’s funny about it?”
“Girls; they’re funny!”
“Not the boys? ‘Cause I thought the boys were funny.”
“No way, Mom; boys rule!”
There you go.
I showed it to a male classmate in graduate school the next day and he said, “See, if everything worked this way, there would be world peace.” How predictable, I thought.
I then showed it to yet another male classmate. “Bwah-ha-ha!” was his reaction.
“Okay, now you’ve had your fun. Substantiate it,” I challenged him.
“Wala lang, buti nga.” I felt like kicking him in the shin; but no, he’s a friend. Maybe another time.
I gave up on the men. They were obviously enjoying the whole exercise. I tried it on the women instead. I showed it first to a good friend and she immediately got red in the face. I didn’t wait for her to say anything. I shut the computer down and offered to buy her a soda.
It was pointless. All reactions are gender-biased. But what I thought was this: in every photo the man and woman were consenting adults; there were no guns pointed at their heads. Free will was the operative word here. So, among the viewers, who’s to judge what’s acceptable and what’s not? Among the subjects, who’s to be condemned and who’s to be celebrated? Don’t we all just try to get by in our relationships the best we can, constantly deliberating, constantly compromising?
Of course there is that pang of annoyance that strikes at my core each time I view the photos, but then I calm myself down by thinking: okay, that man strolling with the umbrella, he’s going to have to cook dinner, clean the whole house including all the bathrooms that night; that big dude on the rowboat, he’s going to have to massage the woman’s arms for three hours when they get home; and that one sleeping like a log in the tent with his bike, he’s going to wake up alone because his girlfriend will realize in the course of the evening what a jerk he is.
Uh-oh, where’s my sense of humor, you ask? It’s somewhere under an umbrella, drifting down some lake on a rowboat, or cozily zipped up in a tent in some campground for the time being.
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Thank you for your letters. You may reach me at cecilelilles@yahoo.com.
