Make Him Feel Like a Man

Steve Friedman

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I consider myself a feminist. Raised by a charter subscriber to Ms. magazine, I was brought up to believe in gender equality--that men and women were on level playing fields in the world. I've never flinched at having a female boss. I stumped for Hillary Clinton. I even once dated a woman who knew how to drive a backhoe.

So I never thought twice about hooking up with Allie (not her real name), an orthopedic surgeon who was smart, accomplished, and pulling in far more money than I. Was I bothered? Not a bit. I never understood men who didn't admire success in the women they loved. Sure, we might crack wise about wishing for partners who were chronically adoring, relentlessly agreeable, and handy with a spatula. But the truth is, unless a guy watched too many Leave It to Beaver reruns as a kid, he wants a woman who's his intellectual and emotional equal. At least I wanted someone like that.

Or I thought I did. Until Black Thursday—otherwise known as the day that Allie and I made the big mistake of going rollerblading together. You see, what started out as a friendly challenge turned into a spirited race, and then into something else entirely. In short, Allie ended up leaving me in a trail of dust. And my male ego didn't like it.

The following Sunday, I was still ticked off. We were standing in her kitchen. I had done the dishes—that proved my postmodern feminist bona fides, right?—and I was silently (maybe too silently) arranging our bagels and lox on the table.

"Is there something you want to talk about?" Allie asked.

"What do you mean?" "You've been acting weird ever since we went rollerblading."

"As I already mentioned, I had a leg cramp. Plus, I was distracted because I was worried about a deadline," I said.

"I never make excuses when you beat me at thumb wrestling," my beloved pointed out.

"Which you do every time, because your hands are twice as big as mine. But I beat you at one thing, and you're a sulky 2-year-old."

"I am not!" "Riiiiiight."

"Plus, my wheels really need rotating."

"Fact: I play your silly thumb-wrestling game because you like it, even though it's not an even a contest," Allie said. "Fact: I beat you at rollerblading. Fact: You've been a jerk ever since."

"Can we not discuss this?" I shot back. Allie shook her head as I glared at my untouched but (if I do say so myself) perfectly prepared sesame bagel with lox and cream cheese. "Steve," my wealthy, accomplished, and occasionally wise girlfriend said, "maybe you ought to think about why getting beat by me drives you nuts."

She had a point, of course. After all, wasn't I—a man dedicated to gender-neutral hiring practices and the wholesale shattering of glass ceilings—supposed to be beyond this? Wasn't I—a man who wanted an equal partner—supposed to celebrate my girlfriend's strength and embrace her all-around awesomeness? Even when that awesomeness translated into athletic defeat for yours truly?