SoG has a story that initially appears to be a cheesy romantic shidduch dating story. But then you realize that it’s way too cheesy to be serious, and… Well, I’m guessing it’s a commentary on the male/female rescuer/rescued fantasy, coupled with some jabs at the sordidness of shidduch dating.
It got me thinking about the whole being rescued thing. I remember a while back reading some comments wherein a few wives confessed to only jumping on the chair and screaming when they have a husband around to save them – otherwise they methodically go about disposing of the disturbance on their own.
I can’t imagine that I could pull off that deception for very long without giving up the game. At some point during our sojourn in our first dank, basement apartment, I’m bound to let slip that I’ve flattened a few exoskeletons in the course of the day.
I can just imagine that romantic, shana rishona dinner conversation:
“We need to invest in some roach motel realty; today I squished one large enough to star in a Far Side comic.”
Then again, maybe it doesn’t matter if he knows I’m faking. Would a guy have fun rescuing a damsel in distress even when he knows she’s faking?
Of course, I wouldn’t need to fake it if I could be rescued from something besides vermin. Because there actually are a couple of things that make me flinch back in horror, turn away in disgust, stifle a scream at the sight of, and consider swooning over…
Yes, I’m talking about dirty chulent pots and chicken pans. Maybe their contents are not crawling across the counter top, but that’s only a matter of time. Those awful things strike terror in my heart and paralyze my soapy-sponge armed hands. If there is one thing I want a knight in shining armor to charge in and tackle for me, it is the goop in the bottom of these vessels.
I would very happily shriek at the sight and leap to the safety of the nearest chair. I would beam down upon my dashing hero as he tackles the monstrosity, only breaking my admiring gaze to gasp in terror as he’s nearly overwhelmed by the muck, but valiantly, by mere inches, oh-so-slowly, manages to overpower it. And when he finally vanquishes the enemy, I would clasp my hands, gaze adoringly up at him, call him my hero, and plant a kiss upon the tip of his nose. For the knight who would dast tackle such a doughty foe it would be a small price.
Although, actually, in the chronicles recorded by Sir Thomas Malory, one doesn’t find much swooning on the part of the rescued women. They tend to take it a very matter-of-fact way, like duh the knight rescued them. That’s his purpose in life. Take the following excerpt as an example:
When the Knite, Sir Husband, beheld the Lady Wyfe lept upon the dais much afrite he was wroth out of measre and sith, “Milady, I had liefer cut mine own throat in twain rather than see thee thus dysadvantaged. For I love thee, and must defende thee with great prowess of armes.” And then he drew his sword and cast up his shield and spurred his horse across the kitchen and smote the pot mightile abuve the handel, carvyng a cantel off the side.
But then the pot voided its contents, splatteryng the knite so eagerle that he did falle to the linoleum. And Sir Husband was so chulente that bi his sheyld there mite no man know him, for all was benes and potatoes on his sword. Yet with his great chivalre he never turned back, and he delivered a buffet so heave that the pot flew threw the wyndow and rolled into the street where it was trammeled bi a passyng oxcart.
“Ha ha, most noble knite,” saith the Lady Wyfe, “I see well and prove, that well is hir that hath a truste husband.”
“I prove mi mite onle for thine love,” saith Sir Husband.
Then soft salves were laid upon his wounds and the Lady Wyfe did see to hem hireself, that he mite need nothyng.
[Yes, I know it ain’t perfect, but you wouldn’t really want to read something like this, would you? http://art-bin.com/art/oastro.html]