It was another brutal 102 degree day. My husband and I had decided to accomplish a list of errands in the metro area, and set off hoping my car tires wouldn’t melt before we arrived at the various destinations. I think I’ve mentioned a few times that my husband is one of those rare gentlemen that still opens doors for women, still helps with coats, and still walks on the side closest to traffic in a protective manner. Given today’s heat, I was willing to give him a gentleman’s pass, but he wouldn’t consider it. At each stop he continued to open my car door for me, walked by my side, and usually held my hand. At one point he said I was beautiful even though my hair was stuck to the sweat on my forehead like a tarantula spider.
I know women’s lib struck a blow for independence, and I know I can open my own car door. But, to be honest, I feel to-the-core feminine when he does those things for me. His actions make me believe he sees me as something precious and worth handling with care and love. Times have changed, and so have how we treat one another as a society. But my husband has retained the genteel ways of a bygone era, and I couldn’t feel luckier.