If there's one thing that can make a girl swoon, it's when her guy comes to the rescue.
I know, I know. Am I a prisoner of societally-dictated gender role cliches?? Well, the key is that the rescuing must truly be necessary. It can certainly be overdone and cross the line between assistance and macho condescension. For example, bringing jumper cables to revive a dead car battery = eternal gratitude! Taking the picnic basket from my hands with a "Dafür sind die Männer" comment is somewhat less necessary. I know I should be grownup enough to accept any form of aid with the graciousness with which it was intended, but every time a male friends gasps in horror as I pick up a folding chair (or small backpack, or laundry basket, or jug of milk, or...) I quietly wonder just what other normal activities he thinks I'm incapable of. Yeah, unfortunate and ungrateful, but there it is. And I'm sure the line is different for every person, and women more laid-back and self-confident than I am would probably let the gallant helper be gallant. We just got the short end of the stick for a couple thousand years too long under the guise of "protection" (from, for example, the strenuous decision-making of voting), so some of us are still a bit sensitive about the issue. ;o)
That said, there are indeed times when humans require help from other humans. And when the source of this help is from your boyfriend, well!
For example, Bert is a born conflict manager. This is the result of a nice little cocktail of handy personality characteristics, among them being an extraordinary ability to say the most direct thing in the most tactful manner, and his seeming inability to lose his cool. Seriously, I have never met a person more unflappable. Underscoring this is an acute sense of justice and manners, all of which result in a guy who is never shy to confront what others (including myself) might view as sticky social situations.
Take last Wednesday, when I tried to return a pair of shoes to a store and the saleslady reacted in exactly the way you hope they don't react when you try to return something: she seemed almost personally offended, treating me as if I was trying to pull something over on her and making no secret about her deep suspicion that I was the Antichrist. I returned home fuming like a teakettle.
Bert, upon hearing the story, took me by the hand, walked right back to the shop, and calmly asked for the manager (by name, of course -- ever foresightful, he'd looked it up on the store's website). He then proceeded to calmly explain that, while we would certainly accept any decision dictated by store policy, we were dissatisfied with the unfriendly way in which the policy had been explained.
Of course the saleslady was right there. "You can complain all you like!" she spat.
Bert: "Can you repeat your statement, please?"
"I said you can complain all you like but it's not going to change anything!"
Bert turned to the manager and said, "Does this attitude conform to the quality of customer service promised on that sign behind you?"
He was reasonable, direct, unshakable. Yapping at him, the saleslady looked like an uncivilized shrew. Of course, we were able to exchange the shoes in the end. I am quite sure I wouldn't have been able to conduct the argument that well by myself, and was immensely pleased and proud to have him at my side.
There are other times when his sticking up for me is more subtle, but I am no less grateful. For example, I have lost count of the number of times people blithely blurt out coarse American stereotypes in my presence, apparently forgetting -- or not caring -- that there is an American standing right here. It happens all the time: once, after I laughingly recounted the way people used to mix up Manu's home country of Switzerland with Sweden, a guy scoffed, "Well, yeah, but the Americans are all like that, aren't they? They think we run around in Lederhosen eating Sauerkraut." And I snapped, "Just like all Germans think we are clueless ignoramuses in cowboy hats?" The air got a little tense. And Bert, instead of retreating embarrassed from his girlfriend's awkward conflict, put an arm around my waist and made a dry comment about showing manners and social sensitivity to international guests. I felt like a little kid whose big brother has just asked the playground bully if there seems to be a problem.
Of course I can fight my own battles. And I often do. But there's something about knowing that your boyfriend is on your team, that the moment he hears of any injustice done to you he polishes up his lance and mops the floor with the offender, that makes my feminine heart secretly skip a beat.
