Louis Roney: Nightmare

Do you have bad dreams?

Well, I tell you, I had a terrible nightmare last night!

I dreamed that my b.w. had suddenly metamorphosed into an “aggressive political woman” like Hillary Clinton, Nancy Pelosi, Elizabeth Warren, and other females of contentious mien.

Every time I see any one of these three Schrecks on the tube, I think of the poor guy (if any) who strives to love, honor and cherish (or is it “obey”) a prickly forbidding female who could have been Shakespeare’s model for Lady Macbeth.

Please understand, my b.w. is darn near an angel. She says I am a “pussycat.” We like to make each other happy. At any rate we never get ugly about anything.

We have had so much fun together for much more than a quarter of a century that we can spend days doing “our things” alone with each other and have as much fun as if we were at a party.

Anyway, in my nightmare, my b.w. had just won a big political election. She was now a “wheel.” I was just a “suit.” In my dream, I was standing at my b.w.’s bedside at 10:30 one morning. She was propped up on satin pillows, and I was putting a breakfast tray on her lap. She sat up straight, and said sternly, “I’m leader of a new feminist political party. Kiddo, the U.S. has more women than men. And every woman will now vote for me.”

I said, “That’s just lovely, dear. Is your breakfast just the way you like it in every possible little way?”

“There are some particular areas you must work on, and I’ll prioritize them with you after my hair-dresser and my masseuse leave at noon.”

“Tell me, what’s the gimmick—I mean platform—of your new political party?” (I should’ve kept quiet!) “Just this,” she snapped. “That women in the future will be legally entitled to say, do, and have anything they want at any time they feel like it.”

“Oh,” I said. “For a moment I thought maybe you might be changing the status quo.” I had invited a reprisal.

“Don’t get smart with me, you chauvinistic pig!” she said. “Now go get me some more coffee — like hot!”

“Yes, dear,” I said.

“It’s gonna be tough treating you prejudiced pigs maternalistically,” she muttered as I straightened the wrinkles out of the covers on her bed.

I went for her coffee, reminding myself underway that “benevolent despotism” looked pretty good to Plato, compared to other ways of running things.

I figured that we men were going to have to get used to despotism — period.

But men would be stuck with one more big problem in the future: namely, to get their ultra-liberated mates to be “benevolent” — like nice.

A nice female despot might seem just like a second mom.

But then, who wants a mom when he’s got grandchildren?

In the Old South, the term, “paternalism” had a nice sound, and served as a velvet glove concealing an iron female fist.

I asked myself if this was the brand of “freedom” we guys in the South Pacific in the 1940s were fighting for? Did we beat the Japanese to come home to this gentler sex?

Jack Kennedy warned us life isn’t fair, didn’t he? I resigned myself to an unfair lusterless future.

Then, suddenly, I woke up!

My b.w. was standing by the bed. She was in a zippy negligée.

She said, “Lover boy, you’ve got 30 minutes to shower, have some eggs and bacon, and leave for your office. I got your car out of the garage. It’s in front of the house. I’ll meet you in the kitchen.”

This freewheeling sweet behavior by my b.w. is not at all out of the ordinary. In fact, she spoils the hell out me — as I do her.

I planned to give her a special big hug and kiss before I left for my office.

And I would suggest she go shopping and buy a lot of nice new clothes for spring.

I never felt so paternalistic in my life!

Is it fair to revel in undeserved treats?

In this viciously critical world, the flinty eyes of Hillary, Nancy, and Elizabeth may see this “man in the family” as a stupid male sexist, a chauvinist pig.

A friend of mine quipped,

“When you’re having fun, pal, don’t desert the status quo.”