Who’s the boss?
Maybe your kid asks it. Maybe some friends bring it up in a drunken conversation. Maybe your father-in-law teases you about it.
Who’s the boss?
Is it you? Or is it her? Who do you want it to be?
If you even need to ask this, she’s the boss.
You’re both the boss… right? So in other words, she’s the boss.
She laughs under her breath… you got it, she’s the boss.
Ask yourself these questions. Then ask why you are not the boss.
Who is the strongest?
Who is the smartest?
Who earns the most?
Who would defend the family?
Who would protect the house from attack?
If you answered yes to all these, and you still feel like the bitch, you have some work to do. Of course, if you’re ok being a fucking pussy to your wife, then cool. You’re probably not getting laid though, and your missus is nagging you to death. This is all a function of you not taking your proper role.
Protection is the common theme here. Physical protection, intellectual protection, financial protection. Can you protect your family and property from predators? Can you protect your family from stupid ideas? Can you protect your family from financial ruin? A man’s role is protection, and if you are competent at it, you are the boss. No man who can adequately protect his family and provide for them should play second fiddle. The strongest person in the household should be the boss.
But this isn’t how it works, is it? Decision making is where boss-dom is won or lost. Solid, non-mitigated decision-making earns maximum respect points from women. Unfortunately this is where most guys give it away, including myself.
For years I answered “whatever YOU want to do” to questions from my wife. We were still happy. But I certainly didn’t feel like the boss.
It took me a while to realise that I needed to make decisions. Strong, fast decisions. My marital happiness depended the solidity of that decision making process. My wife wanted someone who could decide what to have for dinner, where to go tomorrow, when to buy a new car, where to go on holiday.
Put your hand up if your dad ran the house when you were a child. I thought so. Dad owned the house, he ran the house, you lived there UNDER HIS RULES YOU FUCKING DONKEY. There was no doubt in his mind or anyone else’s about whose place you were in and who you had to listen to. I went to my old man’s house recently, ate some ham off a plate with my fingers, and got my ass chewed out for ten minutes. I’m four inches and ten kilos bigger than him, but it didn’t fucking matter cos it’s his house, his rules.
Men, this is where we need to be. If you’re having problems in this area, you need to read the Married Man Sex Life Primer immediately and man the fuck up. It’s not about ruling the roost with an iron fist, kicking ass for minor infractions. It’s about knowing your place as ruler of your kingdom and protector thereof, and living that life. It’s not about natural law, it’s about who is more qualified to be the last stand of responsibility in your house.
Who is willing and able to be accountable for any fuckups that occur?
Who is able to sacrifice themselves for their family at last resort?
And if such a sacrifice is necessary, who is to shoulder the responsibility for all the decisions to come before?
I sure as hell will be making the decisions if it is to be my life on the line in the final instance.