Go ahead, leave the heavy lifting to men.

This is not a metaphor. I’m being literal. I don’t like to pick up, carry or move things. I’m not physically as strong as most full grown men, nor do I care to be. They can have that superiority over me. Actually, I prefer that they do.

But my sucking at moving has only partially to do with strength and size. This weekend I helped my boyfriend move a couch. Aside from vowing to never do such things again (damn love), hating to sweat, walking backwards and carrying at least (or in his eyes, “only”) a quarter of the thing’s entire weight, it once again affirmed that I’m not cut out for manuevering giant, awkward shape objects over banisters, around staircase corners and through narrow doorways. As I watched my boyfriend assess each turn and impending situation, then devise the right tilt or angle to get the couch into its proper place and succeed, just about every time, I was in awe. My tactic would be to shove, grunt, whine and then shove some more.

I’ve moved furniture with female friends many times and according to Jessica’s small-sample-tested sexist hypothesis, believe that women just don’t grasp the whole geometry/sizing-up-correct-angles thing. (Unless it has to do with angles and entering their own anatomy. Maybe this all goes back to the lack of interest in subject matter.) 

As I admit this, ironically, I’ve also just wrapped up edits on an article about feminism and I’ve been teaching gender roles all week in my sociology classes. I’ll spare you the dissertation on the human capital model on why men make more money than women, but maybe men really are better at more mechanical or mathematical type things, and this suits their paychecks.

But a pout, the threat of a snippy attitude and the memory of my uselessness in such matters listed above suit me the next time a moving situation arises in my boyfriend’s quarters. And with me in a pleasant mood, both of us win.