Explain Male Honor To Me Cause I'm Pissed

I'm feeling Pissy, perhaps as a result of a bad day selling scrubs.  I've got this struggling little medical uniform business at a flea market which is bad enough for my ego, but when sales are down, I just get Pissy with a capital P in case you didn't notice.  What better excuse for lashing out at everything I don't understand which also pisses me off.

I was listening to NPR the other day which usually doesn't Piss me off.  I adore intelligent people, but they were talking to a sweet elderly man who was sharing stories of World War II with his grandson.  He talked about being a Lieutenant at the age of 19 and having to follow orders that haunted him.  Every night, he had to pick two men who had to get in a small boat and then attempt to row across a river.  Every night, the Germans killed the two men.  Sounds like there should be a punch line here since it sounds too ridiculous to be true. 

I don't know how long this went on, but I would say one time was one time too many.  And yet, every day, he picked the men and they got in the boat.  This is where my hubby tries to explain to me that this is what male honor is about in the time of war.  Paleaseeeeeee!  Doing the same thing over and over with the same disastrous result is a sign of insanity.

I don't even know what to say next because this male honor thing just gives my mind a wedgie.  Lucky for me  women weren't drafted during the Viet Nam War.  I'd still be in the brig.  As I understand it, you don't get to ask "why" in the military.  "Why are we risking out lives to take that little hill, sir?"  "Why exactly do we want this country, sir?"  "Are you sure we're going in the right direction, sir, cause that rice paddy looks just like the one we passed an hour ago?"  Nope.  I'd be writing my memoirs on toilet paper and trading Tampons for cigarettes
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Let's look at male honor in another situation.  Let's say, dad, that your six year old son is being bullied by that Neanderthal neighbor's kid.  Let's call him Eugene.  Eugene wants your son to eat a dog turd.  "My son will not eat a dog turd if I have anything to say about it," you sputter.  "Get over here Junior and let's talk about standing up for yourself."  So you lecture mini you about not doing stupid things just because some big moron is telling you to do it. 

Flash forward thirteen years.  Eugene is telling your son to get in the boat and go across the river.  Hmmm.  Sounds like eating a dog turd to me.  Let me tell you something about female honor.  I didn't raise my boys to be killing machines, and I certainly didn't raise them to follow Eugene's orders.  I taught them to not pull wings off flies and to help short people get items from the top shelf in the grocery.  I taught them to think for themselves so that the Eugene's of the world wouldn't force them into eating unsavory items.  As Forrest Gump would say, "And that's all I have to say about that."

I'm not sure how having a bad retail day pushed me into this rant, but it did.  If tomorrow turns out to be miserable, I will be attacking our health care system.  Stay tuned.