Michelle Bachman and Gender-Colored Glasses

Katherine here today. Generally I look at the world through rose-colored glasses. One of the delights of travel is that I can try on different points of view. My Mexico lenses shimmer with pools and books and tans and zip lines, whales, and pirate (sigh) adventures. My Belize lenses add some reverential focus on Mayan ruins. When we go to Jenny Lake the lenses are more personal, more romantic, more connected to my physical being, to nature, to a beautiful dining room. These glasses frame the rest of my existence.

We were headed to Mesa Verde National Park and Santa Fe and I was looking forward to seeing the world through a very specific set of glasses. I wanted to think about art. I wanted to see if the art and architecture of the Ancestral Puebloans matched that of the Guatemalan Mayans in antique Tikal. How did the art on Canyon Road in Santa Fe compare to the art in downtown Puerto Vallarta? How did my love of Sergio Bustamonte (he did the ladder statue on the Malecon walk by the ocean in downtown Puerto Vallarta) hold up to the Frank Howell's and R.C. Gormans of the Santa Fe Plaza?

I made the mistake of checking Face Book while Jim was getting breakfast from a counter at Bongo Billy's in Buena Vista (good place). I either ignore FaceFook or I play a lot. I'm the same way with texting. Anyway, there were all these postings about Michelle Bachman and comments about her "submissive" statement. Later, I gather, she said "submissive" was somehow synonymous with "respectful." She evidently gloated in the Republican debate in Iowa about her world-shaking "Freedom of LightBulb" legislation.

You know, she just pisses me off and she interrupted my thinking enough that I dropped my comfy artsy-craftsy point of view and ended up looking at the world through gender-colored glasses. Thanks a lot, Michelle.

After six days of looking at the world this way, I've decided to share my thoughts here. Maybe that way my mind can move on and I can think of something else. I don't intend this to be generic. This is just the way gender roles seemed to be playing around me during our outing to Mesa Verde and Santa Fe.

I am the driving force when it comes to travel. Even though girls are traditionally the nesters, Jim is the nester here. We would stay at home and cook great stuff and play tennis and go for hikes close to home and do stuff around the house and he would be the happiest camper ever. Except Jenny Lake. He would always do that. Jim's first thought almost anywhere we go is when does he get to go home.

I like to go places. I like to frame my wonderful ordinary life with outings. I learn new stuff. I try stuff I would never try otherwise. My nesting instincts emerge because I like to go to the same places over and over again until they are second homes.

Packing has gender divisions around here. Jim is efficient and minimal. I am not. I always over pack and it's usually weather-determined (what if it's hotter than normal, colder than normal, rainier than normal,etc.). I always assume the needs we have (life jackets and kayak paddles and hiking gear and two weeks of clothes) will fit in the hatch of the car. Getting luggage into a car seems to be Jim's concern and worry. Jim is always worried if it will ALL fit in the car. He approaches the problem like a serious geometry problem (it usually is) and he always solves it and is pleased as punch with himself for getting everything packed away so cleverly. Why should I worry--he never fails.

Jim does most of the driving. I do relief driving. I like to drive, but I'm also happy day-dreaming. I've been day-dreaming in cars since I was a kid. Jim's a better driver. He read some book about a famous Monte-Carlo style driver when he was a kid and he holds the steering wheel in race car fashion and straightens out all the curves on mountain passes and he passes slow cars with authority. I, on the other hand, drive far too much like Seymour Glass and I have to work to focus on the roads rather than the trees. Best to keep me to highway driving and relief stages only.

Jim and I have different roles when we looked at galleries or the ruins at Mesa Verde. I ask questions. I get friendly with strangers and I had a really nice talk about low blood pressure with a Mom and daughter from Canada just after we all climbed up the four ladders outside the Cliff Palace to return to the paved parking lot and our tour bus. I feel the ruins and art. Jim stands back and looks at ruins or paintings more aesthetically, with more distance. He asks logical questions--"Why is there no sense of play in these Ancestral Puebloans?" and I ask emotional questions--"How did they keep the kids from falling off the ledge?" He looks at paintings and sees shapes and light and motifs and ideas. I decide which ones I want in my house.

We went shopping in Santa Fe. In the right store (Origins in the Plaza area), he is the perfect shopping companion. He has wonderful taste and has always bought things for me that were just right. He goes through stores like that finding me wonderful things to wear. Often he finds something that I wouldn't have picked for myself, but I should have. He bought me a turquoise shirt that would fit in that category.

If the stores are not just right, he's not a perfect shopping companion. Years ago he told me there was less oxygen in a mall and we had to get out. He's not happy if a store has too much stuff or too little space because he's a tall guy. He's not happy if the stuff isn't quality stuff--no kitsch for him. He doesn't like to shop for himself. Period. He's not happy if any haggling might be involved. He likes quick purchases--if he likes it, he'll buy it, he'll leave. He usually hangs outside the store if it's not a good one for him. It's one of the rare times he can be caught on a cellphone in public. He's very good about that. I am not.

I think there's a sense of protection Jim has for me. I pass out from low blood pressure, get migraines from who knows what, get cranky and lose appetite when my blood sugar crashes on occasion, and there's always that lurking cancer ghost that we both feel if I have any ache or pain. He's protecting me when he wants to drive and he worries a lot when I hike up or down trails or through ruins because I'm clumsy and I look at the trees too much. He keeps me from falling down and running into poles and oncoming traffic. He's protective enough that when he zoomed home on his bike on dark Belize streets I got bent out of shape and then even more bent out of shape because I had gotten upset at all.

I'm basically done. I don't understand Michelle Bachman at all. I don't understand Sarah Palin at all.