Only a century ago, steam engines criss-crossed nations, making travel easy and shrinking the globe.
Behind every coal-fired locomotive was a tender, a wheeled box that held all of the fuel that the locomotive would need to reach its destination. The tender was not particularly glamorous, nor did it get the attention and the admiration that the Locomotive did, but it was just as necessary.
The same is true in life: Too many western women seem to desire the power and prestige that comes with being the locomotive. They crave the power, the freedom, the independence that comes with being self-powered. And if that is truly what they are looking for, good luck to them. But too many women find out, too late, that after successfully transforming themselves into locomotives, that what they really wanted all along was to be a tender. And having done so, they now require an exceptionally powerful locomotive; an ordinary one is no longer enough, and they never find what they are looking for. And it is always men’s fault; never the media, the culture or third-wave feminism that persuaded her that she could “have it all”.
As I mature and acquire confidence, competence, and charisma, I find myself the subject of much unwarranted admiration from such women; women who have wasted their best years chasing what they thought they wanted, only to find out that what they really wanted all along is something that they cannot get anymore. But I am not interested in them; their best and sweetest gifts have been wasted on the undeserving, and no good man wants leftovers.
My lady and I have been “hitched” for nearly three decades; she is the tender to my locomotive, and she is bloody good at it. Our connection is strong. She provides me with that which I need to excel in life. And she never puts herself first. And for that she has my everlasting gratitude.
Thank you My Dear.
And here’s to the tenders of the world. You know who you are.