Alpha Move: Hit The Road, Jack!

There comes a point in every man’s relationship with his woman where the comfortable familiarity you feel waking up next to the same face every day slowly but inevitably becomes a kind of ennui that can lead to all sorts of snappish behavior.  That seems counterintuitive: you’d think that the more time you spend with your lovely lady, the more time you would want to spend with her.  But somewhere along the way things just get . . . routine.  And if you don’t take care, you can find this familiarity breeding contempt or worse, a plethora of Shit Tests.

I’ve been over this particular bump in the relationship road more than once, but it took years for me to realize its origin and nature before I could formulate an effective treatment.  My first few years with Mrs. Ironwood were the usual hazy cloud of love, infatuation, and novelty sex, so I was appropriately distracted from the issue of relationship complacency.  But about Year Three, after most of a long hot summer cohabitating, going to summer classes, and working food service jobs, we started getting into a long, petty, nasty little rut where we’d seek to out-submit each other for the Blue Pill prize of boredom. 

Things got hairy enough to consider relationship counseling – but we were young and broke and uninsured, so we settled for argument and introspection instead.  Cheaper.  Finally, the proto-Mrs. Ironwood cornered me after a particularly viscious and pointless spat, ostensibly to continue it, when she abruptly changed tactics and actually asked me what was wrong.  I thought for the barest of seconds.

“I need to miss you more, I guess,” was all I could sheepishly say.

That took Mrs. I by surprise, but she took it at face value, too.  Within a few days I had found myself signed on to a road trip with a bunch of dudes to another state for the purpose of manly indulgence in masculine things like hitting people with sticks, drinking homebrewed mead and swearing forsoothly.  It wasn’t more than a long weekend, but when I returned I attacked the future Mrs. Ironwood with renewed vigor and lustfulness.  Indeed, I just needed to miss her more.  And vice versa.

There’s an old bluegrass tune I enjoy called “How Can I Miss You If You Won’t Go Away?” and I like it because it is instructive.  As much as we love the dear object of affection, the woman who birthed your children and pledged her undying love to you before the gods and her kin, the woman who would happily take a bullet or cut a bitch on your behalf, that woman whose very name makes your heart beat faster is also the one who can drive you fucking batshit insane if you don’t get out of her sphere of influence and remember where your testicles are every now and then.

As we've lost our grasp on traditional masculinity, thanks to the overthrow of the Patriarchy, we've also lost some of the noble traditions that kept our revered paternal ancestors from murdering or otherwise ending their relationships with our revered maternal ancestors.  It is a lost truth that every adult man needs to renew the well of his masculinity in the company of other men, preferably in the completion of some quest, contest, or great feat of arms or skill.  In other words, Grandad knew that sometimes the best way to deal with Grandma was to get the hell out of Dodge for a few days, kick back with the guys, and bask in the utter lack of feminine presence. 

That didn’t mean (necessarily) that Grandad was getting some homoerotic action on the DL on his hunting trips, it just meant that a straight testosterone injection in the form of male fellowship in the completion of a common goal is oft the best treatment for your wife’s face becoming too familiar to you.

In ancient times, it was chthonic monsters or evil witches or tyrannical kings that needed slaying.  In the Middle Ages, dragons, grails, crusades and general errantry were preferred.  In our grandsires’ day it was Theodore Roosevelt-style hunting and fishing trips in the rugged wilderness that haunted the masculine imagination.  But in our present day and age, this important masculine ritual is typically fulfilled via the expedient of the great American masculine tradition:

The Road Trip.

That’s right.  Pile in the car with two or more male buddies (strangers can work . . . if you dare . . .), fill up the tank, load up on beef jerky and diet soda, and drive to some destination of note for a trip of no less than four days’ duration.  Yes, four days – any less time and you won’t be gone long enough for her to miss you.  And that’s part of the point, for her to live a couple of days without you up her butt and to the left. 

 You see, it’s very easy, especially in a cohabitation or marriage situation, for you and your woman to take each other for granted when it comes to a lot of the daily chores and minutia of living.  Often it’s a matter of the female becoming dependent on the male for certain chores, and a few days of her being forced to be self-reliant and miss you is a good way to remind her just how valuable you are in her life.  And a few nights with no one snoring next to her is sure to inspire some anxious thoughts.  Inevitably, those late night what-would-I-do-without-him? internal monologues are great ways to make her think dreadfully without you actually having to employ Dread.

Think about it: women have a deep-seated need to communicate, and they thrive on being able to give regular updates about their FSMto you on a daily basis.  Being deprived of that is kind of like suddenly being deprived of the freedom to masturbate, for a dude.  You start to get backed up.  When you keep her from being able to give you updated reports, it makes her reflect more powerfully on your role in her life.

(Or your absence provides a perfect opportunity for her to cheat on you . . . as well as a perfect opportunity for your recently-hired private investigator to follow her around and catch her cheating on you, if you’re at that stage of the relationship.)

But the real point of the Road Trip isn’t about your relationship with her, although that is the beneficiary.  No, the point is about your relationship with yourself, and your own sense of masculinity.

As has been said here and elsewhere often before, Girls Become Women Naturally, Boys Must Be Made Into Men By Other Men, reflecting the importance of male mentorship in the maturing process that turns an adolescent male into a functioning adult Man.  Women enjoy a biological edge to their maturity, and apart from the occasional hint about how to get blood stains out of an all-white sofa, a woman’s body largely takes care of providing her with what she needs to become a full-fledged, reproducible adult.

For dudes, however, that process is far from automatic, and usually a culture has developed an entire suite of rituals and customs to usher the boys of the tribe into manhood.  But what is rarely discussed is the importance of being able to regularly renew that sense of primal masculinity, either through challenge and introspection or through competition and camaraderie with your fellow men.  Men, as a rule, borrow each others’ masculine power the way women borrow each others’ purses.  If  we don’t have a chance to wallow in testosterone with our buds every now and again, we get wimpy and start watching Dancing With The Stars even when our wives aren't around.

There are many essential elements to a ball-busting cross country hellride: a working vehicle (recommended) at least two fellow men around your own age, a pocket full of gas money, and a destination.  Discussion of all pertinent Manosphere topics are fair game, with no lasting blame or recrimination being levied for voicing unusual ideas (unless it’s just too good to pass up, like the way Dennis has a thing for girls with little boobs), and with the tacit understanding that No One Talks About Fight Club.  What happens in the car, in other words, stays in the car.

The discretion involved in an all-male roadtrip is one of the foundations of the Bro Code.  If Steve talks about how he felt up his cousin once, then it stays there – you don’t want your buddies’ deepest, darkest secrets to become fodder for the FSM -- that's the clinical definition of "the wrong hands".  No one likes a gossipy dude, and betraying male trust at that level is hard to forgive and forget.

This includes any lengthy discussion about sex, women, sex with women, women with whom we’d like to have sex, and sex with that one chick that one time.  It also covers any women you see, meet, or flirt with.  All such discussions are protected. 

Alcohol is often involved in these endeavors, as are drugs of various sorts.  See: The Hangover.  Your Masculine Cone of Silence extends to this area.  NOTE: You should without fail do your best to AVOID INCARCERATION when it comes to a Road Trip, as this just eats into Fun Time, and has a tendency to turn Beer Money into Bail Money, and that’s just not very much fun.  (Bright side: you might get the opportunity to live out that homoerotic“gang raped in prison” fantasy on your bucket list).  

But even the talking and drinking aren’t the important parts of this Alpha Move.  The important parts revolve around how you, yourself, reclaim your masculinity.  That starts with distancing yourself from your relationship.  This is hard, particularly if your friends all refer to you and your wife by a collective name.  But if you cannot establish and protect your own individual identity from your wife if you don’t go out and be your own man for a change.  And if you don’t remind yourself how to be your own man . . . you won’t be.

The temptation to invite your honey along on your adventure is great, but you should resist.  Sure, having theoretical access to your favorite ladyparts is a great idea, but the whole point of this endeavor is to give yourself some perspective and an unmitigated  dip in the testosterone tank.  Hell, don't even call her more than once a day, and don't text, either, if you can possibly help it.  It’s not just whether or not you can manage to feed, bathe, and clothe yourself properly without her assistance, it’s about how you carry yourself around strangers, how you behave when you meet new women, how you act when no one around you knows jack shit about you but what you tell them. 

It’s an opportunity for soul-stretching adventure, for testing yourself and your limitations, for redefining who you are and what that means.  It’s about how you have to sometimes rely on unreliable people to finish what you started, and how to go about doing that.  It’s putting yourself in a controlled crisis situation and watching yourself react and perform.  It's a reminder of those tests-of-manhood you endured in your youth . . . and why they were so important then.  Surprise surprise, they're still pretty important.

I’m not saying you have to go running with the bulls, diving the rift, or run some crazy cross-country rally race – but a road trip with a bunch of dudes is a unique and vital way of feeding the masculine soul, and one that is incredibly fulfilling, even when the trip just sucks.

And of course, when you do return, don’t screw around with any “So how was your trip, honey?” bullshit. 

You walk in the door, you start taking off your clothes and bellowing for your woman.  If she isn’t utterly happy to see you, and eagerly looking forward to the trip to Pound Town you’re about to give her . . . well, maybe she needs a couple more days to miss you more.

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Alpha Move: Midnight Picnic

This was one of my earliest "Alpha Moves", and was born out of poverty and desperation as much as romance and lust.   After so many long, philosophical posts I figured I'd toss y'all a dating bone.

When Mrs. Ironwood and I first started going out, we were the typical poor college students living in a student hovel.  "Going out" meant the Wendy's Hot Bar (Wendy's had a hot bar back then) and drinking an embarrassingly cheap bottle of wine at home.

But after a few months the complacency had begun to set into our relationship, and I saw the need, even then, to inject a healthy dose of lusty romance into it to keep us both interested.  Fancy restaurants or theater being far out of our reach, I instead searched for some way to get her in a sensuous, romantic place for some serious no-one-can-hear-you-scream nookie, with accouterments, for less than fifty bucks.  After doing a little basic research, I figured it out.  In retrospect, it was a good Red Pill date moment, simple and elegant, but instructive.  And it made quite an impression.

I took Mrs. Ironwood on a midnight picnic.

PREPARATION

This took a bit of prep, of course.   I chose a late Spring, early Summer day, after the pollen but before the mosquitoes, and I carefully selected a secluded site.  Luckily we lived on the edge of the rural/urban interface, so finding a place far enough away from people to ensure privacy, yet close enough to keep it from being a chore to get their in the dark, wasn't that much of a problem.  Even then Mrs. Ironwood could trip over her own shadow.

The spot I selected was a long-abandoned horse pasture, still mostly fenced in, well behind the old stable.  It was at the far end of the pasture, which had been long-trodden and overgrown for years, and was now covered with moss.  It was quite meadowy.  Overhanging cedar trees provided both a screen for seclusion and a place to hang stuff -- and hang stuff I did.

This was the Age Before LEDs, so instead I used several hurricane lamps and candles, distributed around the blanket I pre-positioned.  I used the space behind a largish rock for a staging area, dragging a cooler and a boom box there and setting up both.  I borrowed a few wind chimes from my mother's back porch and hid them in the trees for effect.  I set up an unobtrusive cone of incense far back away from our picnic to keep from triggering her asthma.  In the cooler I added a selection of  three types of cheese, crackers, summer sausage, grapes, strawberries and sugar, wine glasses, cutting board, knife, corkscrew (OK, it wasn't screw-cap cheap wine, but close), a citronella candle, and napkins.  The boom-box was set up with a mix tape (!) of George Winston tunes, soft rock, and vocal Celtic music (which I didn't know at the time, but my future wife absolutely loathed).

The blanket was a wide, fluffy one spread out over a tarp.  I brought a few pillows along for comfort, and just in case of rain I pitched my pup-tent discreetly on the other side of the barn.  Then I threw another tarp over the blanket and made sure that the path from the parking area to the pasture was clear of twigs, branches, and garden gnomes.

EXECUTION

That evening, I knew the future Mrs. I was working until at least 9:30 (restaurant job), and since her car was broken down, I picked her up from work.  We had some small talk, smoked a cigarette, and were headed home just like a normal night . . . when I took a strange turn off of the road.

"Uh, where are we going?" she asked, a little nervously.

"This way," I assured her, as we crept down the dirt road.  She bit her lip and then suddenly started looking all over the back seat of my gallant college POS, an AMC Pacer.  The future Mrs. Ironwood had decided to date me, anyway.

"What?  What are you looking for?" I asked, confused.

"An axe, duct tape, chainsaw, garbage bags, that sort of thing," she said, cheerfully as she turned back around.

"Oh, relax," I soothed.  "If I was that kind of dude, I would have done that months ago and moved on already.  Those guys are poseurs.  I'm not that afraid of commitment.  Sorry, but you're in for years of torment ahead of you," I joked.  "Besides, you keep that kind of shit in the trunk."

"You don't have a trunk," she pointed out.  "So where the hell are we going?" she demanded, her nostrils flaring prettily.

"On a date," I said, even more mysteriously.  "Fairy land, maybe.  Relax, enjoy the evening.  It's a full moon," I pointed out.

She grunted an agreement, but still looked worried.  But excited.  I finally stopped the car in the middle of nowhere and then asked her to wait a few moments.  She wasn't thrilled with that, out in the woods, but I told her she could lock the door and leave the lights on until I returned, if that made her feel better, so she agreed.

I ran down to the meadow and took the tarp off the blanket, lit the candles and lamps, and turned the music on softly before returning to the car.  I was only gone maybe two minutes.

"What now?" she asked, through a barely-slitted window.  The door was still locked.

"Now, we go on our date," I said, offering her my hand.  "Trust me."

We were still new in the relationship, so I can understand her hesitation.  But she also knew I had gone to a lot of trouble, and I probably really wasn't a serial killer because those guys are always loner neat-freaks and I was a social slob.  So she got out of the car and reluctantly followed me.

I'd lit the first candle in the path just out of sight of the car, so when we turned the corner she saw it.  Her eyes lit up a little.  Seven more tealight candles later, and she was staring at the picnic I'd laid out, wonder in her eyes.

"You did all this . . . for me?"

"My first date prospect fell through," I joked.  "And I figured you'd be my next easiest choice, emphasis on 'easy'," I quipped.  "Of course I did it for you.  Who else do I want to seduce by moonlight?"

"I'm sure you have a list," she mused, while looking around at all of the candles, augmented by the season's first fireflies.  "Ian, it's beautiful!"

We sat down, ate the picnic, had a lovely evening to soft music and candlelight, and even managed to slow dance a little under the stars and the bright, full moon.  Then we proceeded to the sweaty bits several times before the bugs finally overcame the inherent romance of the moment and forced a late retreat.

It's been nearly 20 years since I did that, but whenever Mrs. Ironwood discusses "the perfect date" with my nieces and daughter, she brings that one up without fail as one of her top five.  I've repeated it several times since -- always an unexpected surprise, always well-planned and executed, with contingencies for everything from wild animals, sudden showers or wandering law enforcement officials well-made.  She says it was one of the most Alpha dates she'd ever been on, since she had no idea it was going to happen and no input into what we did.  As such, it was a very, very interesting, hopelessly romantic surprise that helped cement in her head the idea that she wanted to have my babies.

So consider trying this one out.  It's cheap, it's easy (and we're dudes . . . we LOVE "cheap and easy"), it's impressive, it demonstrates foresight and sensitivity as well as your ability to plan and execute a simple date that doesn't involve tipping or being anywhere at a particular time.  Consider doubling the picnic with a telescope to look at the moon, or schedule it during a meteor shower where you spend the evening making wishes on falling stars.

It doesn't have to be midnight, but the next time you're trapped watching Dancing With The Stars with your wife before she yawns and goes to bed, remember that you could be dancing under the stars -- and getting some nookie au natural -- instead.

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Anatomy of the Perfect Red Pill Date: Phase III Power Shopping

Continued from Phase II Extraction

By the time we get to the mall, her mood has softened.  She’s accepted the fact that it’s going to be a fun, romantic night, and the unknown element is undeniably exciting.  I don’t bother opening the door for her – we’re still in “casual married people mode” but we do hold hands as we walk inside.

I lead her directly to the door of her favorite store.  I’ve done enough research to know which one in the mall was most likely to be able to have everything she needed.  She pulls me excitedly inside and starts to head for the clearance rack.  She worked several retail jobs in college and she always goes for the bargains first.

I didn’t budge, and when she tried to lead me away by the hand she came up short like a dog that’s run out of leash.  She looked at me, confused.  I dropped her hand and fished out my wallet.

“Here,” I said, handing over the card linked to my freelance account.  “I’m not going in with you.”

“Wha—?”  Her mouth is open.  Pricelessly adorable.

“You have exactly—” glance at watch “exactly ninety-four minutes to find and purchase attire suitable for going out to a five-star restaurant.”

“Huh?” she replied, eloquently.  Our conversation has attracted the attention of both of the store’s sales clerks, who wander close enough to overhear.

“Ninety minutes.  Five star restaurant.  I want you to look hot.”

“But . . . but . . . where are we going?”

“It doesn’t matter if we’re going to McDonalds in the food court,” I assured her.  “I want you to go buy a complete outfit, down to your unmentionables, and be dressed and ready to go in . . . ninety-three minutes, now.”

“Are you fucking serious?” she asks, shocked as she realizes that yes, indeed, I am fucking serious.

“Try to keep it under $300.00,” I say, casually, as I kiss her on the cheek.  “And try to be punctual.”

Then I turn on my heel and walk out.  No further explanation required.

I stole one last peek before I disappeared around the corner, and saw Mrs. Ironwood excitedly explaining what her mission was.

You see, I hate shopping.  

So does she, but she also understands how shopping is not only a necessary aspect of professional womanhood (personal presentation is very important in her field) as well as an essential social requirement for female socialization.  She’s not a “power shopper” by any means.  She eschews jewelry altogether (her father was a jeweler, once-upon-a-time . . . daddy issues) and she’s got weird feet, so she isn’t as mad about shoes as some women.  That doesn't mean I don’t have two-dozen pairs of her shoes in the bottom of my closet, but after talking to some other men, I only have two-dozen pairs in the bottom of my closet.  If my wife has an accessory fetish, it’s purses and handbags. 

But she hates trying to buy clothes.  Like most women, she’ll try on a dozen things and usually settle on one of the first things she saw.  But the entire process can take several excruciating hours and is, from a male perspective, hopelessly inefficient.  This way she has a) a deadline b) a budget and c) a very specific mission, to get an outfit for a night out.  Better for me, I wasn’t subjected to said excruciating hours standing by in quiet Betatude, bearing her purse as a symbol of my subjugation.  I went shopping myself.

I have a lovely black suit, tailored, that I picked up at a going-out-of-business sale a few years ago.  Classic cut, clean lines, and it’s suitable for nearly any occasion.  But my dress shirts were abysmal.  Believe it or not, most porn companies don’t require suit-and-tie for everyday business (and no, they don’t require raw-silk shirts opened to the waist and a couple of gaudy gold chains peeking through your chest hair, either – I usually wear jeans and a t-shirt).  I hadn’t bought a new, nice shirt in ages.  No funerals or court dates lately, and the last wedding we went to I was performing the ceremony and wearing a clerical collar.

It only takes me moments to run out to the car and grab the garment bag with my suit and shoes in it.   I roll into Macy’s, feeling like John Travolta in the opening scene of Saturday Night Fever (minus the paint can).  You can almost hear the disco music as I strut.

Back to the Men’s Department – wouldn’t you know, they’re having a buy-one, get-one sale on shirts and ties.  It takes me all of ten minutes to find a white shirt and a light gray shirt in my size.  Another ten to find a belt and two ties – one blue and silver, one gray and silver.  I look longingly at a brown felt crushable fedora, but it not only doesn’t go with my outfit, it’s far too expensive.  I’d drop that kind of dough on a blocked black fedora in my size, perhaps.  I let my own hamster spin for a moment, and then shut it down when I look at my watch.  I’m on a Mission.

I pay for my stuff, spending about a hundred bucks, and then use the changing room to put on my suit.  I go with the gray shirt and tie, as it brings out the gray in my eyes and that tends to inspire more romance than the blue in my eyes.  More importantly, gray and black make me feel dangerous and sexy.  I come out a few moments later and get appreciative looks from the dumpy older saleswoman and the horny old queen at the register.  Admiration from both sides of the gender spectrum let me know I look good.

Self-Confidence Buff: Objective SR +1

If I went in as John Travolta, I come out as Frank Sinatra.  I own the joint.  I don’t try to disguise the even more confident strut in my step as I cross the mall.  I absorb a few more desiring glances along the way as I make my way into only bar in the mall.

Why a bar?  I was dressed and ready to go, but there was still more than forty-five minutes to her deadline.  I called to confirm our reservation while the bartender brought me a Jamesons on the rocks.  Only one drink, but the smoky taste of peat-fired Irish whiskey is like an instant shot of masculinity in my mouth. 

Side Note: Gentlemen, when approaching a bar to purchase a drink, know what you’re going to order from the moment your foot crosses the threshold.  There is no worse negative Beta presentation than standing in front of a bar with a perplexed look on your face while you mentally debate the merits of some chick beer with an orange in it or an apple-tini.  KNOW YOUR FUCKING POISON.

You enter a bar, you walk confidently to the bar, cash or card in hand, you take up as much space at the bar as you can to attract attention, you patiently wait while the patrons with bigger boobs than yours are served, and then you order your drink, decisively and resolutely.  Make it simple: a highball is about as complicated as you want to get.  For presentation’s sake, stick to a single liquor on the rocks or neat.  I usually recommend against beer on Date Night simply because of the awkward potential for gas.  “Jameson’s, Rocks,” and a self-assured toss of your head should be all the discussion with the bartender you need.  But it doesn’t matter what it is, as long as you nail it and move on.

I nursed my drink for half an hour, checking with the sitter, checking email for the final time in the evening, and checking traffic on the way to the restaurant.  Gotta love a smartphone. 

At fifteen-minutes until deadline I finished my drink and went outside for a smoke.  I was relaxed, I looked good, I smelled good, dammit, I felt good.  I felt like James Bond in that suit.  I tried to nurse that vibe, incorporate it into my presentation.  Bond.  James Bond.

I arrived at the store ten minutes early, on the off-chance she was ready.  She wasn’t, of course, but I got to spend that last ten minutes bantering and flirting with the two salesladies while my wife got dressed.  They were positively gushing with how freakin’ romantic I was and how lucky she was to have me . . . with her overhearing every word in the dressing room not twelve feet away.

Preselection Buff: Relative SR +1

PLUS, she got the undivided attention of two salesladies who had elected themselves her honorary handmaidens that night.  She got to feel like a princess – a stressed, anxious princess trying to get her Spanx on before deadline, but a princess nonetheless.  The attention paid to her femininity by those two women helped inflate her own self-confidence, pushing up her own Sex Rank by at least a point.

When she got out . . . it was well worth the wait.  She looked gorgeous.  A pretty white top with large blue flowers and yellow highlights, something that suggested far more cleavage than she was showing (or even has).  Tight black skirt, knee-length, and black hose.  With her work shoes, which I think are the most attractive on her, and her hair and make-up fixed . . . she looked good enough to molest right there and then.  She had accomplished her Mission, and with three minutes to spare.

“Twirl for me,” I instructed, smiling, with just a little mocking in my voice.  Instead of a snappy retort she swallowed and turned around.  That skirt did amazing things for her ass.  “Outstanding,” I pronounced, “you look gorgeous!”

Blush.  I’ll take the point on that.  “Thank you,” she says, demurely.  “Oh my God, you changed into a suit?  Did you buy a suit?  Jesus, Ian, how much—”

“So much that you’re going to be feeling very grateful later,” I say, confidently.  She blushes.  The ladies behind the counter giggle girlishly.  

“Well, you look HOT,” she says, putting lusty emphasis on the last word.  I give the sales ladies a glance, and then strike an overly-dramatic GQ pose.

“What do you think, ladies?  Am I earning my hourly rate?”

They assure me that yes, they would indeed rip off my clothes and hump me until we’re all sore, in politely-worded feminine code.  Any doubt about the Preselection buff is gone.  Mrs. Ironwood’s eyes are flashing and she’s biting her lip.

 I’m about to hand them my credit card when I see a pile of panties towards the back.  I stride over and very quickly select three pairs (to qualify for the sale price) that I like, two black, one nude, and that I think will be both sexy and comfortable – and yes, I know the correct size.  I’ve done my research. 

“Add these,” I say, casually, and they do.  Total bill is just under $200.  Even with her padding it a little with a few hosiery items.  Mrs. Ironwood has done well.

“You’re buying me panties?” she asks, surprised.

I shrug.  “Who says they’re for you?” I quip, as I grab the bags.  I offer her my elbow, and she takes it.  She thanks the ladies profusely for their invaluable assistance.  She feels even more like a princess as we’re leaving.

“So you got me all dressed up to go to Ruby Tuesday’s?” she chuckles.  “That’s adorkably romantic!”

“Yes, it would be,” I say, as I lead her firmly past the mall restaurant and out into the parking lot.  “But I upgraded from ‘adorkable’ to ‘elegant’.  Hope you don’t mind.”

“Ian,” she says, suddenly back on unsure ground.  “If we’re not . . .where the hell are we going?”

“To dinner,” I say, as I open the passenger side door and help her in.  She needs help, too.  Between the Spanx and the skirt, she can barely walk, let alone mount a SUV.

“Are you going to blindfold me?” she jokes.

“We don’t have time,” I say, as I close the door.  “We have a 9:30 reservation.”

That’s got her attention.  Usually the only restaurants we go to where you have to make a reservation involve giant mechanical instrument-playing mice and really bad, over-priced kids' pizza.

“So where are we going?” she pleads, excitedly.  “And who the hell makes a 9:30 dinner reservation?”

“I do,” I say, smugly, as I slide into the driver’s seat.  “And you make that late a reservation when it’s Valabar’s.”

“We’re going to Valabar’s?” she asks, excitedly – and no, before you Google it, that’s a made-up name.  The name “Valabar’s” is from the classic Steven Brust Dragaera fantasy series, and it describes a restaurant of surpassing excellence.  I use it here to guard both my identity and its.  But when you hear “Valabar’s”, just imagine the swankiest joint in your town.  That’s the place.  “Well why didn’t you say so?” she asks, reverently. 

“Because that would have ruined the surprise,” I point out.

“Oh.”   She thinks for a moment, and then grabs my hand.  “Yeah, I guess it would.  We’re going to Valabar’s!” she says, excitedly, and giggles.  Yes, it’s that big a deal. 

“We’ve got twenty minutes before we get there,” I say, casually, as I crank the engine.  “Music?”

NEXT: Phase IV Music

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Beta Move: The Five Year Rule

Mrs. Ironwood and I have a very important ritual we've evolved over the years, dating from our first big "it's been five years, are we gonna get married or what?" discussion.  As it has evolved it has been an important tool to provide much-needed perspective about the state of the marriage.

Very simply, you ask yourselves -- and each other -- how your lives now compare to how they were five years ago.  For instance, five years after we met Mrs. Ironwood and I both had relatively stable jobs, a decent roof over our heads, health insurance, cordial relationships with each others' parents, and an assload more security in ourselves and each other than we did when we met.  Just on paper that was big.  We had to agree that both of our lives were measurably better then than they were five years before.  All of the ups and down of our initial courtship and commitment, moving in together, surviving my younger brother move in with us, the requisite family and friend drama, all of it was utterly bearable, and we were better people and happier people for being together. We both wanted kids and thought we'd be good parents.  So the next logical step was to get married.  I'd more or less already decided that, but it was nice to hear she was open to the possibility.  I told her point-blank I would only ask her once, and made it clear I was serious.  And then I thought about it furiously for another six months before I asked her.

But since that time we've been able to pull out the Five Year Rule when either one of us has felt depressed or overwhelmed by life.  It provides an important gut-check for the marriage and gives us a clear, mutually-understandable benchmark.  Of such rituals are good marriages made.

It's essentially a Beta Move, in a very good way.  By invoking the Five Year Rule you are providing context and comfort for your wife/girlfriend.  You are demonstrating that you are aware of the development of the relationship in context, and that you appreciate the growth you've both demonstrated.  It's non-threatening and supportive.  It's emotionally uplifting.  It's easier than mowing the lawn.  By seeing things in a five-year context we understand that whatever issues we face today are part of a larger continuum of our existence together.  And we re-iterate that we plan on being here in five more years, and will look back at these low points as the places where we figured it out or soldiered on or did whatever it was we did that got us through it.  It helps, it really does.

So much of Single Game is about seduction and pursuit that it's easy to loose sight of the nuances of Married Game.  Being able to provide good Beta when necessary is always helpful, and the romantic, nostalgic overtones of the Five Year Rule gives you a big juicy shot of Beta almost instantly.  It's also backhanded Alpha, if you insist strongly enough that she appreciate the Five Year Rule (attempting to blow off an important ritual can be a Fitness Test in a stressful situation).  Sometimes when a woman is freaking out about something, being able to provide some strong, steady perspective is what she wants from you more than a sympathetic ear or a hot beverage.

Of course the danger is that things may have actually gotten worse in five years.  If that's the case, then you should count that as valuable information as well.

At that first discussion

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