Women, I have come to realise, are never wrong. If ever it comes to pass that they are wrong and admit to it, without being asked to, run for the hills my boy for what will ensue next, even the devil can’t second guess.
But recently, the answer came to me in the world of dance. I love dancing. Not just banging my head to some sort of a beat but the formal kind, which involves steps and footwork, twirls and whirls, whoops and scoops, dips and dives. I can’t get enough of whisking a lady around in a ballroom. My teacher taught me an important lesson.
She said that a lady trusts her man to lead the dance, to show her off in all her grace, charm, and beauty. The sole duty of the man is to not betray this trust and lead her into every step with the right cues and timing. If she fumbles, it’s not her fault but his.
To knowingly diminish the timeless beauty of a gracefully flowing feminine form is hauntingly sinful. Hence, if a woman has to ever admit to being wrong then there must be a male reason for it, a shamefully more-in-the-wrong male reason. I’d sooner live under the warm smile of a lady who subtracts years from her age than one who has just been stripped of her license to be always right.