The Ironwood Collection of Alpha Moves (19 page)

But she did pick out her Roller Derby stage name:
Kitty Katfight.
  That's hers, now.  She called dibs.  Don't cross her, either.

We had a great time coming back, covered in cotton candy, the sun fading towards the horizon, Mommy and the boys already home from their field trip. 

My rank towards Daughter went up significantly, and then even
more
when I revealed the plan of The Big Date.  I gave her
all
the details.  She thought they were impressive and said so.  She offered a few suggestions.  I took one, dismissed the rest, thanked her for her help. 

I got a "Best Daddy EVER!" for my troubles.

On the way home, I texted my wife:

YOU HAVE 45 MINUTES TO SHOWER
AND
MAKE UP YOUR FACE.

The Perfect Red Pill Date Phase Two: Extraction

Within moments of sending the text, I got a call.

"What do you
mean
, put on makeup?  Niece just showed up and told me to jump in the shower!  Where are we going?"
she demanded. 
Stress, a trace of exhaustion, irritation . . . she's a little put-off by the sudden developments, and she doesn't hesitate to tell me.  "You
know
I don't like surprises!" she lies.  I can tell by her voice that behind the anxiety there's excitement.

The old Blue Pill me would have started backing down and equivocating about that time.  Your wife is stressed: your first instinct is to kiss her ass.  The Red Pill demands more discipline and more backbone.

"We'll discuss it when I get home," I said, simply.

"Well, what should I
wear?
" she nearly demands.  As per usual, when faced with a potential crisis a woman's first refuge is her wardrobe.

"Those shoes you've been wearing to work will do.  They're comfortable enough, aren't they?"

"For what?  Rock climbing?  Or a movie?"

"The night is young," I say, mysteriously.  "No telling where we might end up."  That pisses her off just right. In point of fact, I know
precisely
where we'll end up.
I have a plan.  Dudes, if you propose a date, always have a plan.

"Well, what about my clothes?  What should I wear?" she repeat
ed
.

"I don't care.  I wouldn't recommend absolute nudity, but beyond that I'm pretty open."

"That is absolutely
no help!"
she accuse
d
.  She paused.  "What about . . .
underwear?"

"I trust your judgment."  She
hates
it when I say that.

"Ian, I need some direction!" she nearly pleads.  I chuckle.  Further confirmation of the efficacy of the Red Pill is not needed.  She just summed up our relationship dynamic in a nutshell.  Of course, she couldn't let me exercise that kind of power without trying to rein me in.  "You know, you're being kinda a dick about this."

"We're going on a date," I finally admit
ted
.  "That's all you get for now.  I'll see you in about half an hour.  We'll leave fifteen minutes after that."

"What about the kids?" she asks, forgetting that the Niece is there.

"We won't be bringing them.  They've had their fun for the day.  Their pizza will show up at
7:30
.  I've already laid out their meds.  Niece has been fully empowered to administer beatings on an as-needed basis," I promised.  "Get your ass ready.  Love you."

"I
think
I love you too!" she said, annoyed, and hu
ng up.

"What did she say?" Daughter demands, impishly.  "Was she surprised?"

"Yes, she was surprised.  And she said pretty much exactly what I expected her to."

"She's gonna
love
it!" she beams, with a trace of jealousy.  It's mitigated by the fact that I've confided in
her
, and not her two brothers, about the Big Date.  They couldn't keep a secret from their mother if their lives depended on it.  She, on the other hand, had no compunctions about being sneaky about the other woman in my life.  Estrogen
i
sn
’
t so bad, if you can play it off against itself.

We finish running a few preparatory errands before we get home.  Mrs. Ironwood has, at this point, changed
four times,
the Niece reveals to me in a private moment.  I find her in the bathroom working on outfit #4 -- something casual, jeans and a sweater.  She looks nice, MILFalicious, even, and she's "beaten her face" into submission as well.  It's not Wedding Makeup, but it's Dinner With The Vice President Makeup.  Perfect.

"Are we going to be having our picture taken?" she demands, nostrils flaring.

"That is one possibility," I concede. 

I suddenly realize that I
could
have had us actually sit for a portrait at some point in the evening, a special Husband/Wife photo.  I file it away for future reference.  That's a High Beta move, but planning and executing it yourself would be a High Alpha move.  In most cases, it is the wife that arranges and organizes documentary portraits.  Knocking that responsibility off of her plate would be a huge SR buff.

"All right, I've had
enough
of this mysterious shit!" she says, whirling on her heel to face me, hairbrush held only inches under my nose and quivering dangerously.  Her nostrils are at about Level 3, now.  But she's biting her lip.  Upset and excited.  Just where I want her.  "I've dealt with Girl Scouts all morning and Cub Scouts all afternoon on my Saturday, and I'm exhausted!  I wanted to come home, crawl into bed, and pass out -- I was out in
Nature
today, building
bird houses!"
she complains.

She's not a fan of Nature, being highly allergic to it.  She takes drugs for it which allow her to function, but she and Nature have feuded all her life, and she actively resented being confronted with it.  "Where the hell are we going?" she demands. Borderline emotional explosion.  Proto Shit Test. 

How I handle this will determine the outcome of our evening.

I don't shift my gaze.  I count to five in my head to let the silence fill the air.  Too many men rush into a response to a challenge like that, assuming that if they don't speak quickly, then their wife will thing she's caught him flatfooted.  This is different.  This is me preparing to Order the evening.

The power to Order -- that is, to set initial conditions and ultimate expectations, as well as proscribe the method and manner in which an action or event takes place -- is one of the fundamental Masculine powers. 

I do not mean "order" in the sense of "to order (someone to do something)".  I mean it in the sense of "establishing order".  It's not an accident that the Captain of a ship's directives are called "orders" -- they "order" the ship.

One of the things about taking the Red Pill is that you have to accept -- nay, embrace -- that power, and when you recognize an opportunity to exercise it, you must do so decisively.  Which is why I waited.  I wanted just enough silence to let her know that what I was about to say was Important, and this little pause was a bit of showmanship to add credence and authority to my Order.

"Babe, you can go crawl into bed right now and I'll make sure you aren't disturbed until morning.  Or you can get your ass in the car in the next ten minutes and go with me.  But make up your mind and embrace your choice, because either way I don't want to hear any complaining about the evening, regardless of which one you decide upon. 
Your
choice."  That was it.

She could indulge her own body's need for rest (she was just finishing up antibiotics for her cold) or she could indulge her soul's need for diversion and entertainment.  Three weeks out of the month it could have gone either way.  This week she was ovulating, and I think that made a big difference.

She closed her mouth.  She bit her lip.  She let out a big sigh, and seemed to resign herself.  "I'll be ready," she promised, tossing her hair unconsciously.  I gave her a kiss on the cheek and a pat on the ass before I went to get ready myself.

Shit test passed. 
Mission
accomplished.  She had been presented with two -- and
only
two -- clear alternative endings for the evening.  One she was certain of.  One she was utterly uncertain of.  There were no details to discuss, no alternate suggestions, no other considerations . . . because she didn't have enough information,
on purpose,
to make them.

She had to either go to bed (alone) or she had to trust me and my ability to Order and Lead.  One thing or the other.  And once she was presented with those two, due to my manifestation of Order, she was able to select her choice and be content with it, for the moment.

That’s called Controlling the Frame.  It’s even more vital in Married Game than it is in Single Game.

Yes, there was still m
ystery implicit in the evening (she didn't know where the hell she was going) but there was also Confidence in my ability to steer us, predicated entirely on the firm, decisive way in which I Ordered her evening. 
Confidence is sexy. 
So . . .

Activate Confidence In Leadership Buff: SR +1

"I
still
don't like surprises," she muttered as she finished her hair.

"Yes you do," I countered, cheerfully, and went to Order the kids around in preparation for the evening.

Then I got ready: modest amount of cologne, brush through my hair, toss the fedora, keep the scarf, nothing impressive.  I had "impressive" in a gym bag in the back of my car. 

For all she knew, we were going to the mall for a Married People Budget Date Night.  We do that probably more than most couples with kids, but it had been a while.  She seemed to accept that's where we were going, relaxed into the idea of cheap pizza and beer on a Saturday night, and accepted it. 

In fact, she looked a little smug as she kissed the kids good-bye and unnecessarily instructed Niece about bedtime procedure.

I interrupted.  "It's been handled," I assure her.  "Get in the car.  We're going to be late."  Calm, sure tones, kept low on purpose.  Inspires confidence.  Inspires obedience.

"Late for
what?
" she asks, confused. 
How could we be late for beer-and-pizza?
she's thinking.

"If we don't hurry, you'll never find out," I say, simply, and head for the car. 
I don’t look back to see if she’s behind me, but s
he follows.  She's back to "confused and irritated" again, but she
accepted my leadership
.  I'm not about to let her question it now.