“I don’t know. I’ll ask the boss.” What an inane response to offer to a simple compatriotic scheduling request from one man to another. This man’s abdication accompanies not a sheepish grin, but a shadowy one. His greedy shadow is ‘getting away with” one of its perverse indulgences: that of the small conveniences abstracted by his wife, from his personal responsibilities in exchange for his general languishing subjugation to the authority he’s imputed upon his counterpart’s newest formed and thereby least firmed gender norm, the juxtapositionality of doing a ‘lesser’ party’s duty. Feeling compelled by both pride and necessity, in solidarity to her sisters’ quick march to power and in the should-be powerful man’s learned ineptitude and cowardess upon reflecting on such a march, respectively, this assumptive shouldering-as-social-grace by woman is a burden to both men and women in that it generates resentment; for the one, in himself, for seeing himself give away his independence; for the other, in him also, for the willful dereliction of duties, along with her resentment of herself for playing such a game. Do not “ask the boss,” dear man. Make a plan.