Pepa Millán and the reactionary phenotype of the “harassing” girlfriend

Then poetry did the rest.

The joke is that Millán’s face and gesture are reminiscent of the “nagging” girlfriend, an archetype of woman who tends to be pretty much pretty, classy, ​​haughty, snobbish, reactionary, sanctimonious and punitive.

This aunt took very seriously the model of replacing the lamb’s mother, that is, her boyfriend. On one side, he has taken the turn of the mother-in-law and the glove and on the other, he is going to squeeze her hand until she bursts without stopping smiling. By his gestures he seems to be telling you that the scepter has changed owners. No matter how much you cry. Mom can’t hear you anymore.

Now you share an apartment with her in Acacias and you have your life planned. Militarized. There is little room for improvisation. You are a broken doll on the rocks of passive aggression.

Sometimes you miss the game, the gifts, the procrastination, leave your Excel home for a while.

Sometimes you miss your own hair. Your friends (the ones she can’t even see because they look like a bunch of cheating, alcoholic kids who don’t want to see you progress and are leading you down the path of Satan) say that the bingo card you have on the top of your head It is now the responsibility for the fear that your daughter generates in you. This makes you a parish priest.

She doesn’t look at you with delight. He judges you and stabs you with a wordless knife.

She always dreamed of you changing. This will be the herculean and slow work of your life, your corrosive transformation into a passionless Lord on the verge of death.

“Do whatever you want.” Four words for a reign, that of psychological terrorism.

And one more viral nonsense: “Who was that? I don’t understand why she has to call you for nothing. Whatever she has to tell you, she should tell you at work or by email.”

“Ah, are you going out again on Saturday? You’ll know, but on Sunday I’ll get you up at 9 o’clock to make the most of the day. Don’t come back tired to eat rice with my parents.”

“I’m so embarrassed when you make that joke… don’t you realize no one is laughing with you? They’re laughing at you.”

“Close your mouth when you eat.”

“Seriously, you look like a picture, I’m going to make rags with this shirt, when are you going to dress like an adult?”

The harassing girlfriend also talks a lot about you as if you weren’t listening, as if you weren’t there. He does it to a table full of friends. It’s maternalist. “What am I going to do with him? I have won paradise. Did you believe that the other day?”, and recounts one of your intimate anecdotes. Something about chewed up underwear, maybe. Something blushing that you won’t be able to escape.

He’s complaining that you’re acting like a child and he’s kinda right, you’re a bit of a mess (and your testicles have been heavy for a while now), but I’m breaking a flag in favor of the friendly Peter Pan that lives inside you . and I’ll tell you that by being called an idiot, you become a complete idiot.

Your home is founded on the power of careto. A face can ruin a day or a life. If something doesn’t please him, if the water doesn’t go his way, if existence isn’t a tailor-made suit, he will knock you down with his mask, which is a supposedly stern and unchanging face, a face of ecumenical bitterness, a face that lets everyone know that you are a failure and that they hate you, but who makes the effort to teach you how to live and be a useful man. This is the “same socks or ball” face.

As a feminist, I would like to say that this archetype (exaggerated, certainly, radical, but which affects many whipped women who feel like leaders when they are only tyrants) is an invention of men.

But no.

I know them, I looked after them. Often, they are the girlfriends of my own friends. We all had to pay for his insecurities. How many missed nights. So many uncomfortable lunches.

I remember those nightmarish moments. I remember those years of dodging these arbitrary and unappetizing morons, unable to eat or drink or dance for joy, unable to laugh out loud… not even at anything very funny. Anyone would have said that they had produced a paper to the letter.. Your role.

It sucks to be a constrictor. It’s a sticky legacy of one of the most anti-libido cinematic couples in existence: the Jerk and the Sergeant. She is an ultra apart, she is the one who imposes her Martian criteria on you on good and evil. Its cannons are straight. They are conservative. They are suffocating. They are religious. Follow them or you will be filled with guilt.

She will compare you to her friends’ boyfriends.

You will always feel weak, but love is about feeling strong.

They are a lie, a disgrace to sex and affections.

It hurts to say that thanks to women like this one of the rancid and misogynistic expressions that I hate the most survives, that of “being from Rodríguez”. Poof. It’s understandable that kids want to have fun for a while, as they have fun when the attack dog gets lost one weekend and goes to her friend Genoveva’s bachelorette party. It’s understandable that they want to breathe some fresh air and play at being free for a while..

For us it wasn’t like that, for us it was always the opposite. We wanted to like men who told their friends “hey, don’t make plans this Saturday, we’re going out with Ella.” And let them know that then it gets complicated.