Boundaries I: The Things Women Are Supposed to Put Up With

There is a particular kind of relationship discomfort women are very good at explaining away. He says something rude, something feels off, or he behaves in a way that makes you stop and think, Excuse me? — and almost immediately another voice arrives to tidy everything up: Maybe I’m being too sensitive. Maybe he didn’t mean it that way. Perhaps I should just let it go.

And there you are, conducting an internal peace summit over something you did not actually like in the first place.

Women receive an extraordinary number of messages about what being a “good woman” is supposed to look like. Some come from childhood, some from family, some from culture, and some simply float around society like invisible household dust. You barely notice them until one day you realize you have been cleaning around them for years.

Apparently, a woman is supposed to be understanding. Very understanding. Almost historically understanding. If he is moody, distant, clumsy with feelings or behaving like a bear who has just been informed that winter has been cancelled, perhaps there is a reason. Perhaps he is stressed. Perhaps Mercury is doing something ambitious. Before long, his behavior has acquired a biography while yours has acquired patience.

We are also encouraged to be cool, which brings us to one of modern womanhood’s more fascinating creatures: the Cool Woman.  He is flirting with someone else? She is relaxed. His ex who mysteriously appears every eleven minutes? She is mature. His surprisingly active dating profile? She does not leap to conclusions. Strange messages at midnight? Please. She has apparently reached an emotional altitude where oxygen is optional.

Then there is the ancient suggestion that simply having a man is an achievement of such magnitude that one should be reluctant to jeopardize it over inconvenient matters like happiness, respect or sanity.

But at least you have someone.

An astonishing sentence, really. Not necessarily someone kind, trustworthy or particularly good for you. Just... someone. Apparently, possession of a male human being is the romantic equivalent of owning waterfront property.

Then comes another favorite: when he cheats, everyone immediately begins inspecting the woman. Was she attentive enough? Thin enough? Interesting enough? Independent enough? Not too independent, obviously. There appears to be a highly specific female setting somewhere between “mysteriously irresistible” and “never requires anything,” and one can only assume the instructions were lost in shipping.

Then, of course, there is the biological clock, perhaps the most terrifying imaginary household object ever assigned to women. Somewhere around a certain birthday it apparently transforms into Big Ben: Tick-tock. Better find someone. Tick-tock. Perhaps that man? He disappears for four days and has the emotional availability of a garden shed, but have you considered your eggs?

Nothing adds sparkle to romance quite like reproductive panic.

And then there is the workload. A woman may work full-time, maintain a home, buy groceries, remember birthdays, raise children, locate everyone’s missing belongings, keep the kitchen from becoming a biohazard and somehow know where the extra batteries are. She is also expected to remain pleasant, attractive, relaxed and interested in sex, preferably immediately after discovering that somebody has left a wet towel on the bed for the 437th time.

This is not a woman. This is a small multinational corporation in lipstick.

The strange thing is that many of these expectations contradict one another. Be independent, but not so independent that he feels unnecessary. Be attractive, but effortless about it. Have standards, but do not be demanding. Speak up, but do not be confrontational. Be accomplished, but do not intimidate him.

It is enough to make a woman require a flowchart.

And somewhere inside this impressive collection of instructions, something subtle can happen: she begins negotiating against herself, because she has learned to question her own discomfort before questioning the behavior that caused it.

That is where boundaries become interesting.

A boundary often begins long before anyone announces one. It begins in that tiny private moment when something happens and a woman notices, I actually don’t like this. Not every irritation deserves a summit meeting, of course, but repeatedly overriding your own reaction has consequences.

If every uncomfortable feeling is softened, excused, rationalized and placed politely back in its box, eventually the box becomes rather crowded.

Sometimes this is patience. Sometimes it is accommodation. Sometimes it is love. And sometimes it is simply the habit of moving yourself one inch backward every time somebody else wants another inch of room.

One inch is nothing — until you look down and realize you have somehow backed yourself into the hallway.

That is the part nobody talks about when they talk about boundaries. They are not merely about saying no. They begin earlier, with recognizing what feels acceptable to you before somebody else gets a vote.

Women have spent generations being praised for being accommodating, understanding, generous, forgiving and endlessly adaptable. All lovely qualities, until they begin eating each other for lunch. Generosity without limits becomes expectation. Patience without limits becomes permission. And being “easygoing” can become so easygoing that one day you look around and wonder where exactly you went.

That is where this conversation begins: not with becoming difficult or cold, but with noticing that being a woman has never required becoming infinitely adjustable.

Once that becomes visible, boundaries stop looking quite so mysterious. They begin to look like the natural line between loving someone and disappearing into the furniture.