What’s arguably the worst thing you can say to a woman you’ve offended?
“Calm down.”
Telling a woman to calm down is like spraying a feral cat with water — idiotic unless your goal is to instigate and accelerate a death wish.
When you tell a woman who’s already heated to calm down, you’re not soothing her.
You’re dismissing her.
You’re implying her reaction isn’t justified.
You’re minimizing her feelings.
And it’s asinine to expect anyone in the throes of anger — especially righteous anger — to be rational or receptive.
As the inevitable fight begins, we turn rogue.
You messed with the feral cat — now she’s deciding how deep the claws go.
At this point, your best move is to take Bill Burr’s advice:
“Just stay in the pocket… take a knee and let the clock run out.”
It’s really that simple: if you want to de-escalate, listen.
Actively.
Don’t comment on her tone.
Don’t critique her pitch.
Don’t police her delivery.
Allow her the courtesy of expressing herself naturally.
Only when she’s finished do you earn the right to open your mouth again.
Here’s the part men love to argue with — and shouldn’t:
Whether you meant to offend her is irrelevant.
You did offend her.
Impact beats intent.
Case closed.
You might not agree with her perspective, but you can respect it — and if needed, table the conversation for later.
Now.
What’s worse than telling a woman you offended to “calm down”?
Telling her not to make a scene.
And three…
two…
(silence — last finger drops)
ACTION.
“Don’t make a scene?”
Why — are you embarrassed people might overhear how you behaved?
You didn’t respect my feelings when I clearly told you that you crossed a line. Instead, you took the coward’s exit and hid your lack of decency behind “I was just joking.”
It wasn’t funny.
It was mean.
So I removed myself to assess how I felt.
Let’s make this crystal clear:
I did not react.
I very intentionally responded — to what will be your final opportunity to insult me.
And no, I don’t feel the slightest remorse for telling the bartender to cancel my order.
I lost my appetite.
Oh — are you uncomfortable now?
Did I make you look like an asshole?
Like a dick?
If your image matters that much, perhaps try acquiring the manners your parents clearly failed to install.
Playing the victim isn’t your forte — and frankly, I couldn’t care less what anyone in the peanut gallery thinks of me.
“Don’t make a scene?”
Bless your heart.
Nervous I’ll make a scene?
I’ll give you a goddamn Broadway musical.
Leave a Reply