There are a few movies I could watch over and over again, and never get tired of them. The Secret Garden is one of them, and it always makes me cry. I can’t help it, and there’s nothing I can do about it. When the end comes, my cheeks are always wet with tears.
When it comes to the interaction between a woman and a shrunken man, there are thoughts I can’t help but have, as they come to me as naturally as those emotional tears when I watch that movie. Those thoughts don’t relate to direct intimacy between a little man and a much larger woman, but they surround it.
One of them began years ago and it has to do with theft… cookie theft, to be specific. I imagined the life of a shrunken man. What does he do every day? How does he keep his mind alert, and his body in shape? In what way does he exert his self-determinism now that he’s the size of a small toy?
Well, there are many ways, but stealing cookies from the woman he loves is one of them. She bakes them and then doesn’t let him have but a few crumbs, the way we women like to do when we go in the kitchen and prepare delicious foods that then we try to keep away from the men we love.
That’s not all she does to keep him healthy: She gives him a dollhouse where he can almost feel normal from time to time; she sews little clothes for him so he can almost feel he’s wearing normal clothes; she plans activities for him that resemble what he used to do when he was bigger, and almost make him feel the way he used to.
But then she maps his days and nights in a manner that constantly drives home how small he truly is, in the way she speaks to him, the place he occupies in the palm of her hand when she feeds him, and the diet he’s now forced to follow, for example.
Everyone likes a bit of junk food every now and then, and… well, to have to ask permission for a damn cookie, and then get a few crumbs because “he’s getting a little fat”? And the way she giggles when she emphasizes the word “little”, poking his belly with the giant tip of her fingernail, pushing him back a step, punctuating that power she has over every bit of food he receives.
What choice does a manly man have but to arm himself with an assault rifle, a grappling hook, and a healthy appetite as he plans to enter one of her realms, that environment where building-sized appliances hum and buzz, framed by counters that loom like mountains, atop which she keeps those snacks she makes?
I want a cookie, and I’m gonna take a cookie, and there’s nothing you can do about it, woman! he thinks as he inserts a 30-round magazine into his tiny AK47. You know, in case there are any bugs. A hunting rifle would be more efficient for a kill, but spray fire from a high-capacity weapon is what he requires to scatter roaches or ants.
Not that it would work, but it’s the idea of carrying a weapon “just in case” into an environment that hardly ever presents a target that he likes, and it’s the exaggeration of drama that falls into the ridiculous that I find appealing about arming a shrunken man with firepower just so he can break into his own cookie jar.
Or what used to be his cookie jar.
Now everything is hers, including his little body, but every once in a while it’s lovely to defy her and do as he pleases, and it doesn’t hurt that when he is discovered, the punishment makes it worth all the trouble he went through just to pretend for a moment that he has a single say over anything at all.