I’ll probably never be the poster girl for the feminist movement. I still use “his” or “he” in a sentence instead of “hers” or “theirs” or “its” – not that I mind those; it’s just my personal preference. And I shudder when I see combos like “his/hers” or someone tries to mix them all in: “It is every person’s right to express his views to her peers”. Please, choose one. I’m indifferent to which one you choose, but settle for just the gender – more than one pronoun and I think we’re talking about multiple people. I’m never going to be on the bandwagon to push to change our vocabulary to include “womankind” wherever there is “mankind”; I’m comfortable with “man” covering both genders. You see, I see “man” as neutral – we are a part of mankind – I don’t see it as saying “see those girls over there? They’re all penis baring she-males – true story – check out their package “mankind’ if you catch my drift, wink wink”.
Jay still opens the car door for me, pulls out my chair at restaurants and ensures all entry ways are opened as I approach them. To me, “Dutch” mistakenly refers to the people who settled in Pennsylvania back when we somehow couldn’t figure out what “Deutsch” meant. (Oh wait, this may go into the “I’m Cheap” post. Hrmm.) And to top it off, I would have never burned by bra – first, bras aren’t cheap (I am) and second, what kind of ecological footprint did that leave spewing who knows what up into the ozone – I wouldn’t set Aquanet on fire, either.
On the other hand, I do think I’m just as smart if not smarter than any “man”. I do think I should be paid equally, and get equal treatment (unless it’s a door and you can get that) and let’s face it, high heels were made for masochists who hate their feet.
We can’t get around our physical differences, though. I have breasts. Yes, I know – shocking. Granted, they’ve lost their 16 Candles perkiness and now look like something for the centerfold of a National Geographic article (I’m sure the story about the pale Anglo Saxons natives who inhabit central Texas” will be a real page turner – think geriatric Playboy). We’re talking old boobs that give directions to the area around my feet – boobs that need that bra to be un-singed so they give the appearance of being separate from my waistline and not just some amorphous torso blob. They’re really just boobs – nothing magical about them – a good percentage of the people you know have them – they come in all shapes, sizes and augmentations; they’re boobs. I have arms, too.
Where am I going with this? Well, last week I got to really meet my friend’s fiancé – a nice enough fellow – kind of a little guy (I think I’m a head taller), nervous thing, so I tried to draw him out – get him talking. I finally hit on the subject he enjoyed the most “magic” (he’s a professional magician) and he was off – he became very chatty and animated and started talking excitedly to my boobs – yes, my boobs. The guy talked to my breasts the entire time. Every time he opened his mouth, he addressed my breasts. I can’t even begin to repeat what he said to them, because I haven’t got a clue. My brain was stuck in a loop, “DUDE, you’re talking to my breasts!!! Eyes up here!”
Later, when people asked what he was like, all I could think was “he’s a breast talker!”
Now, while I may not be said poster girl for feminism, I still expect people to look me in the eyes when they’re talking to me… and get the door.