Do you hate men? Do you think they are all a bit useless and pointless, and now that you’ve got your “modern woman” accoutrements like a career and easy sex, wonder why they are still around? Do you refuse to let your “mate” love and provide for you?
Congratulations. You are no longer a woman.
I know, right! I mean here I was, laboring under the albeit cissexist assumption that I am a woman. I’ve always assumed that, even though my uppity ways would suggest that while I might be a woman, I’m certainly no lady.
It’s strange though. You see, apparently feminism won me all these things. A career, though odds are good I’ll still be paid less than the men in my profession. Apparently I can have “sex at hello”. Which would be nice, if I weren’t threatened with sexual assault for doing just that, and if I couldn’t remember in vivid detail the most recent time I was called a slut for wearing a tight skirt. It won me the right to parent as I like – with or without a job – but seemingly I need to cave to men over that, because I need them to “pick up the slack at the office”.
She’s right. I am angry. And probably more than my fair share of defensive. But I’m not angry because I think of men as the enemy. Trite as it is, I think of the patriarchy as the enemy, and that it hurts all genders as much as it hurts me. And Ms Venker here is apparently a High Priestess of the Institutionalised Sexism denomination.
Maybe I should just admit it. I hate men. I don’t want them around, and I don’t ever want to get married or have babies, because that would get in the way of my plans to smash the glass ceiling and have all the sex I want. With *gasp* whoever I want. Oh, and I hate porn.
So, I took the quiz. I thought i might need the 12 step programme to get over my ridiculous fantasies (of equality, perv). I thought, maybe, this was true:
…there’s nothing empowering about moving in and out of intense romantic relationships, postponing marriage indefinitely, or pursuing careers with a verve that belies common sense. There’s nothing empowering about shacking up, rejecting your husband’s surname, ignoring your biological clock, refusing to depend on a husband, or becoming a single mom.
To be truly empowered, you’re going to have to do a 180.
You mean, there’s NOTHING empowering about having a life of my own? That any man who might want to marry me might value my career and not just my capacity to breed. That (get those pearls ready for clutching) I Might Not Even Want Children. That I might want to keep my own name as a sign of my independence and that I am not just my husband’s property.
Anyway, now I’m confused. I don’t need the programme. I felt so sure I would. I felt so sure Ms Venker and Fox news and their ilk would consider me such a pointless woman, with my career and my high heels and my disturbingly silent biological clock. But. I don’t consider myself better than men. I’m not holding out for Brad Pitt. Or George Clooney for that matter. I’m (through luck rather than design) not a product of divorce, nor do I need to be right all the time. As often as possible, but not every time. Smart, stable and kind sounds lovely, though I’d throw in funny, and certain…other requirements. (Mostly grammar-related.) Even mustering the loosest definitions possible, I still only managed four yesses.
One last thing.
What exactly are “the consequences of sex”? As in
It’s all so unfortunate – for women, not men. Feminism serves men very well: they can have sex at hello and even live with their girlfriends with no responsibilities whatsoever. It’s the women who lose. Not only are they saddled with the consequences of sex, by dismissing male nature they’re forever seeking a balanced life.
You’re talking about babies, right? They’re the consequences of sex? First, how delightful. Second, women are left, quite literally, holding the baby, and it’s FUCKING FEMINISM THAT IS THE PROBLEM?