Oh, No... FEMINISM

    Junk. Junk. Junk. Junk. Ugh. Radios. They’re either conspiring against me or I didn’t get the play-every-awful-song-in-existence-day memo. Maybe the indie stations will play something.

    “Coming up on The Wood, we got some Alanis Morissette, so don’t touch the dial. We’ll be right back.”

    Dude! Finally! My day has been redeemed thanks to you, Mr. Announcer Guy! Gah, I absolutely love Alanis Morrisette. The defiance her music embodies, the will-to-live outlook on life and empowerment she emphasizes, really makes her an ideal role mo--

    No.

    Not. This. Song.

    “You treat me like I’m a princess. I’m not used to blah, blah, BLAH,” whined a once admirable voice. Really, it isn’t the whole song that gets to me so much as that one line. Maybe it’s the raving feminist that’s taken root in the back of my head and feeds off hypocrisy, but hearing Morrisette, a soldier for gender equality, rave about “chivalry” makes my insides churn with betrayal.

    Alrighty. Scratch that. I don’t fancy myself a feminist, but rather, an equalist. As such, the very idea of girls being obligatorily pampered makes me want to hide in a corner and chokehold-hug a puppy until everything goes away. Menfolk, is that what you want to be responsible for? Inspiring puppy-suffocation? I figured not. Then drop the lines “Oh, here, let me hold the door for you. No, no, I’ll cover the bill. Oh, and I’ll carry your books for you. While I’m at it, how about I pre-chew your food for you, seeing as I’ve already belittled your capabilities to do anything besides form an opinion of me.”

    If that were really the whole problem, if all I was going on about was the implicatively degrading nature of an altruistic deed, then I would be ashamed of myself for being so bothered. There’s nothing evil or degrading about doing a favor here or there. It’s no secret--favors are nice. I think favors make the world go round.

    However, there’s a difference between being too proud to accept charity and avoiding the reduction of a whole gender to pampered, entitled divas. We all know THAT GIRL--bratty, spoiled, often a daddy’s girl, everything will always go her way, as decreed by federal law. Infinite human potential squandered because Daddy bought her a pony for her fifth birthday. And her sixth. A castle on her eighth. A rocket-ship on her eleventh. Her own country on her thirteenth. Suddenly, her boyfriend is surprised when she asks for a fifty-seven hundred thousand carat golden ring on her sixteenth and makes certain he delivers. What stings the most is that it isn’t his of her fault. It’s ours. In a society which enables gold-diggers and stay-at-home-mums, romanticizes them even, we have created this monster. We treated her “like a princess.” And though the perils of not getting the newest Mercedes-Benz model every Christmas sound pretty perilous, forgive me if I’m not eagerly fighting off such frivolous dragons.

    When you offer to pay for my dinner, I’ll know you mean well, even when I decline. However, if you try to insist, don’t be too surprised if there’s no second date. It took me centuries to gain the right to fend for myself in some manner that didn’t involve being poor, pitiable, and pretty. I earned my money just the same as you, and I expect to be treated just the same as you.

    Leave the chivalry in medieval times, ladies and gents. Love your woman, but don’t try to rescue her. More than likely, the monster you’ll end up facing will be her.

    Okay, inner feminist. Go back to sleep. If you’re conscious much longer, I’ll start having nightmares about Jane Austen again. Those were hard years...




...In related news, why you shouldn't insist you're "meant to be."