I’ve been reading. Oh no, not again! No, what I started to say was, I’ve been reading a book about women, and husbands. The search for the perfect, ideal husband, which is, of course, as mythical as a unicorn. So is the perfect wife. I think most of us would do best to settle for a pretty good husband and a pretty good wife, recognizing that there may be stresses. But what inspired tonight’s essay is the various men the author is talking to, and their attitudes, which she accepts without asking the questions she should. So here it is, another of my orations (some call them rants).

BEING WOMAN

It’s odd. There is so much I want to say, so much I think. Writing typically comes easy to me, and I always have a thousand ideas. I have a lot of ideas tonight, but writing eludes me. I suspect it has a lot to do with the fact that I am feeling overwhelmed. There is so much happening, and it is so important…world changing…that I feel like I am drowning. I don’t want to write about me. I don’t want to write about writing difficulties. I want to write about…being a woman. Moving through this world in a woman’s body. I’ve had experience with that, more years than I like to think about. So I think…yes, stream of consciousness. You can check out now if you want; I won’t blame you.

I don’t remember a time when I was unaware of the fact that I was female. I was dressed in pink clothes, a shiny new Easter dress, always pink, with shiny patent leather shoes. The shoes hurt, and the dress wasn’t comfortable. You couldn’t play in it. To be fair, my brother couldn’t play in his suit, either. But when we got home, he could take it off and live the rest of the day in jeans or shorts. I had to remain a “girl”. I was aware of my role. I didn’t like it, but I knew what it was.

My mother had four daughters. She introduced us to people as the talented one, the smart one, the pretty one, and the baby. If you want to guess which one I was, I was her second daughter. And yes, she introduced us in chronological order. I was…smart. I knew from the look on her face that wasn’t good. She didn’t value smart, not in women. She was suspicious of ‘smart’ women. She was suspicious of me.

Mothers and daughters notoriously struggle with their relationships; it was no different for me. It’s funny, but I didn’t even want to be close to my mother. I was afraid of her, and afraid of most of the women…and men…and children…I knew. I was afraid because I was smaller, and I was not an aggressive, take no prisoners sort. My sisters were, and it wasn’t unusual for them to join forces against me. I learned to hide early. Take a book and a flashlight under the porch, and everything was fine. No one found me.

This coping strategy can work…for a while. It isn’t a good strategy for a grown woman wanting to succeed at her chosen career. You need to be noticed. But being noticed is a double-edged sword for a woman. You see, in spite of the fact that my mother told me I was ugly, I was actually quite attractive. I didn’t believe that then (I struggle to believe it now; that statement is more intellectual than believed). So men did notice me. That wasn’t good, either, because they didn’t notice the work I did, though I was good at my job. They didn’t notice my competence, my talent, my intellect. No, they noticed my 36D measurement. They noticed my rounded ass. They noticed my legs.

Being a woman in a professional world is like walking a minefield of eyes, hands, lips, tongues, and, from time to time, penises. I worked other jobs long enough to know it isn’t only the professional world. Women in blue collar jobs, in the crap jobs that pay very little for hard work, also face these challenges, also walk carefully through the minefield. None are exempt, not even the ones who are not conventionally attractive. It can be as difficult to endure the mocking hatred that assails a woman that doesn’t turn men on. I have seen the tears in the eyes of women who refuse to break down and cry.

You probably heard all your life…sticks and stones, and all that nonsense. Don’t believe it. Words hurt. Pain hurts. Words designed to elicit pain are going to hurt, and it isn’t weakness, it isn’t letting them hurt you. That is an excuse designed to put the onus for your pain back on you. I didn’t let them hurt me; I had little choice. Could I have been tougher? Could I have let it flow off my back? No, I don’t think I could. I didn’t have the strength of knowing I was loved, knowing I was valued, knowing I had a support system. Some women have that, and are able to do it. They shouldn’t have to.

I hear men complain about what the world expects of them. Get married, have children, support your family, work a deadening job to make house payments and electric payments, and all of that. Then go home and your wife is on you to do chores, help with the kids. Okay. I can sympathize. I’ve been there…I’ve done that. These complaints might have made sense for Ward Cleaver; they do not ring true in a world where more married women are working outside the home than are not. This is not a situation unique to the male, and no one expects that a man will automatically be sole breadwinner anymore. Usually even his wife doesn’t expect it.

The woman is doing all that, as well. Her job may be just as mind numbing as his. She is likely paid less. She has to walk the minefield. She has to figure out how to keep the hands off her ass without taking an action that will cost her the job she needs. She has to wear a smile all day, and a lot of employers expect her to wear high heels…and a smile, in spite of the fact that high heels squeeze your toes into points and lift your heels to a level that makes it difficult to walk. They damage your calves, your thighs, your pelvis, and your back. Never mind, smile as you walk the long, long hallway to escort the client to your boss’s office. And if the client decides to grab something that is yours, and part of you, don’t say anything, because you don’t want to be that kind of woman. You don’t want to be a ballbuster. You don’t want to be a bitch. You don’t want to be unemployed.

So spare me. All those young men making the complaints about bringing home the bacon, working long hours to support the family you’re expected to have? Puleez. It just doesn’t work, not like it did for your father. No one believes you…or, rather, I don’t believe you. No one should. For some reason, though, people do. I continue to read about the mind numbing expectations on young men as if young women are somehow facing a future of roses and merry go rounds. This is the 21st century. Get a new story…or just face up to the reality that very few of us will go on to glittering glamorous lives doing just what we want to do and being so rich we only have to work when we want.

I often wonder how many of these complaining young men, the ones working long hard hours in a job full of drudgery are also the ones grabbing the asses of every woman they work with? I wonder….