There is nothing that I like better than a little recreational sexism. You may argue that there is no such thing as recreational sexism, that each slightly sexist joke is a reflection of an evil corroded soul full of bad anti-suffrage inclinations. Come on folks, being sexist can be good clean fun.
Sure, I like voting, and being allowed to wear pants and to sue people and not having my ribs broken to fit into a corset. Empowerment is all very good and dandy. I relish the idea of independent young ladies and wives with separate checking accounts. However, I also like not having to carry heavy things, yell at mean waiters, and know remotely about plumbing.
This small prejudice of mine came up the other day at work, when a dog at the office bit the mail carrier. My initial shock was of course that a friendly dog would do such a thing (my own dog being far too lazy to undertake such a hunt), but my second shock came as I realized that our mail carrier was a woman. It had never occurred to me that dogs bit ladies.
I’m feeling a bit tired today, but I had intended to rail on further about the joys of not feeling bad about yourself when you have to ask for help replacing a windshield wiper, reveal that you are crap at BBQ-ing, or do not know about pouring beer in an appropriate fashion. I’ll just assume that you get the picture and skip to the thrilling conclusion.
The unfortunate thing is, although I partake of the joys of sexism, I do not return the favor of female stereotypes. I’m not a very good cook, I rarely offer a suave social presence and I often have a wretched coif. And so here is my paradox: I’m not very maternal, but I’d sure like to retain that status so that no one thinks of asking me to screw in some light bulbs…or join the draft.
Sure, I like voting, and being allowed to wear pants and to sue people and not having my ribs broken to fit into a corset. Empowerment is all very good and dandy. I relish the idea of independent young ladies and wives with separate checking accounts. However, I also like not having to carry heavy things, yell at mean waiters, and know remotely about plumbing.
This small prejudice of mine came up the other day at work, when a dog at the office bit the mail carrier. My initial shock was of course that a friendly dog would do such a thing (my own dog being far too lazy to undertake such a hunt), but my second shock came as I realized that our mail carrier was a woman. It had never occurred to me that dogs bit ladies.
I’m feeling a bit tired today, but I had intended to rail on further about the joys of not feeling bad about yourself when you have to ask for help replacing a windshield wiper, reveal that you are crap at BBQ-ing, or do not know about pouring beer in an appropriate fashion. I’ll just assume that you get the picture and skip to the thrilling conclusion.
The unfortunate thing is, although I partake of the joys of sexism, I do not return the favor of female stereotypes. I’m not a very good cook, I rarely offer a suave social presence and I often have a wretched coif. And so here is my paradox: I’m not very maternal, but I’d sure like to retain that status so that no one thinks of asking me to screw in some light bulbs…or join the draft.
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