Quasi-Feminist

A friend of mine and I are participating in a 39 mile walk to raise awareness and money for breast cancer.  It is quite the feat.  You have to raise $1800 to even be allowed to participate.  Then you train extensively for an event which consists of 26 miles on the first day followed by camping overnight and then 13 miles the next day.  We have been so proud of ourselves for this.  We have been walking for hours on end every weekend and preparing our bodies for something that we probably should have done in our twenties.  But, look at us!  We are doing this in our thirties!  It has been the ultimate experience in girl power.  On our walks, we talk about books and politics and every subject in between.  There is really nothing that you don’t cover when you spend 6-8 hours a week with someone.  It’s been tough, but we’ve worked hard and we are ready. 

However, I realized something more about myself while training.  Something that I’m not sure I like.  And I have a feeling that it is something a lot of women can relate to.  I am excited about this walk.  My friend is excited about this walk.  We have thought about and planned for it for months.  My husband had some friends over one night and a good friend of ours was asking me questions about the event.  I was more than happy to rattle on about what we were doing when another one of their friends chimed in.  I should preface this by saying that I think this particular friend sees women as only put on this earth for his personal benefit.  He’s a nice guy, I think.  He means well, I think.  But after explaining this event that I was super excited about, his only comment was, “Wow, after all of that walking, you are going to have a sweet ass.”  I shut down immediately.  I know there will always be the argument from other men that, “Boys will be boys.”  But I’m not okay with that argument.  There are certain men that can get away with comments like that.  Men that I’m friends with.  Men that I know are teasing and respect me as a person.  Men that understand that there is more to me than a pair of tits and a set of legs that are meant only to spread for them at their request.  Whether or not this particular individual was kidding or not is really irrelevant to my story.  It’s not really what bothered me.  I can dismiss that.  In fact, it wouldn’t have bothered me at all if I didn’t feel that what we are doing is important and warrants a little more tact and respect.  But what REALLY irked me about the whole situation was that I really do want this walk to give me a sweet ass. 

Now, I’ve never really been a true “feminist,” whatever definition you might give that.  It seems like it has many meanings this day and age, with both positive and negative connotations.  However, I have always prided myself in believing in equal rights for both genders.  I have always cringed when my dad or husband is in a car and someone cuts them off and they make a comment such as “damn women drivers” or automatically assume it’s a “she.”  In fact, nothing gives me greater pleasure than listening to one of them cuss at a “woman driver,” only to pull up next to them and discover that the person causing them all of this distress by having the audacity to go only 5 miles over the speed limit is, in fact, a man.  And these are two men who are good people.  Neither one of them hates women and I don’t think either one looks at men as superior.  It’s just acceptable behavior in our society that I have always found unacceptable.  But I never really fight it.  Because why bother?  I am the definition of contradiction. 

I walk a line somewhere between feminist and damsel-in-distress.  I don’t understand why.  Maybe it’s hardwired into that annoying extra X chromosome of mine.  Maybe one was enough.  I want to be respected but I also want to be attractive.  I want to be able to do everything by myself!  Well except snow blow, mow my yard, or change a tire.  I want men to do that for me.  I want to have a career and pay for my own way in life!  But I want a man to open the door for me while I pay for dinner.  It infuriates me when men say that women wear certain outfits looking for attention but then I wear a low-cut shirt because I want to prove that I can defy gravity in my 30’s (shocking secret:  I can’t.  I can just find bargains on magical bras at Victoria’s Secret).  But, as I age, I become both more comfortable and less comfortable in my own skin.  I want to prove that I don’t care what you think of me but, please, pretty please, still find me attractive. 

Y oh y can’t I just have a Y chromosome?  I feel like life would be easier. I could stand to pee, say literally anything that I want, have gray hair and a beer belly without anyone worrying about whether or not I’m still attractive, and say that the opposite sex is full of hypocrisy and brings on all of their own problems.  I wouldn’t have to feel everything and yet hide what I feel.  I wouldn’t have to laugh when men make jokes about women’s bodies that make me want to cry while deep down wondering what they think of mine.  How disgusted are they really by the dimples on my ass and stretch marks on my thighs? And, more aggravating than that, why do I care? I know I’m worth more.  I’m not a victim.  I’m a confident, intelligent, successful woman.  But, damn it all, I really do want to be pretty. 

I want you to notice when I lose 10 pounds and wear a tight black dress that shows my curves.  But listen to me when I’m talking to you!!  I have important things to say!  Did you notice these heels that I’m wearing?  Don’t they make my legs look sexy?  “Hey, buddy, my eyes are up here.  I’m talking to you.”  I work out incessantly during bathing suit season but then I eat ice cream because, “screw you.  I don’t care what you think of my muffin top.”

I love that I’m complex, intricate, and complicated.  I love that I’m confident in most aspects of life.  I love that I’m emotional, empathetic, and a deep thinker.  I hate that I care what people think of my looks.  I hate that I crave attention.  I hate that I’m only a quasi-feminist.  But, man, oh man, I really do want to have a sweet ass.