It’s time I put my foot down. In the hardest, announciest way I know how. #ThatFootisMe
If I had an amount of money for every time I was talked down to, from having lady parts, I’d be retired and rich.* As if I, a woman, can’t function in life as efficiently as a man. That a Y chromosome is needed to make me complete, or safe, or financially stable, or whatever else it is about the male form that requires us gals to adhere ourselves to their existence.
Even though I air up my own tires and take out my own trash, you know, when my roommate’s boyfriend hasn’t already done it.
Not everyone follows this mantra – I’ll give you that – but a certain percentage of the population is still out there. Querying us with pity in their eyes and sexism in their hearts.
Generally, it comes up when I’m about to do something unwomanly. Like purchase a grill or pay with a credit card. The former of which caused me to track down three different workers before one would talk to me, not past me and at the taller, un-associated-with-me male customer. (The latter of which I used to cut their day’s commission.) Sometimes it’s men telling me where to find a serial number on my own property. Others, it’s assumptions that a man runs my life. Or that I’m not allowed to sign for my own LLC. Or ignoring my calls and asking for my mister.
Hypocrisy in its Finest
I like sexist jokes. They’re funny. Nothing tickles my funny bone like a good, “Who let her out of the kitchen” knee slapper, especially when I’m the one cracking it. Because I have a good sense of humor, but also because I firmly believe in a good dose of he does vs. she does. I like doing the laundry and I like it when men open doors and do other disgusting chores. The ones that require fire or loud machinery.
But like any true hypocrite, there are stipulations.
Only certain people make these jokes. In the same way that only I can make fun of my siblings. And if it involves the professional world in any shape or form, or comes out of left field, it makes me want to kick you right in your overgrown neck.
We women having been taking care of ourselves for decades. Stigmas and all. Mostly from pulling one’s own self up from one’s own bootstraps … even if that means sewing them back together with the sewing machine we bought with our own money … on sale.
And if the public still doesn’t think that’s acceptable – I’m looking at you, grill salesmen – I’ve found a different tactic. Gaining male proof of achievement, obviously.
I’ll pass along my accomplishments and have them signed, enforcing them to be valid. My father, maybe even an approved notary (a Mr., of course), will drip wax on my diplomas and stamp them with his seal of approval. Because the degree itself would not count without his consent. Nor will my company, paid-off debts, or general chop-busting personality.
I will also need a permission slip to go on outings after dark, especially if I’m doing something like walking or pumping gas. Then when a middle-aged inquirer comes along looking for proof of my credentials, I’ll present them and be allowed to continue living my life.
Because a man said that I could.
* Except a retiree that still worked, because I love my job.