The decision about whether to be a feminist is a hard one. Young women today have it tough. Lots of them are happily dating men, and are understandably nervous about becoming a feminist because it automatically requires being a lesbian. I’m a problem-solver by nature, and I hate to think of these hot young things struggling with this decision. So I, a proud feminist who wears Birkenstocks, have written a guide to help women process their feelings. Here are some points to consider – pros and cons about joining the
Cult Team Feminism.
- The Dress Code
I don’t like to get dressed up. I don’t even like to get dressed. Feminists don’t have to wear high heels. They don’t have to wear bras. The only reason women have ever worn torture accessories like control-top panty hose, underwire bras, and clingy polyester skirts is at the tacit behest of men. My husband wishes I would sometimes show some cleavage, but fuck that. I’m a lesbian, so who cares what he thinks. Also, it’s fun to braid my eyebrows.
I’ll be honest, sometimes feminists get jealous of non-feminists who show off their shapely legs and cute butts in short skirts. Feminists are’t allowed to shave, so even though my legs are pretty muscular, which automatically makes them manly, they’re very hairy and not great to look at. I try to buy cute clothes, but I can’t wear pink or yellow or anything fabulous or uplifting (it’s in the handbook), so mostly I have yoga leggings, t-shirts, and hoodies in varying shades of black and gray. I only wear sports bras.
Who’s to say women can’t be plumbers? Or be on one of Trump’s advisory boards? Feminists know that women can do anything men can do, and that’s important. In the off-chance a woman has math skills, she deserves the chance to be a nuclear physicist or a cryptanalyst, whatever that is. It pays well, which is important, since a feminist should never depend on a man for anything other than explaining archaic football rules.
Feminists can’t be secretaries or teachers, and of course can’t be stay-at-home moms, because what kind of example would that set for kids? And there’s a lot to be said for being a secretary. For one thing, secretaries hardly ever have to take their work home with them, unless “work” involves “taking dictation” from the boss. Secretaries also get to wear cute clothes (see Dress Code, above). Non-feminists can stay home and be the family Estate Manager. While the husband is at his real job, non-feminists get to stay home and take care of the kids, clean the house, go to the grocery, cook dinner, and walk the goddamn labradoodle poop machine of a puppy the husband surprised her with for Mother’s Day. Also, sex on demand. He’s earned it. I can’t remember where I was going with this one.
• Household Management
Feminists get to leave their dirty socks on the floor, which is an amazeballs feeling. I make my husband do the dishes every night. Sometimes he asks me to help him clear the table, and I’m like, REALLY, DUDE? Then I sit on the couch and watch the news and scratch myself. Also, I don’t have to do laundry, because why should it be me? Also, feminists get to handle all the money issues, and give the whining sniveling men in their lives allowances. As far as child-rearing goes, the women in charge won’t have to name their first-born children after the mother-in-law’s Aunt Desdemona; also, they can breastfeed their little Anais Nins until they’re 12 or starting their periods, whichever comes first.
Fair is fair, and equal rights mean equal responsibility. So pro-woman women have to be willing to take out the trash, change light bulbs, learn how to use a drill, and build shit. But here’s a little secret – “part-time feminism” can be a thing. For example, I told my husband he has to be the grass-mower in the family. In return, I make sure to have a scotch on ice ready for him when he’s done. I offered to be clothed in nothing but Saran wrap, but he said no, thanks, and I was fine with that because I’m a lesbian and all.
In conclusion, I would urge women in today’s world to consider feminism as a way of life. It will save time and money – no hours-long searches for cheap mascara, silk bralettes, and deals on Brazilian wax jobs. And bonus? Patchouli. It’s the feminist scent of choice. BOO-yah.
Thanks to my Editor of the Day, writer Gale Massey, whose novel The Girl From Blind River (available for pre-order!) will be released this July. Love her.