Women are still being zapped by the dark ages
I was amused to read an SMS from a reader last week which lamented the pulling of zap signs by women. It went something like this: “Women who pull rude signs are bad, and it says more about them than anyone else.”
Um, yes. The pulling of a middle finger might say they’re peed off with the dweeb in the Prado who nearly squashed them on the zebra crossing. Just a thought.
I am not a rude-sign puller – mostly because I have slow reactions. When my husband first met me I was mired in the depths of extreme road rage.
I also drove an Uno that had a particularly basic headlight function: push stick up for high beam, pull stick down for low beam. When I was seized by indignation with the morons around me, I would scream, “You &^*%$(& idiot!”, and then violently flick the headlight switch up and down, up and down, up and down. It was pathetic. B still went on to marry me.
What amused – and disturbed – me about the SMS was the implication that women shouldn’t behave in such an unladylike manner.
I can deduce, then, that the reader thinks it’s okay for men to pop a middle finger or ram a thumb between their digits. From there, I can assume that women shouldn’t, oh I don’t know, wear trousers, open doors for men, work, change light bulbs, or eat steaks that weigh more than 250g.
On the far end of the chauvinism spectrum, it would also seem some people believe that women shouldn’t be allowed to love other women.
They believe it so strongly that they feel it is their duty to “rape women straight”. It’s so warped and crooked, so ignorant and arrogant, that it’s hard to believe we share our society with such monsters.
Tip of the day: we are living in a post-feminist society. Women pull zap signs, wear ties, love women, have careers over families, and play soccer. Deal with it.
When B and I moved into our house, our new neighbour rushed over to welcome us. I was struggling under the weight of a bookcase. ‘‘Do you have kids?” she asked, “because the people before you did, and our boys used to play with them. They’re so sad they’re gone.”
When I shook my head and said no, she took in my advancing age and my child-bearing hips, and looked visibly disappointed. “Why not?” she asked. I was speechless.
“Damn,” I said to B later, as we unpacked boxes. “I should have told her I had ovarian cancer. Or that I’m infertile. Or I’m a heroin junkie. Or I once had a kid, but killed it and ate it.” And then I thought: why do I have to explain myself?
During a recent half-marathon, I was running with a bunch of men. Like me, they were wearing unflattering garments and puffing up the hills. Like me, they had probably put in the training – hours on the road, Sundays spent pounding the pavement between seaside towns. We were equals. All of us running.
“Hey, blondie,” panted the burly man next to me. “You’re doing well, but you probably want to slow down a bit.
“Your pace is wrong. You’ll hit the wall.” Again, I was speechless.
And again, I ran through the script I should have delivered: “Hey, fat man, your stride’s too long, you’re wheezing like an asthmatic walrus and who the hell are you to tell me how to run my race?”
I quickened my pace, left him in the Deep Heat vapours – and nearly died at the finish. I learnt my lesson. Now I avoid race comraderie.
I’m not sure when we’ll grow up as a society, when we’ll finally accept that we’re not stuck in the dark ages. For all the prettiness of our constitution, we’re still a nation riddled with discrimination and intolerance.
Just the other day on my walk from the train station, I found a lovely coke can. It was shiny, intact and red. It demanded to be kicked – all the way home.
As I rounded the corner, feeling like David Beckham, the can flying in front of me, a woman whooshed past in a large black car. Her eyes met mine. She pursed her lips and shook her blonde bob in disgust. I was Letting The Side Down – me and my metal ball.
I was tempted to flash her a zap sign, but I don’t do that sort of thing. I’m a decent person.
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