The other day I got an assignment to write something deep and meaningful that covered a variety of women’s issues that I know nothing about.
And by “assignment” I mean there was an email sent to a bunch of people who were sitting around in their pajamas, not a call from the editor of the Washington Post.
I pretended that I had it all under control nodding my head and using my self-assured fake voice that I reserve for just such occasions.
Truth be told this type of challenge befuddles and upsets me on so many different levels it’s almost too hard to explain.
I instantly go that place where all the Riot Grrrls from college are out stomping on my throat with their combat boots because I only came to the party for the kick ass grain alcohol they mixed in a trash can and served with a massive soup ladle. Apparently I didn’t care enough about the plight of women wearing thick charcoal eyeliner chanting slogans I couldn’t really hear because grain alcohol makes you equally guilty as the men who keep us down and partially deaf in one ear.
It also may have made one partygoer temporarily blind.
Anyway, I’ve never been able to get on board the slow-moving train of the extremist cause with any sort of sincerity or regularity.
Feminism, intellectualism, socialism, elitism. I’ve tried all the ism’s and I never had enough enthusiasm or follow through to stick around.
In my defense I will say that socialism sounded great when Billy Bragg spoke about it in that folk hero way while brandishing his guitar but then I thought about someone taking away my Visa card and making me dress in a grey sack mumu and I ran back to capitalism with open arms and legs.
So, it is with great sadness that I send this writing assignment off into the sunset where it will be scooped up by someone with far more impressive qualifications than just “has a vagina and two hands to type”.