She’s a Lady (Whoa-Oh-Oh)

I don’t like feminists. I don’t hate them–my own darling mother is one, for God’s sake–but I’m not really fond of them either. Mostly because the only thing they ever seem to talk about is how women should be treated exactly the same as men.

Um…excuse me? So no one will hold the door for me, and pull out my chair, and get me out of a ticket when I bat my very ladylike eyelashes, and not draft me into the Army? Why in God’s name would any woman give up being treated like a woman to be treated like a man?

Now, I understand that’s not the point, but on the other Manolo, it kind of is. If you want fair-square equality for everyone, that’s nice on paper, but that means everything has to be equal, even for door-holding and ticket-dodging. Equal pay at work and government-subsidized tampons, I’m all for. But saying women have to be like men in order to be “equal” is just what pisses me off about feminists. If you want to wear Birkenstocks and never get your eyebrows waxed, that’s just fine. But don’t tell me I’m setting back the cause of womankind by twenty years because I like makeup and a good heel (and put my feminine wiles to use).

Which brings me to my next point. Being a true lady is so undervalued in today’s society. Look at the French. Women there are chic, glamorous, and independent–they make paper (or whatever French money is printed on) in sexy cardigans with perfect hair. Here, if you like to take care of yourself–which means nothing compared to how the French do it, with their obsessive beauty regimes, or Japanese girls, who wear makeup and nice shoes every. single. day–you’re “high maintenance,” not “a lady.”

There is nothing wrong with wanting equal rights, or wearing ugly clothes and not caring how you look, but there’s also nothing wrong with being just the opposite. So how about a  little equality between the Birkenstocks and the Manolos, please? (OR, even better–I can just teleport back to the 1950s, when dressing up for everything was normal and everyone left me alone about equality while I drank Bellinis with Cary Grant.)

Let’s Hate Ourselves

If you live in America, you probably hate yourself. Don’t feel bad, it’s just a thing, like knowing the Pledge of Allegiance or owning Levi’s. (I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America, and to the republic, for which it stands, one nation, under God, with liberty and justice for all! Is that right? I typed it out of memory, okay?)

Anyway, people react to this whole society-makes-us-hate-ourselves thing in two ways: they either pretend they love everything about themselves and that their every flaw is a precious adorable diamond, or they keep a secret mental list of everything they would change about themselves if they could. An easy way to find out which type of person your friend is is to ask one simple question: “If you could get plastic surgery, what would you get done?” Absolutely everyone is going to swear they would never get it and they don’t want it, but the fine folks in sector two will then say, “But if I had to…” and then launch into their I-Suck List.

I am fully aware that this is kind of depressing and sad and blah blah blah, but it’s also totally fun if you still generally like yourself but have some things you would like to change. It’s like a game, except you can never win! Me, for instance: I would have thicker hair and perfect skin with a perennial tan and a ten-digit bank account. You just have to be careful not to play too much, or you might find yourself sobbing on the floor and slowly cutting off sections of your eyelashes.

This uplifting message has been brought to you by the WildHearts! And, big disclaimer, whatever you hate about yourself, someone else probably stalks you taking photographs of and wants to lick (your big feet, for instance). So just roll with it like our hippie-dippy friends in Sector One!