Tuesday, 6 March 2012

8th of March, ladies day... Listen, ladies.

Researching the articles for the bookie, I came across the March 8th debates and how everyone is (still) loud about how the year has 35o something days, how men should be nice to women all year long, how blah blah blah yaddy yaddy yaddy... YES. WE GET IT. Nobody is bringing you anything on March 8th. Nobody is bringing you anything on any other day either.

Feminists. Look. The times are tough. People don't have the means and opportunity to treat you like queens all the time. We have our anniversaries, we have our birthdays and we like that. Humans like being told what to do, when to do it. It doesn't mean our men don't kiss or hug or love us all the time, smile and compliment us, make us food and keep the dog from being noisy at street pigeons when we are napping. They do. Sex is good all year long, there's talks and itty bitty surprises that make your whole day are often. But we don't have the time to go strolling romantically every evening nor the energy to go hiking every weekend or the money for restaurants every Thursdays and Tuesdays night. So maybe four times or so, it's ladies' choice. And I think that's nice. Not because I wouldn't get to choose 350 days a year, but because it took women in our society a fuck long to get this far and if you think a day like this is demeaning, go look at the societies that don't celebrate it. Where a man, when told to celebrate a woman's day is asked to buy stupid flowers or theater tickets and he frowns, confused... why??!

A book could be written about why men don't need their day because they are already kings and dalai lamas and bosses all the time, or about how their allowing us to reach equality and liking us for it is patronising, and so on, but honestly, I will rather go talk silly lovey talk over the phone with my booboo and when he gets home, even if he brings me nothing for this one day on the calendar (though he always does, silly old traditionalist), he brings his warmth and his scent and the curly chest hair and the giant hands that my giant ass fits in perfectly, and I'm home. Right there. There is nothing equal about it. He's the man. I am the woman. Not a womb, not a cook, not a cleaning lady. I'm the cushy realm of boobs around the heartbeat that he collapses into at the end of the daily trials. And if he brings me sunflowers and chocolate or doesn't, it doesn't change a single fundamental thing. I rather he didn't, because I don't really like plants, but if he does, that's just because men mean well and will try anything when they think it will make their women happy. (And let's face it, we don't make it simple on them.)