Growing up, it was a matter of gender politics. I no longer read women’s magazines after learning the hard way that the quotes from “men on the street” were faked (“Oh yeah, there’s nothing like a girl who smears a little butterscotch on your perineum” or “Don’t be self-conscious! We’re so happy you’re having sex with us, we don’t care if you have pendulous breasts or stop during coitus to eat leftover corn on the cob.”) But when I did read them, they always featured “How to Get Ahead at the Office” tips that boiled down to “Don’t be such a fucking girl.”………
….On the one hand you’re supposed to appreciate the butteriness of a leather accessory, while bemoaning the dwindling number of ice-fishing, zip-lining “real” men. You’re having your own manliness sold back to you wrapped in a silk kerchief embroidered with the words “You’re kind of a douche for buying this.”
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Julieanne Smolinski raises a very good point.
Not to get into a gender stereotypes argument here, but I feel that we’ve gotten to a very exhausting point where both women and men are expected to be able to play to any and all sides.
As women, we’re supposed to be pretty and like sequins and always smell good and glisten (not sweat! Quelle horreur!), but yet still be able to weld power tools and fix shit and lift our own heavy boxes and be tough and not cry at sappy movies.
And it seems guys are supposed to be able to fix flat tires, drink nothing but dark, ‘manly’ beers, chop down trees with their bare hands, grunt at the game on the tv, and come to the rescue whenever a rescue is needed…with perfectly manicured hands, ‘authentic’ vintage driving loafers, and modal cotton t-shirts.
Hell, even The Dude and I have gotten into tiffs over arguments of “you’re so independent - why don’t you fix the [whatever’s broken] yourself!”…”just because I can do it myself doesn’t mean it wouldn’t be really nice to not have to!”
So, all I’m saying is, maybe it’s ok that all dudes aren’t the best chefs, intent on whisking their ladies off their feet with grand, well-orchestrated romantic gestures. But then again, I don’t glisten - I sweat. And sometimes, I smell, too.
