Given that I have spoken enough about boyfriends, bras, menstrual cycles, female stereotyping and the like, I am sometimes asked whether I am a "feminist". Whenever this question is hurled at me, my inner Goddess arches her immaculate left eye-brow and hisses "Not likely". I have no problems whatsoever in the non-identification of the clitoris, the fact that Medusa cannot get her snakes into a pony-tail and the prospect of washing another man's socks for the rest of my life.
I'm all for making delicious three-course meals and shaking cocktails towards the end of the evening as the husband unwinds in front of the TV. I'm all for making puppy-dog faces and whining apologetically even though it is not my fault by any stretch of imagination, just because the boyfriend has "lost it". I'm all for behaving myself and not revolting when the father tells the brother "You can't be pansy and study the arts like your sister, you can't be a house-wife".
That may seem a poor reflection of my sense of self-worth and the position women-kind are held in my perception but I do, in fact, have a certain "female ideology" which I would like to refer to as Boob-ism.
Boob-ism, in my book, is defined as the motivation behind the massive female ego that seeks to protect its rights against male domination and cooking of paneer-mutter against free will (esp. when pre-menstrual).
Because I strongly agree with all theories of evolution, I believe that women must play the role of "care-taker" (unfortunate that in many cases, everything else comes second). But given that biology and reality haven't exactly kept pace with each other, leading us on to an age of prolonged adolescence, redundancy of wisdom teeth, working super-moms and blatant disregard for basic grammar (such as using conjunctions in the beginning of sentences), it is little wonder the "natural order" of things have flipped a little bit. Not to mention the extreme lack of uniformity in general female behaviour.
In one extreme of the spectrum, we have women painting vaginas on plates for their little "dinner party" and on the other extreme we have women with hopeless eye-sight and keep bumping into poles, door knobs, etc. while their husbands remain heavily inebriated. And then there is me- feminist by public opinion, victim by self-portrayal and boob-ist by very nature.
I am not alone in the psylent practice of boob-ism. The majority of women, whether they realize and/or agree or not, are of the same breed. We will do whatever it takes to be the "care-taker" and then *evil smile*, we will use it to our advantage when the time comes for a proper payback from men.
Raise your hands if you've ever heard:
Your mother say "You spent nine-months RENT-FREE inside my damn womb, young man!"
Your girlfriend say "And I suppose I was invisible when you were throwing up all over the bathroom floor after the party!"
Your sister say "Just because I'm a girl, you won't let me do it! Wait till I'm married and gone!"
Your grandmother say "Do I look like a maid to you! Wash that damn bowl in which you ate your tachchi mammam!"
Ohh yes! We will lull you into your free subscription of eternal female servitude, dress sluttily and scrub our backsides raw with anti-cellulite nonsense to please you and then bring it up in high-pitched name-calling unfairness when the moment is most crucial to us. And because the majority of us boob-ists are stuck with a majority of you gentlemen (almost), you will relent.
This kind of behaviour may see a sudden spike when we're PMS-ing. We'll throw a hissy fit first and then suddenly become sexually repulsive. It takes a lot of emotional resources to be nice to men when we're about to bleed ourselves to infertility. Therefore, we would rather not. Do try your best to placate us when we're in the middle of practicing boob-ism. It would help during the remainder of the month.
I'm all for making delicious three-course meals and shaking cocktails towards the end of the evening as the husband unwinds in front of the TV. I'm all for making puppy-dog faces and whining apologetically even though it is not my fault by any stretch of imagination, just because the boyfriend has "lost it". I'm all for behaving myself and not revolting when the father tells the brother "You can't be pansy and study the arts like your sister, you can't be a house-wife".
That may seem a poor reflection of my sense of self-worth and the position women-kind are held in my perception but I do, in fact, have a certain "female ideology" which I would like to refer to as Boob-ism.
Boob-ism, in my book, is defined as the motivation behind the massive female ego that seeks to protect its rights against male domination and cooking of paneer-mutter against free will (esp. when pre-menstrual).
Because I strongly agree with all theories of evolution, I believe that women must play the role of "care-taker" (unfortunate that in many cases, everything else comes second). But given that biology and reality haven't exactly kept pace with each other, leading us on to an age of prolonged adolescence, redundancy of wisdom teeth, working super-moms and blatant disregard for basic grammar (such as using conjunctions in the beginning of sentences), it is little wonder the "natural order" of things have flipped a little bit. Not to mention the extreme lack of uniformity in general female behaviour.
In one extreme of the spectrum, we have women painting vaginas on plates for their little "dinner party" and on the other extreme we have women with hopeless eye-sight and keep bumping into poles, door knobs, etc. while their husbands remain heavily inebriated. And then there is me- feminist by public opinion, victim by self-portrayal and boob-ist by very nature.
I am not alone in the psylent practice of boob-ism. The majority of women, whether they realize and/or agree or not, are of the same breed. We will do whatever it takes to be the "care-taker" and then *evil smile*, we will use it to our advantage when the time comes for a proper payback from men.
Raise your hands if you've ever heard:
Your mother say "You spent nine-months RENT-FREE inside my damn womb, young man!"
Your girlfriend say "And I suppose I was invisible when you were throwing up all over the bathroom floor after the party!"
Your sister say "Just because I'm a girl, you won't let me do it! Wait till I'm married and gone!"
Your grandmother say "Do I look like a maid to you! Wash that damn bowl in which you ate your tachchi mammam!"
Ohh yes! We will lull you into your free subscription of eternal female servitude, dress sluttily and scrub our backsides raw with anti-cellulite nonsense to please you and then bring it up in high-pitched name-calling unfairness when the moment is most crucial to us. And because the majority of us boob-ists are stuck with a majority of you gentlemen (almost), you will relent.
This kind of behaviour may see a sudden spike when we're PMS-ing. We'll throw a hissy fit first and then suddenly become sexually repulsive. It takes a lot of emotional resources to be nice to men when we're about to bleed ourselves to infertility. Therefore, we would rather not. Do try your best to placate us when we're in the middle of practicing boob-ism. It would help during the remainder of the month.
