Living life with a vagina is no picnic. You’re at risk of bleeding on your favorite possessions, which is bullshit enough without adding in that whole pregnancy thing. I can deal with the monthly, animal-like self-bludgeoning and the suicidal tendencies to match; and I think I could handle dealing with the pregnancy thing if it ever happened. What’s getting a little old, though, is the people around me - the ones sporting pendulous anatomy to be perfectly honest and specific - who feel the need to say and do certain things that are off the chain.
Last night one of my managers was leading a pack of four other males in a series of jokes. I love jokes. I literally do not know any that don’t involve talking muffins or whatever, but I enjoy hearing them. I would probably have enjoyed them more if my manager had not emphasized that I was both in the room and also to “apologize” multiple times for being so crude. You can’t take this as a considerate gesture, because if any of them were truly concerned then they would not have told the jokes at all; regardless of how many times I said that I didn’t care.
Look. Comedy and art get a bit of a free pass. PC isn’t funny or interesting. Reality is both. If you’re going to tell a sexist joke and you have a penis, then you’d better just grow a pair and tell it. Because guess what: You already think the joke is funny. Whether or not said joke being told in front of a certain audience changes the audience’s opinion of you, well, that’s just the risk you take isn’t it? So why don’t you stand by what you think is genuinely amusing, and then separately also stand by what you truly believe in, and be comfortable with that? If you’re too chicken to tell a joke sans disclaimer, or just apathetically apologetic, then you’re either not a funny person or kind of inherently sexist or most likely both.
The absolute funniest people I know are all women. My mom has a great dry delivery, my best friends Colleen and Noelle bring me to tears more often than not, my roommate has her own series on my blog and the people who make me smile at work are all female. We’re just… fucking awesome, alright? So the whole comedic sexism deal is both perplexing and totally legitimate. How can guys recognize us as funny if they don’t even get why we’re funny a lot of the time?
Another best friend of mine, Chris, you might not automatically paint in the same frame as me (Y’know, if you’ve done that thing where you judge me by how I look and the fact that I’m not so insecure that I need to constantly hear the sound of my own voice in order to fill the hopeless void in my soul). He’s a bit of a womanizer and tells the absolute worst, most offensive jokes ever. I think he is delightful and hilarious. He doesn’t hide the fact that he’s kind of an asshole. He’s honest about it, and he never patronizes me by not telling a joke because I might not handle it well because I have a uterus. I think the darkest of thoughts at the best of times, so really, there isn’t much that can surprise or genuinely offend me anymore. But I do get offended by someone automatically writing me off because of their own ignorant assumptions about my personality.
That’s what you don’t get, guys. I’m not mad that you don’t understand, I’m mad that you refuse to admit and own the fact that you don’t understand. You don’t have to get it, I’m not asking you to get it. I’m only asking that you stop sugar-coating who you are because you seem to think I need a plushy soft surface to land on at all times. I’m only asking this for every lady who gazes at the sack of lies they just made love to and feels that warm and safe sigh of “Yes” within their heart, so relieved to finally find the person that gets them. But that person doesn’t, because all he was doing was wooing her between padded walls and laying her on a blessed water bed with blankets of angel’s wings.
The reason it’s common for nice guys to finish last is because we don’t want nice guys. I don’t want a nice guy. I want a real guy, a real person with real feelings and real problems I can’t fix and don’t want to fix because he can’t fix and doesn’t want to fix mine. I want a guy who respects my brain enough to say what is actually on his mind and have the balls enough to deal with the possibility of me reacting negatively. I want a guy who disagrees with me because he just doesn’t agree, and cares more about being honest than getting a hand job that night. Because if I love you, I’m going to forgive you even if you’re a dickbag, and you’ll forgive me even though I’m a bitch, and you’ll get the hand job eventually when we’ve both apologized for being ridiculous.
Objecting to being called “baby” or “sweetie” or being touched in passing when I don’t even know you that well, those are smaller battles I’m not always gung-ho for fighting. Sometimes I prefer to just remain in my good mood, since they are so few and far between. However when it comes to my brain, my intelligence, my observation, my humor; the sources of my lifeblood and identity and pride; the things and the tools that bring me all that I am proud of about myself and all that I love about myself and all the properties of my being that give me hope that I may be able to get through this life with some humble dose of happiness and meaning; when it comes to THAT SHIT? I don’t play.
Don’t fuck with me, boys. You’ll lose.
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