#saturdaysatire: ten things feminism has ruined for me
I’m late to the game on this piece, I know. (I’ve been too busy hating men and not shaving my legs, you see.)
Highlights for me: Catholicism (it and I were on shaky ground anyway but feminism blew it right out of the water); television (yeah, really, all of it); and dancing on bars (mind, you, there’s probably a plausible health and safety issue there anyway).
Becoming a feminist is a little like losing your virginity: what at first manifests as a disappointing set of revelations about the world is often the beginning of meaningful new experiences and deep kinds of fulfilment. In my experience, feminist metamorphosis happens in a number of predictable stages, which one might adumbrate as follows:
1 The scales patriarchy so painstakingly glued to your eyeballs fall away.
2 It burns! It burns! There follows a searingly painful period during which all you can see is gender inequality and sexism, where once there was meritocracy and cheeky banter. You feel powerless. You can’t shut up about it. No one invites you to dinner parties.
3 You find people who do not want you to shut up about it. They are called other feminists. Together, you strategise, organise and improve things. You believe in the possibility of equality again. You’re part of a righteous movement that’s changing the world. The parties are awesome! Yeah!
But let’s be honest with each other: do you ever secretly long for the eye-scales to be momentarily restored? Do you – sometimes – wish you could watch Pretty Woman without trying to ascertain its implied stance on sex workers’ rights? Are there things you used to like that feminism, frankly, has ruined for you? Of course there are. Today, I’m going to take a moment to mourn 10 of mine.
The list: The Guardian.