There is something inherently dangerous about being a woman. Whether it’s danger to you or simply the danger you offer, it’s there. And what’s the difference really? If he can get off just by claiming the “she was asking for it.”? We all know it’s true. No matter how liberal, how feminist, there’s always that small, quietly screaming voice in the back of your mind that asks what she was doing dressed like that in such a shady place so late at night. The woman serves the man. Protect him, protect his rights, protect his reputation. Even if it costs you your own.
But I won’t get ahead of myself.
What I’m really talking about is the danger we offer just by being born our gender. There’s something mysterious, seductive, risky, about most women. It’s bred into us from the start. It can get a girl into a lot of trouble. You wake up one morning and forget to look right, fill in the wrong blanks, and bam, it’s all over. There’s the questioning, the confusion, heartbreak, god forbid- the tears. Yours of course. Because a smart woman keeps a few of those on reserve at all times. Even if it’s your fault, you forgot to check the glass, if you cry, most guys will feel instinctive guilt. It comes in handy. Cry for Michael and he’ll forget the issue instantly.
It’s all a bit silly, really. They don’t care about you, no more than you care about them. It’s pride, I think.
It’s all about being born a woman. You can’t win, so you might as well do your best to just play along. When you’re driving and get cat called at the stop light, don’t get pissy and fly a bird; that’s no way to win. Look over, smile, pull down the sun glasses. Give those hicks something to whistle at. The power is in your face. The power is in your control. Let the boys yell, at least they’re distracted while your hands grab the wallet. And the wheel.
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