I’m in a pissy mood. I’m sick. Trick-or-treating is tonight and I somehow have to, you know, do THAT–sober–and I’m fairly certain I’m about to run out of Sriracha. HOW DOES THAT EVEN HAPPEN!?!?
Sadly, though, these aren’t even the reasons that my mood has soured so totally. Why has it? Let’s see.
I’m in academia. This is not a position one chooses on a whim. It’s not like most kids in primary school think to themselves, “you know what sounds fun? Hours debating Chantal Chawaf and Michel Foucault and their theories on the unconscious mind!! After which, I’ll get to write twenty pages on said debate. Then, I’ll get to try to explain to twenty or more eighteen year olds why this is still relevant to today’s society!!! HIGH FIVE ON THAT ONE, AMIRITE???”
To put it more succinctly, you don’t go into academia if education and the love of knowledge is not a huge part of who you are. You need to live and breathe it.
That being said, it’s easily one of the most frustratingly patriarchal careers you can endeavor to make your own. This point was made even more evident this week by a few recent articles. The first was this lovely piece on the fairly scrubbish sartorial style of academia. Apparently, only dudes are in academia, because the author really doesn’t mention how women in academia dress themselves. That article triggered this response piece.
That’s the article that got me.
Every single day, in every aspect of my life, be it in fitness, writing, acting, or academia, I am forced to make ridiculous decisions because of my gender.
“I just bought this beautiful kilt, can I wear it to teach, or is it too girly?” (never mind the fact that kilts were worn solely by men until the 20th c.)
“The director is a man, should I dress more provocatively?” *Here’s one that really gets me, because “provocative” dress isn’t even a thing, it’s the label we put on a specific style of wardrobing.
“Did I say ‘fuck’ too many times in that article? Because I know that’s going to get me called ‘unladylike.'” No really, people who write that, fuck you.
“Can I go to the 6am Crossfit WOD, because it’s basically the Brolympics.”
“Will my dedication to Crossfit peg me as ‘manly?'”
SO MUCH FUCK THAT SHIT.
I am TIRED of explaining why I’m a feminist.
I’m tired of being told that being a feminist makes me less-desirable to men. Which men? Misogynists? BFD.
I was raised in a religious household and educated in fundamentalist religious schools. While I still have some wonderful friends from this time in my life, when I was in their school, I was made to feel LESS.
Less because I was a woman. I was made from a man’s bone, born to love and support this man, made to submit to his authority over me as a woman. I was meant to be the mother, the carrier of the future, but also inextricably linked to archaic views from the past.
I cannot abide by any religion that tells me that I am to dress differently because the way in which I robe myself could be tantalizing to the opposite sex. That my hair is nothing more than a sheet, waving femininity from my head like a flag of pheromone-laden man trap. To do so would imply that my creator made faulty creatures incapable of containing their own base urges, and that an entire gender was created to suffer the consequences.
I’d rather believe in the loving G-d as seen though acts of charity and good will.
I cannot deal with men at institutions who size me up by the height of my heels.
I will not be worried out of my own fitness by “bros” whom act as though I’m merely a pretty magnet for their lustful gazes.
I will not raise my son to think and to know that men and women are anything less than complete equals in every area.
No, I can’t deadlift three-hundred pounds, but I can MAKE A CHILD AND SHOVE THAT LIFE OUT OF MY LADYFLOWER LIKE A FUCKING BOSS. I have a statistically higher-pain tolerance. I will probably live longer, my heart stronger. I am less-likely to develop diabetes and Alzheimer’s Disease. All things that I think more than make up for the fact that I may ask you to open a godsdamned jar for me.
I am by no means a misandrist, but all this crap makes me want to start a jungle (urban jungly) colony of women and children somewhere far, far away. Like District 13. Oz. A separate silo. IDGAF!! Just, SOMEWHERE.
Maybe I can go as a misandrist for Halloween. What would that even look like?
Well that was fun.
How about Halloween booze?
Lychee Saketini or Shojutini.
Prep Time: 2 minutes
- 2 oz sake or shoju
- 1 oz vodka
- 2 tbsp lychee juice (from can is fine)
- squeeze of lemon
- cherry syrup as blood–optional
- tinned lychees stuffed with green maraschino cherries as eyeballs/ice cubes–optional
shake liquors with ice
strain over frozen lychee eyeballs
drizzle rim with cherry syrup.
to make eyeballs
using CANNED lychees, choose a good one, stuff with a green maraschino cherry or blueberry, place on silpat-lined sheet and freeze.