Don't be Such a Bitch

My topic today is inspired by a friend who has recently found herself on the front lines of the war for human decency, and I"m referring specifically to the battle for some sex etiquette in our 20s. A friend of this glorious gal slept with her ex-boyfriend whom she had only met because my friend was helping her ex find some friends in his new city, and this is after my friend explicitly asked both of them to cool it on the touchy-feely-flirtation situation. I can't imagine it was easy to acquiesce while he was inside her. Just a hunch.

Now I know Gretchen Weiners would be outraged. And I know that everyone informed of this tragically non a-typical scenario is equally disgusted by the ex and the ex-friend. Except that it's not equal. Except that by some sort of deranged instinct we claw at the girl's face and throat, rip out her beating heart by running through the abomination-bitch-cunts of vicious rhetoric designed to make her seem less than us and subsequently make our friend feel better.

Why?

Seriously, when did we learn to do that? I mean it's easy for me to imagine a cavewoman knocking over a neighboring woman's pile of pelts upon learning that her husband hadn't been coming straight home after hunting. And I know that the salons of Europe in the 19th century must have been chock full of judgmental sideways glances at the women who wore necklines that showed off the girls. And I KNOW that in any high school lunch room in the country there as many conversations about ho bag, slut faced, skanky, boyfriend stealing peers as there are tables. But the idea that this is some sort of natural evolution from the more passive (or passive-aggressive in the case of the cavewoman) demonstrations of feminine strength is bullshit.

Ms. Norbury said that calling each other sluts and whores just makes it OK for guys to call us sluts and whores, which is true, but is not the whole story by a long shot. Not only do these instinct demean women but they demean us. There's a two fold implication when I hear a woman call another woman any of the aforementioned slurs:
1. I lack the proper education or  depth of vocabulary to be more eloquent, descriptive, or intelligent
2. I am defined by the way men see me relative to other women

Hell to the NO.

Over the course of history we have given pardons to SO many men who have slept their way through life in favor of remembering how they helped, changed, or impacted the world. Who cares how many women JFK slept with, his wife was still epicly fabulous and he inspired and challenged a generation of Americans to dream bigger and follow suit with their actions. But we continue to define women by their numbers: by the number of people they've slept with, the number of times they've been married, their height, shoe size, hip-waist-bust measurements. Because apparently, despite believing that our sisters and daughters and mothers and friends are destined for greatness despite of their monthly periods, we are not actually convinced that in the general sense women are capable of much of anything besides stealing a man.

And there are exceptions, but so often to admit greatness we must deny femininity, as if the two are mutually exclusive, despite the rainbow of masculinity that manifests in great men the world wide.

What I'm saying is what we've known: that women define themselves by men and destory themselves and each other with the slightest provocation. And I don't have the slightest idea how to fix that. Because honestly, it doesn't really seem to be getting better over time. As we get older, as generations cycle, nothing stops women from being vindictive and cruel.

As a lover of well crafted language there are few things I love more than a good put down. Whether it's on TV or in a book or a movie or some witty retort in a column my heart races and my lips curl at the encounter with a person intelligent enough to find the weak spot and plunge the sword into the evil enemy's hide. It's the same instinct that popularized Pamplona's bulls and the Coliseum's gladiators. But I worry. Because in these scenarios, women against women, women against men, there doesn't seem to be a clear enemy. The enemy is only the weakest link, the easiest kill. And the only effect that pattern seems to have is to make us feel terrible once we realized we've killed someone in our uniform. So maybe in the battle of the sexes, which at present seems to be a battle within the sexes more and more, we need to take our outstretched bitch slap, extend a hand, and pull someone up to the high ground.

We're clearly not all on the same side in the fight for a nicer world, but I say let's take it one battle at a time. And I think that not performing intimate acts at the disrequest of friends with people who are deeply emotionally linked to them for the pleasure of inducing pain is as good a place to start as any.

The Cinderella Fallacy

From among the battery of lies that Disney brainwashed us with in our youth, this is one of the most frustrating. The commitment to happy endings in that animation studio was upsettingly Utopian and these days the simple elegance of the animation and the sweet songs are only just enough to prevent the stories from ringing completely hollow. But despite their irrelevance to reality, the anti-feminist whims of Disney are part of our cultural catalouges and we must, therefore, confront them.

But it is not Cinderella's inability to complete simple tasks without the assistance of rodents, magic, or men that gets my goat. It is the fairytale's governing principal that when the clock strikes twelve, everything will disappear. That in twelve swings of a pendulum everything we have that brings us joy will taken without cause but with great consequence.

I suppose she didn't work for her gown or glass slippers, but Allah knows she deserved them. And Allah knows she enjoyed them, in the most pure and innocent of ways. So, dear fairy godmother, why taunt her with happiness?  You could have just as easily treated her to a tacky dress from the sales rack at macy's and some worn pumps from the Goodwill. But instead you treat her to the lap of luxury, a jarring experience to be sure, just to rip it away. Rude.

I resent the implication that happiness, that relief from the unpleasantries in our lives, is temporary. Who says? Disney? Well he also wanted a housing development with only Aryans so let's take the guy's advice with a grain of salt. Maybe if we pull a Cindy and wait to be saved that's true. But if we work hard and long and hey, I'm not averse to a dash of good luck, then why shouldn't we be able to shake off the step mothers and step sisters and evil cats in our lives?

Part of Cinderella's cautionary tale is that we should work for it; that gifts can be taken as easily as given. But at this volta in my life the more powerful message is that Disney sucks, and fairytales are bullshit, and if I want it to my happiness can last until 12:15, or 3:15 (I know dad, nothing good ever happens after 1 am). It's really not up to an unwelcome elderly woman or a concerningly mysterious prince (seriously, what's his name?) to determine when my fun is over.

And furthermore, a ripped dress, a little pumpkin mush, and and a lost shoe is not a compelling set of reasons to head home. Lock it up Cindy. Rule #76 - No Excuses. Play Like a Champion.

In It to Win It

I suppose it's true that every crop of adolescents-turned-adults commiserate similarly, swimming in their own self-important exceptionalism until the next group comes along and pushes them into adulthood. But I will make the self-awarely ironic (and admittedly incorrect) claim that we, las hermanas de generation Y, or Z, or AA or whatever initial we're at now, are a truly unique breed.

And it's more than our philanthropic tendencies, our technological aptitude, and our self-awareness (read: stylish humanitarianism, collective addiction to all things electronic, and our self indulgent analytics of the minutia of our lives). We are unique in our mixedness. Our layers. Our ancestry of teen angst. No other generation before us had the benefit of so many oscillations of pop culture. And now not only can we indulge in the cinematic genius of John Hughes while wearing high wasted jeans, but we can do both while ironically carrying a tin wonder woman lunch box and using a Polaroid camera. Go us!

But the real reason that we are a superbly particular generation of 20-somethings? Apart from the fact that we are supported by a highly individualized society, we actually have our 20-somethings to ourselves. Joan from Mona Lisa Smile proved that even the brightest young minds of the '50s were in it win it. And here "it" means "college" and "a husband" respectively. Skeeter from The Help was an Ole Miss Old Maid for graduating with a degree instead of a husband. The examples go on, but even up to contemporary pop culture we have the lingering sense that we were already supposed to have found our future hubby. In  How I Met Your Mother, Lily and Marshall, dating since the first week of college, are the relationship ideal while Ted's failure of a love life is a convenient expository device to tell us more about the gang's past and Barney's antics. And Robin's inability to nail down a man is conveniently written off by her decision to put herself and her career first and not have kids. How interesting. And by interesting, I mean rude.

It hasn't been all that long since we were allowed to enjoy our twenty-something years, at least the first few, guilt free. And there's a solid spectrum of indulgence with New Girl on one end and Sex and the City on the other. But regardless of the extent to which we let our freak flags fly, how wonderful that we have a flag pole to hang 'em on.

So tonight, raise a sinfully indulgent effeminate cocktail to the fact that we have these years to cultivate resumes and bachelorette pads before entering that sacred bond of marriage. Lots will be sacrificed on that altar (the ladder half of your nominal identity comes to mind, as does the financial independence won for you by the women of the 19th century). One day there will probably be grocery lists where juice boxes are for kids, not chasers, and dinner partys that aren't thrown ironically or as an homage to Mad Men. So before we get there, toast the fact that we're enjoying the most exciting of all life stages thus far. We're in it to win it.

And here "it" means "our 20s" and "life" respectively.