IT'S A CULTURE THING

I said a lot of things in hurt and anger, which knowing that, would have been easy to dismiss. I’m not angry anymore. I’m not hurt. 

I accept that you and I have radically different life views. I think, I theorize. And I have a theory that life without intellectual stimulation, continued goals, growth and change, is no life at all.

I have a theory that defaulting to raising kids and routine as a way of deriving meaning before one has found it for themselves, is the province of the unimaginative, the lazy and the weak minded. Or worse, those who sadly repressed their own potential to please others; to appease a society that is ultimately unconcerned with anything but perpetuating complacent mediocrity.

And I have a theory that women who pressure men into marrying them, in lieu of personal responsibility, are themselves unimaginative, lazy and weak minded; taking payments laundered in domestic goods and services doesn’t make one less of a prostitute. Only a dishonest one. But hey, being your own pimp is something. 

So as I’ve been figuring myself out, I haven’t raised kids, or settled in a house for its own sake. It is not, nor will it ever be a goal of mine to do so. And I have never, nor will I ever pimp myself out under the pretense of love or a relationship.

If that makes me difficult, okay. I’ve divested myself from notions of who I’m supposed to be or how my life is supposed to go. I couldn’t be less interested in the approval of men. So far, none have had anything to offer I couldn’t get for myself or from someone better.

I’ve wanted throw my hat in the gender-quality ring, but haven’t been entirely sure what to say first. And then today I open up my computer and what do I find!? Tons of lovely posts about love (V-Day) along with some other posts about a woman’s position “in love.” Eureka. 

All too often I read a think piece about feminism, by a feminist, that contradicts its own foundation with one sentence. 

There’s plenty of talk about what we might do to raise women’s positions in our society, such as leaning in and owning the freedom (what little of it there is) suffragettes worked so hard for on your behalf. Unapologetically make your own decision to be single, to be married, to have children, to not have children, to be fat, to be thin, etc, etc. (Interesting that all of our “freedoms” are based within the narrow confines of how men have always defined us.)

And this is lovely advice. After all, men have been steamrolling through their lives, making decisions and taking actions in a cavalier way—without apology—since the beginning of time. 

But what I don’t see, what I find frustrating, is how many of us still shirk accountability for our men, and ourselves, when it comes to the state of our equality behind closed doors, exhibited by a simple declaration: “He’s so much better than most men. He helps out more than most. He really does his best in spite of his hectic work schedule.” Strong, independent women who’ve taken charge of their careers and lives outside of their home write these lines with zero irony. 

In each and every moment a woman thinks that, in each and every instance a woman says that, she takes away her agency. 

Raising a pedestal of “better than” is only an excuse. It’s an excuse not to confront. Not to stand up. Not to be heard in your own household. Because If someone is better than another option, then the consequences of the option you’ve chosen are a burden that you deserve to carry. Right? Except you don’t. 

Simply put. We baby them. We allow them to be children in the bosom of a consummate caregiver. We say “Oh, well, Johnny colors better than most of the other boys in third grade, and he hardly ever throws sand at the other kids during recess, so he’s all right.” 

Stop. 

The play of parental caregiving is absolutely part of a loving relationship between adults. But if you’re mothering more than he’s fathering, it’s worth an eyebrow raise. If you’re making excuses, it’s worth wondering about. And if you’re more worried about what others think than digging in and fixing those issues, it’s worth it to remind yourself of your own strength. (For any men reading this, reverse roles and the statements are no less true)

I understand the critique that we put the onus on women to do literally everything (because we do) when it comes to trying to bring about real equality. I understand it seems unfair. But for any person, male or female, desired change starts with you. And if you’re excusing your man’s tendency to walk by a sink of dirty dishes three days in a row and do nothing about it; or his falling into bed after a long day, leaving you to walk the baby when she wakes up at night, though your day was no less stressful nor shorter than his, something needs to change.

Christmas. Chanukah. Kwanza. Birthday. Halloween. Overnight Oats. Kale. Quinoa. Carbs. Zumba. Barre class. Backyard Barbecue. Lawn games. Going out. Staying in. Your drink. Your routine. “Your” method. “Your” process. 

Civilization is bored. First world countries and their first world, first salary, populations are living and dying in a state of depressed boredom. We are pouring into meaningless acts in an effort to express meaning. We are ritualizing meaning instead of creating meaningful rituals. 

Any action on repeat will do to momentarily alleviate the ennui. Let me continue to offer examples: the foods you avoid (you don’t like unnatural things, you think un-organic is unethical); the aspirin you won’t take (you think you’re a stronger person if you avoid artificial things like medicine); the foods you adopt (someone else’s suggested alternatives); your life in a big city (the provinces and suburbs are passe); your boyfriend (he may not be your soulmate but he’s someone); your girlfriend (your friends want to bang her and that’s something); the stupid shit you do with your girlfriend or boyfriend when you could be getting better in bed (wineries offer better photo opps). Anything and everything you pretend you’re too good for.

Clearly, I could go on. Why do we collectively tolerate such a lack of passion and individual meaning? We are not this stupid. We are not this cowardly. But we have been told our entire lives that rituals in and of themselves bring meaning. And we’ve been presented with those rituals from birth; patterns that have been so indoctrinated into our psyches we don’t question them anymore than our parents do. Pattern/ritual as meaningful in and of itself becomes the goal.

Football on Sundays. Bars on weekends. Exercise classes on weeknights. Rotting groceries in the fridge, because seamless. Happy hour with coworkers, because job security. Backyard anything, because you bought the damn house. 

It is as if our lives have become a parade of truly pointless activities that mean nothing, that truly say nothing, about ourselves. Is it any wonder we have no idea who we are? Why we are so “confused?” Why we can’t pick a “career” or keep our places clean or stick to anything but these goddamn waste-of-time routines? 

Life is not hard if you listen to yourself. Your (private) Life becomes very easy once you do that. What can be difficult are the innumerable subtle ways you’re told to stick to the game plan. 

“Family is everything.”

“You must invite so-and-so to the wedding.” 

“You were invited! You have to go!”

“Were you just sleeping!?”

“You never leave the house!”

“You know, that has pesticides in it.”

“Are you going home for Christmas?”

“Are you seeing anyone?”

“Still like it there?”

Those are just the vocal ones. And they don’t even know they’re doing it. The rest will snub you silently. They’ll just stop asking how you are altogether. Because you answered one too many times, “No, I’m not.” or in some cases “Yes, I am.” They take your answers personally because it threatens their way of life, the rituals. I wish it was hyperbolic to say so. It’s not. 

We get, essentially, four years to party, be irresponsible young adults. In the 21st century these four years are called college. In the 20th century, these years were called high school. In some contemporary circles, four years is extended to 10 and called your twenties. 

But those years don’t really count toward your real life. Because you’re just having fun, skimming the learning curve. 

Eventually, being part of the work force means keeping an eye out for a life-long partner and a mortgage-bearing wage. Everybody knows, you aren’t really counted until you have those things.

Once you marry, it doesn’t really count until the house is bought and the kids are on the way. And once the kids come, mom and dad cease to count as anything other than parents and spouses. Now they’re a family. Now they’re bad parents if they seek individual fulfillment. They’ll count when the kids go off to college and they have the house to themselves.

When the kids are in college, parents realize they don’t really count until they’re retired. That’s when you’ve done everything you should have. Acquired everything you should have owned. And created for everyone else.

Perhaps humanity created religion (no, I don't necessarily mean God, but the act of his worship) because of our need to believe; our need to act; our need to live. While ancients looked to the heavens, hoping there was a better life than the next, we often look for new jobs, new towns to live in, new relationships, hoping there's a better life in our living future.

But there's a difference between hope and belief. A vitally important difference. Believing something is true allows you to take steps to make it happen, puts you in a better mood; it creates. Hoping is wishing, is whistling in the wind and it tends to make you feel desolate, maybe even a little pathetic. So you believe. And you must believe.

Because if you don't think there is a great love in your future, your perfect career, your perfect lifestyle, if all you do is hope, you're as likely to see those things as you are to see Valhalla.