The other day I was at the hardware store and I had to kneel down, take some deep breaths and slowly count to ten so that I could stop myself from choking someone with a 25-foot, heavy-duty, never-kink garden hose.
For those who’ve not been paying attention, I am a human of the female variety. I am as comfortable wearing dresses as I am wearing overalls. I volunteer my time and skills all over this town, just as easily as I re-wire a lamp or wield a reciprocating saw. I am often barefoot. I’ve never been pregnant. I read too much nonfiction and not nearly enough prose. I check my own car’s transmission fluid levels and I can mind a grill like nobody’s business. And when I bother – because I want to – I wear heels, hats and gloves to the most darling effect. I am a woman. And I am incredibly capable.
Because I didn’t just become a chick yesterday, I am all too familiar with sexism. I’ve experienced it in blatant extremes, when I’ve actually feared for my well-being. I’ve experienced it subtly, when less-attuned minds failed to notice its disrespectful strains. Misogyny is, sadly, all around. Hell – people I know and love make sexist remarks and don’t even know they’re doing it. And those same people would flip their shit if I or anyone else ever pointed out the things they say as being sexist. Because they would be appalled to be labeled misogynistic. I mean, they don’t see themselves that way, so surely they’re not. Right?
Sometimes it’s just too much. Sometimes the ugly little statements and half-veiled digs add up to my not being able to smile and bat my lashes. Regardless of my southern training, there are times when I hover dangerously close to a misfiring synapse that will send me into a rage that will only be satisfied with the sacrifice of a pig. And by pig, I mean an asshole dude. Thus far, I’ve been lucky in that I do not have any instances of criminal behavior to my name. For example, I have not poured salad dressing on a single male who has cut in front of me at the grocery store deli because his time is so very valuable. I have not boxed the ears of a mechanic – with the dual air filters of my car – after being spoken down to when my husband wasn’t around to handle the service appointment. Nor have I shoved a garden rake’s handle up the ass of a mow-blow-and-go guy, after he told me I don’t know anything about how grass grows. No, so far I have resisted criminal behavior. And for the record, I intend to keep it that way, if only because Mister would have to come bail me out of the pokey, and that would be mighty embarrassing for both of us.
Which leads me back to my kneeling down at the hardware store, while tightly gripping that 25-foot, heavy-duty, never-kink garden hose. Moments before, I overhead some dude on the next aisle, asking for advice about fascia board replacement for his house. (If you don’t know what fascia board is, look it up. Or not. Your call.) I heard a woman’s voice responding to his questions, and based on what I heard, the hardware chick was informative and concise. She referenced personal experience with one available brand and general knowledge of the other options. It was at that moment when I heard the dude say, “Oh! Here’s the man. He’ll know what’s best.” At first I thought it was a joke, or that maybe the dude knew the approaching guy. Surely that mystery dude wasn’t being rude. (I mean, I want people to be awesome.) But then I heard him say, “You must know more than her, right?” And y’all, god bless that hardware guy, for he said, “No way! She knows way more than me.” And then – I swear to beans – the rude dude said, “She’s gone now, you don’t have to pretend. You can tell me what’s really the best fascia board.”
That’s when I realized the 25-foot, heavy-duty, never-kink garden hose was in my red, veiny fingers. I hadn’t noticed I’d picked it up. I was breathing fast and I’m fairly certain my face was flushed. As my nostrils flared, I heard the hardware guy ask what had been recommended (by the hardware chick) and the rude dude told him. To which the hardware guy replied, “That’s the absolute best advice. She was dead-on with what she told you.” The rude dude kept talking, but I was already kneeling by that point, focusing on my slow counting to ten, and I tuned him out.
It took a lot for me to avoid walking down the adjacent aisle, to get a look at the rude dude I’d overheard. But I did avoid it, and instead I took care of my business and headed home.
Please don’t misconstrue my frustrations. I am well aware that not all men are assholes. (Not all women are nice, either. Dig?) I know that most people are good and decent. At least that’s what I choose to believe. And in my experience, it’s true. It’s just that on that particular day, one bad apple got to me. I don’t know why. He just did.
Later that same night, history was made when a woman was declared to have garnered enough delegate support to be the presumptive nominee of the Democratic Party for the office of President of the United States. An intelligent, qualified, capable woman. I saw all kinds of tweets from fathers who were letting their daughters stay up past their bedtimes to watch that woman’s speech. I’m guessing those fathers are good, decent men.
We’ve come a long way.
We’ve got a long way to go.