F-words

I woke up this morning thinking about last night's entry, about how I'd poked fun at the newly-minted feminists on my college campus and how outraged! appalled! incensed! they were over the absurd caveman hair-dragging snippet of On the Town. I kind of wanted to explain myself, to sort out that what I was laughing at was not feminism itself...more the adolescent zeal that only, particularly, a group of exceedingly privileged young people can bring to a cause or commitment in those first heady days of Total Freedom to Make Up Your Mind, Really Loudly.

Of course I'm a feminist. It galls me, that so many people seem to think that word means something along the lines of "hairy, braless, strident man-hater." At this moment, I might be those first two things, but that is purely a coincidence of lolling about in my jammies post-gym. I like the Y-chromosome fellas just fine; I just don't think I should be treated any differently. It's that simple. Sarah Bunting says it far more eloquently than I, so I won't go on too much. I was mostly amused by the remembered lack of perspective.

But now let me get back up on my soapbox for a minute and complain about certain members of my gender, again, some more, because what in the name of heaven and earth is wrong with at least one member of my Fancy Gym? I've written before about what slovenly pigs some of the ladies in the locker room seem to be, but tonight I witnessed something that completely took the cake, stunned me into gaping silence: on the floor of one of the shower stalls, a used and discarded tampon.

Seriously. SERIOUSLY, WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU? I could see forgetting and leaving behind your ponytail band, your travel-size conditioner. Maybe even a band-aid you've peeled off while soaping up, gross though that is. But this? I mean, this took deliberation, wilfull disregard for your fellow patrons and the Fancy Gym staff. Whoever you are, lady, you had to...retrieve the thing, in there, and stand around thinking about it for a minute, what to do, what to do, before tossing it onto the tiled floor and walking away. And whatever went into that thought process, I cannot fathom. This gym is NICE. This gym is ridiculously expensive, whether you are kindly subsidized by NerdCo or not. And who gets to pick up after you?--not just your spilled lotion and the towels you fling about with casual disregard, but YOUR REVOLTING BIOHAZARD GARBAGE? A woman. Another woman, nine times out of ten a woman of color, a woman who's probably making minimum wage for the delightful privilege of picking up after you. A woman who bleeds just like you do, but who can presumably find the garbage can without both hands, a map, a sherpa and a goddamn GPS. BECAUSE MY GOD.