Rude

Why, oh why do so many women insist that being female is more important than being simply human? Why is femininity so bound up with surface glamour, decoration and display? Why do women make such a big, fat, hairy deal that other women have to participate in the petty cattiness of female politics?

I could as easily ask why men are so wrapped up in the rigid trappings of being male, with a terror of anything with a whiff of the feminine. But men don't make a big deal of putting me in my place, at least not these days. The graces that come with middle age, not that society has really changed so much. And, I have a much more masculine style, I cultivate an androgyny that embraces all that I am.

But women still want me to conform. As I strive to live as honest and authentic a life as I can, eschewing the surfaces, the illusions, rejecting the arbitrary trappings, I am pulled back and examined by other women. For telling a funny story about a woman acting in a flighty manner that is identical to parody of the worst excesses of girly behavior, I am called judgmental. Should hear what is said of the women who, against instructions, wear heavy makeup to have surgery, when it all smears off during intubation. I was being very, very mild.

One reader in particular took me to task today. I deleted her comment on No, wrote to her directly. I know her personally, but we are not friends. We have mutual friends, she and our spouses have been friends since childhood. She seems unable to separate her own interpretation of my words, from my real intentions. She made counterfactual accusations against me, while calling me "sweetie," and I corrected her, held my ground. She brought out the big gun, and a personal hot button for me, and called me ~rude~.

Now, rude is what my father always accused me of for not being the fluffy pink little doll daddy's girl he wanted me to be, for not being sweet and compliant and friendly in all situations. I was dark and moody, too smart, too stubborn. His intrusive rage was fine, my defense of myself was rude.

I suspect she means exactly the same. I could be wrong.

I have had to swallow so much of myself this week. I let out the real, raw me here, a stream of pure, unfiltered, undiluted opinion. Most of you who come here regularly seemed to be amused and entertained, as you should be. Two decided to take offense. Their comments could be interpreted as being against your opinions as well. (I am much more sensitive about the treatment of my guests than of myself.)

They have been addressed.

No One. Was Talking. To Them.

Was I rude? I was blunt. Not rude by masculine standards. I told the truth as kindly as I could. I was not friendly, but I don't consider that any more of a virtue than pretty. Great if you have it but I don't, so I make do with what I have. I could have been rude. I could have told each of these people exactly what I really think of them. I did not. I couched my terms, I did not indulge in contempt. I tried to stay factual and reasonable. I may not have succeeded. They are free to think I am rude. I would not presume to tell them what to think, or assume I knew what they felt.

I only wish they had accorded me the same courtesy.