Turns Out I'm Not a Feminist After All

The other morning I faced a harsh truth about myself.  (It was especially harsh since I had to face it without a Dr. Pepper in my hands and with zero caffeine in my system.)  Turns out I'm not committed to women's rights at all.  In fact, I want the REALLY old days back where we never even had to think for ourselves.

I did manage to delude myself for many years.  I threw aside my dreams in college of becoming a nurse and was the first woman to graduate from my alma mater with a B.S. in Mechanical Engineering.  OK, I did actually find parts of my coursework interesting, but that's beside the point.  I was setting a precedent.  I went on to get my M.S. in Biomedical Engineering from Drexel.  (Eh, not as impressive.  Tons of women in my class.)

I worked for the Department of the Navy for years, and if that wasn't a place to rail against the tyranny of men, then there was no such place.  When my co-workers sat around and trash talked their girlfriends and wives for not being able to change a tire and also general all-around incompetence, I went home, dragged my then-boyfriend-now-husband outside and said: "You are teaching me how to change the wheel bearings.  Now."  And I changed his wheel bearings for him.  (Literal wheel bearings, Sue!)  Oh yeah, I definitely went into work the next day and "casually" ground that little fact into the dim consciousnesses of my Neanderthal co-workers.

When I was on fun road trips w/ my girlfriends and we got a flat tire, I ALWAYS insisted on getting out and changing it.  No standing around and looking sad and helpless by the side of the road for me, thankyouverymuch.  One memorable time it was incredibly late, on the PA Turnpike, and I was going to town w/ 2 of my girlfriends standing there holding a light for me  :) and a Turnpike Assistance person pulled up to help, but we actually shoo-ed him away after a few minutes, because I was faster than he was.  Yeah, that was a proud moment.  Sigh.

Now, I admit that I did not feel as confident about jump-starting my car, even though I carried around my own jumper cables.  Since I did not have a little chime in my car that reminded me every time I left my lights on, I got plenty of chances to practice this in spite of my fears, but every time I had to do so, I became incredibly Spiritual in my fervent prayers to God to please keep everybody safe from electrocution, pain, dismemberment, injury, and also all batteries from explosions.  VERY fervent about the avoiding explosions part.  And if there was a group of single women standing around and somebody needed a jump, I was usually the only one prepared to do it.  Which was fine since I was a smug Feminist deep down inside.  Or maybe somewhat close to the surface.  Whichever.

Red to Red, Black to Black.  Simple, right?
The explosion potential is highly exaggerated.
Maybe.

Anyway, I got married and motherhood came to my life, and I gradually started to expect my husband to do tricky tasks like change the lightbulbs and take out the garbage, although I justified it as being mostly from the sleep deprivation.  When he did not seem to appreciate being ordered around like the minions I had supervised at my former job, I trained my sons to do these tasks and called it Good Household Management. 

I saw the change in myself, but I turned a blind eye to it.  I continued to attempt to change my own tires when I got a flat, but I confess, the last time it happened, a year ago, I nearly cried with thankfulness when a bunch of men that I can only believe was a pit crew from the Indy 500, on vacation in Collingswood NJ w/ all of their equipment, came swarming out of a nearby house and got me back on the road in record time.  It sounds implausible, I know.  But I saw what I saw. 

And I still believed that deep down, I was an empowered woman who could still sing "I can bring home the bacon.  Fry it up in a pan . . ."  And I did sing that song on occaision.  Usually when I was frying bacon.  :)

Then came the fateful morning.  I had been painting for a month, I hadn't slept well the night before, and I had a busy morning of errands planned.  I got into the car, and wouldn't you know it, the battery was dead. 

I was so tired!!! 

I knew where the battery charger was, and yes, it's even easier to use than jumper cables, without the Battery Explosion Threat to hang in the air and make my heart pound the entire time the battery is charging.  But instead I called my husband.  I asked him to come home.  And then, when he made it clear he had a busy day of important meetings that would NOT take second place to a small wifely "emergency," the words I had never even THOUGHT in my head just popped out of my mouth:

"But I am just so tired of doing all of these man things!  Please come home!"

Oh yeah.  I'm officially pathetic.  My husband told me, very kindly, to hook up the battery charger and go inside and lie down on the sofa while the battery charged.  Which I did.  With the comfort of a Dr. P in my hand.  And wondered if there is a way to reclaim my dignity from all of this.  Probably not.  I'm not frying up the bacon any more.

~Stephanie