When I was in the Air Force and 26 or 27, I worked with a civilian named Jim. Nice guy. He was about 45, wife and two kids. He'd recently been forced off active duty due to a weird heart glitch unlikely to flare up, and he was miserable about being forced out of uniform. I, on the other hand, was a total gym rat and fashion plate with an unlimited military future. I worked out so, I had to have my uniform sleeves tailored for my sculpted, Michelle-kiss-my-heinie arms. I monitored everything that went into my body and everything that went into anybody's body around me. I subscribed to magazines like Muscle and Fitness and would have competed in bodybuilding competitions had I not been too busy going to school at night to get ahead. Jim, with his Homer Simpson gut and comb over, got winded just using the copier. One day, he came in wincing and limping. He'd actually hurt himself stretching before one of his infrequent attempts to exercise. I laughed and laughed. Thought it was the funniest thing in the world, and only realized in retrospect that he was not sharing the joke. A callow, overconfident youth, it never occurred to me then that my reaction was cruel. And stupid. What, did I think I'd still be bench-pressing my body weight at 80?
In my late 30s, when my own mystery aches and pains began, and now nearly 50 when I never see the inside of a gym that doesn't have -boree after it, styling in my Walmart stretch pants and feeling my gut pillowing into my lap when I'm naked, I have one burning desire—to tell Jim I'm sorry I was such a bitch. Well, two: I'd also thank him for not slapping me. He respectfully tried that day to convince me that eventually age would catch up with me, too, and I wouldn't always be a young hottie, free to work out all evening, apply careful makeup everyday, and fuss over my complicated hairdo. What nonsense! I believe I actually went 'talk to the hand' on that nice man. He might as well have predicted I'd end up becoming a Buddhist monk or a lion-tamer. Never, ever would I "let myself go." "Never would I age," I must have thought. Never would I lose my zeal, or the time, to take care of myself first.
Well, much as I'd like to, I can't apologize to Jim and commiserate with him over the follies of youth. That "unlikely weird heart glitch" glitched; and a former coworker called a few years after that to tell me JIm had keeled over dead at his desk.
All of that to say this to the young feminists so offended by this elder's critique: One day, you'll have your own Jim story to tell. One day, when you've lived through more of this bitch called life, but without all that youth and vigor, you'll hear yourself saying something like, "These young women today just don't get it. Not like we did." When you've made hideous mistakes you know were because you talked the feminist talk but didn't walk the feminist walk. When that day comes, if I haven't keeled over at my desk, please have the grace to call me up so we can laugh together at youth's callow overconfidence and refusal to listen with respect, if not agreement.
As my father used to say: Even a fool can give you something you can use. But you have to hear him out. I'm not a fool, so why not ask me what I meant, then sift through those insights for the nuggets you buy into? Or, just go on believing you're impervious to either error or critique.
But wait! I started it, right? I was disrespectful first, no? Grow up, girlies. When all those random grannies on the street criticize the way I've dressed my kids or what I'm letting them eat, I just say "thank you" or "have a nice day" or pretend not to have heard. When my mother gets in my business, I say "yes ma'am," then do exactly as I please. Unless she was right, then I take her advice. But however annoying my mom, however much of a busybody the old lady across the street is, I do not growl back. I do not tell them to mind their own business or point out how their generation might have won WWII but what about Jim Crow?
When I was in the military, I sought out the more senior females, took them to lunch, and listened. Same with the female partners at my firm when I was considering the law. Ditto my elders in publishing and journalism. Ninety percent of it was useless to me (or so I thought), but oh that 10 percent.
But, then, I went in assuming I didn't know everything about being a woman in a sexist world or navigating the currents of a profession as volatile as mine. And I went in with some old-fashioned home training.
I'm not talking about reverence, I'm talking about a thirst for the kind of knowledge that will help in the battles all your responses claim to be fighting so diligently for. Here's my final example: I take seriously the chidings of people who've been dead for as much as 150 years.
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