Because it really is personal…

That would be me, and my upbringing. My favorite color is pink, my favorite pastime is growing flowers, I shave my legs and cook meals for my man. And fold his underwear and socks.

There’s a reason for all this. I was programmed to be just this sort of Stepford wife (well, sans the Nicole Kidman sexiness) by the many books I read in the 1970’s. See, Mom was trying hard to be a Good Christian Wife, or any other kind of Good Wife, so she had a plethora of books by the likes of Beverly LaHaye and Marabelle Morgan (she of the plastic-wrap and hair highlights), and I read them all.

I learned that, in order to Please My Man, I should wrap myself in several layers of strategically placed plastic wrap and greet him at the door with a cold adult beverage. I also learned that I should coat my face, neck and upper chest in high quality cream every night, so I would reamin youthful looking and able to compete with the 24 yr old secretary he sees every day at work.

I learned that men like women who are ready to hop into bed at a moment’s notice, while maintaining moral higher ground. I also learned that if I met him at the door wearing nothing but a football helmet and a strategically placed hand towel he would reward me with dinners out and footrubs.

Unfortunately, I think if I were to do that now, I’d receive a trip to The Good Dr. H. There’s a statute of limitations on that sort of behavior, I think.

I also learned that I had to be relentlessly cheerful. I was not to allow him to see me discontent, because that would make him feel bad about his ability to make me happy. This has been a struggle for me. As a manic-depressive, depression is just part of my makeup. I can be unhappy for absolutely no reason at all, and there isn’t a thing anyone can do about it except wait it out. Those books never covered anything like that.

I don’t try to be the anti-feminist. Some of my favorite people are feminists, and I respect them for their beliefs, mainly because they seem to accept me as I am and don’t try to change me. Thanks y’all.

It’s just that, the things I get them most fulfillment out of in my life are the things that fall neatly into the pink, heart shaped box that holds my life. I love to cook. Folding clothes is a repetitive and soothing activity for me, that allows me to watch Valerie Bertinelli cry on Lifetime TV. I get the deep satisfaction out of a spanking clean bathroom, or out of cleaning one of my kids’ rooms. If you could see their room before I clean it, you’d be satisfied as well. I love babies, mine and other folks’, well, I pretty much like kids of all ages, even teenagers…maybe even especially teens. I drive a girly car, wear girly clothes, and love to try on perfume in the store. I tend to walk half a pace behind Sweet Daddio. Not out of any sense of subservience, but because he’s half again as big as I am, and clears me a path. It winds up looking like subservience, but I know it’s not, and that’s all that matters. I dress modestly, not out of a deep-seated Christian aversion to my body, but because I get cold easily…well…and because I’ve had 4 children and the bits that are typically exposed by immodest dress just aren’t as pretty as they once were. There was a time once when I could get away with wearing a tank top and no bra (I made SD very nervous by doing just that), but those times are long, long gone.

Part of my non-feminism is a reaction to the so-called radfems who blame all the ills of their lives and the world on men. I suppose it is easier to find a universal scapegoat than it is to own your own problems and do something about them. Call me a radical non-feminist, but I don’t see how writing off as unworthy half the population of the world, nearly all of whom had NO SAY at all in their gender, can accomplish real change. All I hear is a few strident voices, of people who can’t see beyond their self-generated rage. It’s like they shout “Choice! Choice!” then follow it with a subtext of “my choice, not yours”. So choice is good, but only if I choose to behave in a manner they approve of. Don’t shave your legs? That’s radical and edgy! Shave your legs (here in the South, a practical thing really), and you’re a pawn of the patriarchy, and a Stepford Wife and (God forbid!) a Sex Poz.

Which brings me to another point. I think I’d be considered Sex Pos…I mean, I’ve had sex *at least* 4 times, verifiable, and probably many more times- tho I’m not giving details because we have an agreement about that, SD and I. I am fine with other people having sex with other consenting adults, and in fact I don’t really have a problem with people making movies of sex for other people to see. I don’t want to see them, but my preciousness about x-rated movies is mine own, and not to be used for hitting others over the head. I am still shocked by certain behaviors, such as learning of the existance of sex clubs in Atlanta, and of the particulars ofRenegade Evolution’sjob as a stripper. Shocked, yes, but not exactly driven to foam at the mouth and accuse people of patriarchal fluffing.

And oddly enough, my weak lil female Christian pink wearing mind feels no compulsion at all to join a sex club or stick multiple battery operated banana-subtitutes into assorted orifaci. I’d much rather wrap myself strategically in plastic wrap and greet SD at the door with a scotch and soda.