Dear Chauvinist Pigs: Please Come Back and Help Me
Today, I had three little kids in the SUV, a low tire pressure warning on the dashboard, and the complete inability to read the PSI recommendation written on the sidewall of my tire. Oh, I know it was there somewhere. It’s just with pouring rain and all the road dust it was a little obscured. I was also wearing a fashionable spring jacket that looked nice, but came with a completely impractical hood that made me look that that Darth Sidious guy from Star Wars when he was in evil disguise. Plus, the air pump at the gas station was positioned right beside the freeway that the drive-through to the coffee shop located inside the gas station store. (As in aside, I will never be comfortable buying “fresh” food from a place that specializes in motor oil, propylene glycol, and other extremely volatile fluids.) So, eveytime I had to walk around the truck with my little metal stick to check the pressure, I took my life into my hands as some caffeine deprived driver finally noticed me at the last possible moment. Which brings me to the big question of my morning:
Why couldn’t one of those drivers be some old-fashioned chauvinist pig who gets his ego boost out of helping females in distress?
Hey, I won’t complain — and I don’t. When the mover jumped off the back of the truck to take a box headed to my trunk out of my arms and into his, I said “Thanks.” When some youngster Rig Pig wanted to pull me out of a snow bank with his 3/4 ton truck, I said, “Tell me when to hit the gas.” You got jumper cables? Hook ’em up. Wanna push my flats onto the cart at Ikea? Knock yourself out. When the older gentleman asked if he could carry my vacuum cleaner down the escalator at The Bay, I couldn’t offload it fast enough. Hell, I married a guy who won’t let me operate his lawn mower!
You know, when I was in my teens, I would have been horrified. I (mistakenly) thought that this meant that I was proving that women were the weaker sex. It was as if with every door held open, we somehow morally surrendered power to men. What we needed were sensitive men who just let us muddle through everything like equals.
Except the last thing I needed this wet, cold, frustrating morning was Phil Donahue telling me he knows how June Cleaver stereotypes must make me feel. I needed some knucklehead who feels he knows everything about tires, and it’s his duty to come and save me.
‘Cuz ladies, after bearing down on six kids, I don’t feel I need to prove anything anymore. But I could sure borrow some of that up body strength every so often.
Please come back chauvinist pigs. We won’t yell anymore, and I really need some help with my car.