so last weekend was like exercise for my feminist. if my feminist were a person, he (HA, joking, obviously a she) would be kind of like me — she would have exercised regularly all throughout college (and before that), and then she would have been pretty lethargic for a while. but she still believes in exercise and healthy eating. but when she tries to go to the gym and run 5 miles, she doesn’t feel so hot. okay, my point is two-fold: (1) i failed at being a feminist this weekend and (2) i no longer go to the gym with any regularity and feel guilty as hell about it.
i’m a great feminist — in theory. in practice, sadly, i take the less confrontational route: feel awkward, laugh uncomfortably, articulate my feelings 3-5 minutes later. usually then it takes another few minutes to think of something really nasty and/or witty and/or some type of character assassination, and by then the moment has passed. i’m sure my feeling awkward where indignant is supposed to be has something to do with centuries of being subjugated by the [white] [straight] man, but i digress.
this weekend my feminist, after reading and thinking a lot about marathons, decided to run one, and almost died a few miles in. sad. first of all, i attended a networking mixer in the city that involved a number of people receiving goofy prizes. my “prize” was a special ops police hat, probably because everyone knows how baller i am. anyway, in the spirit of the evening and at the urging of some friends also attending, i donned the cap for the rest of the festivities. mistake #1.
at this event, in a separate part of the bar (which was upstairs in a hotel), i was stopped by a 40-something stranger, not affiliated with the mixer.
40 something: can i say hi?
drunk me: okay.
40 something: hi.
drunk me: hi.
40 something: you’re beautiful.
drunk me: thanks.
40 something: what brings you here?
me: i’m at a party.
40 something: could i interest you in a late night drink?
me: maybe. [note: i'm not entirely sure why i said this. i knew there was no way i was going to "have a late night drink" with this aging doof, but i said maybe anyway, i think because (1) i am bad at saying no and (2) i wanted to see where this was going. and good thing.]
40 something: maybe this will entice you. i have a suite on the 26th floor, with a hot tub overlooking the city.
me: that does sound enticing. [it did. i mean, not with HIM, but it sounded pretty baller.]
40 something: can i give you my card?
me: okay.
he proceeds to hand me a card that has the following written on it:
JACK
[phone number]
LITERALLY. that was it. his first name, and a phone number. no last name, no profession, no goofy graphic, no “cell” designation, NOTHING. sorry jack, you are old as hell and i have watched waaaaaaayyy too many episodes of SVU.
anyway, that is not entirely relevant to the hit my feminism took, it was just amusing. note to male readers: don’t do that. ever. unless you do it ironically, in which case, come sit by me. not like THAT, you sexist, presumptuous fuck.
next up: festivities, in my special ops cap. note: the vast majority of the people at this party are considerably older than i am, and it is the type of gathering in which all attendees could potentially be future colleagues/managers. so the name of the game: be cool. this seems to be working until 20-something tells me i look like a stripper. general consensus among other men within earshot. i immediately take off my hat, 20-something gives me the ol’ “it was a joke/just giving you a hard time/you look good/don’t be a baby/wear the hat or you will be a poor sport.” so i oblige and replace the hat, at which point 20-something (who is a friend, but not THAT good a friend) says it’s not just the hat, it’s also that my shirt isn’t exactly covering me up. or something to that effect. my mouth drops open. i laugh uncomfortably/want to die a little. let me state for the record that while my [wide strapped] tank top showed some minimal cleavage, i was wearing a SCARF over it. like, my breasts were covered — completely. anyway, i laugh uncomfortably, stare at him, don’t know what to say because other partygoers are standing around not saying much. except, of course, for married 30-something, who folds up a dollar bill and puts it in his mouth and leers at me. now, if i were a really good feminist, i would have slapped somebody, or screamed at somebody, or said something really low and threatening-like, but apparently right now “poor, deferential, entry-level job seeker” outweighs my principles. damn. didn’t take long.
anyway, i spent the next 40 minutes on a couch next to a girl who wasn’t drinking, so i felt a little better after a wholesome conversation that in no way involved my breasts/an entertainment profession that fosters the systematic subjugation of the female sex.
unfortunately i also spent the aforementioned 40 minutes trying to drink myself comfortable. generally, drinking heavily leads to one of three things for me: unbridled happiness/energy/desire to dance, angry outbursts, or whining. fortunately, the vast majority of my drunken escapades are around the former, but either of the latter two would probably have served me better this particular evening. in any event, i was in a very charitable mood after a blueberry martini or two, so when 3 20-somethings and the dollar-bill 30-something cornered me and asked if i was dating anyone, i was all too happy to take the opportunity to talk about myself. i explained that i didn’t have a boyfriend, had recently been dating someone but wasn’t anymore, etc. etc. then 30-something asked what i looked for in a guy. [note: in retrospect, i am totally creeped out by this. in the moment, this seemed like a completely reasonable entry into conversation]. so i said that i wanted to date someone who is smarter than i am but thinks i am smarter than he is, and the same with funny and attractive. that’s basically just a slightly more original way of saying i just want to feel like i lucked out and i want him to feel the same way, which i imagine is a pretty universal dating desire. they nodded when i said that and, annoyingly, looked surprised to hear something they agreed with but hadn’t thought of come out of my mouth. one said: “that’s reasonable.” but they took issue when i got to “and same with funny.” one said: “well, you’ll have a hard time with that.” anyway, no need to recount the entirety of that conversation, but here are some choice sound bites: “name one funny woman”; “ellen degeneres”;”i wouldn’t exactly call her a woman” (yes. really.) and “tina fey” (they grudgingly agreed), at which point i told them i was hilarious and that they had no idea because at this sort of function i could only “play my z game.” zing!
later that weekend, in a bar in boston, a friend and i had an unfortunately lengthy encounter with two “basketball coaches.” that’s in quotes because they were in their early twenties, white, and about as athletic-looking as richard nixon (read: not at all). also, one was definitely jewish, and everyone knows jews don’t play basketball, except at vassar. anyway, the beginning of the evening is kind of hazy, but one of the guys felt it was well within his flirting rights to use phrases like: “3 viagra” in conjunction with “the best 64 seconds of your life” and gesticulations in our general direction. okay, the 64 seconds was funny, but only because my roommate in college used to say: “i got your four inches of heaven right here… okay 3.5… it’ll be the best 30 seconds of your life” is this hoarse, geriatric, new york jew kind of voice. anyway, coach douchebag then decided to inform us about a “board” he and his colleague have, in which they rank the women with whom they’ve fooled around. we were cordially invited to submit our names to the competition. lovely. again, a swift kick in the pants would have clearly been the appropriate course of action here, but inevitably it elicited awkward laughter and some open-mouthed stares on my part. followed by a slightly more sober (but not quite there yet) indignation a few hours later. which was, of course, a few hours too late. wah wah.
after some relaxation and reflection this weekend, i’ve come up with a plan of action going forward: (1) don’t get drunk. constant vigilance. self-righteous lectures. pre-emptive strikes. or: (2) get drunk sometimes. verbally assault any male who smiles at me, save waitstaff and cabdrivers. done and done.
