Someone on Facebook recently reminded me of something that has irritated me my whole life. Why are women’s underwear called panties? Do we wear socksies or shoesies? No. You will never hear me call my underwear panties. Ever.
There also used to be an annoying habit of making maternity clothing look like the expectant mother was a child herself, rather than like a professional, capable woman whose body just happens to be being contorted beyond reason. I remember a coworker 30 years ago coming in to work wearing a baby blue maternity shirt with a peter pan collar and candy cane piping. Ugh! Why? That seems to be a thing of the past, though, thank goodness.
And what woman hasn’t heard, “Don’t worry your pretty little head,” at least once in her life? What are we, five? Um… my head isn’t little. In fact, I often can’t find hats that are big enough for me.
And I don’t need to be mansplained. I am perfectly capable of arriving at facts without your help. I don’t need to be coddled or protected or advised or counseled. I get to go out at night, out into the big bad world all alone, simply because I’m the one who makes that decision. I’m probably much more astute about sussing out a dangerous situation than you are, because I’ve lived it.
I’m no more mentally or emotionally fragile than you are. When I get angry, I’m angry, not hysterical. My opinions are as valid as anyone else’s. I should be taken as seriously as you are. The fact that I need to explain this to you is the crux of the problem.
People who infantilize women are projecting their own immaturity upon others. But don’t worry your pretty little head about it. We’ll be just fine whether or not you wake the eff up.
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