The Beat Goes On

Today while cruising around in my vintage Lotus Elan this morning (a gift from a late paramour of mine who shall remain, like his fondness for gorgonzola, a mystery), I was twiddling the radio dial and happened on the briefest snippet of dialogue that made me see (or is it hear?) red. I believe the DJ was reading a listener-email commenting on police brutality during some sort of recent local public disturbance. They complained, "How dare the police beat the crowd when there were women and children present!"

Where was I when women and children were raised above receiving beatings? Speaking as a woman, all of us are righteous you-know-whats at times and deserve a good throttle, slap up side the head, or a good punch to the ovaries once in a while, as much as any man. And who hasn't wanted to smack a child just because it's Tuesday? Seriously, it is this kind of double standard that keeps vaginas at bay and out of offices of power and we're doing it to ourselves. If we can't get down and dirty in the mud wrestling pit with the men and take a good beating, we have no business complaining about our unfair treatment.

I didn't burn my bra decades ago because my breasts were afraid of the dark.