By AA PATAWARAN
I hate to hear you talk about all women as if they were fine ladies instead of rational creatures. None of us want to be in calm waters all our lives – Jane Austen
I ’m a misogynist, having grown up in an almost all-female household in which the women did not have sex, did not go to the bathroom except to wash their skin and their hair, did not make any untoward sound like burping or passing wind, did not sit with their legs wide apart, or yawn with their mouths wide open.
I’m a sexist because I grew up where only the men had sexual ravings, only the men had the right to show aggression, only the men could be excused for their violence (or their lack of breeding or their beer belly or their body hair or their bad breath), only the men could be forgiven for their lack of participation in the household because they had better things to do out of the house, like making money or social hobnobbing or exerting influence.
I’m anti-feminist because I thought it was out of character for girls to raise their voices, to hurl invectives when they were angry, to leave their hair disheveled or cut close to their scalp, to run around the backyard collecting wounds that would turn into scars and ruin their legs or to go to town collecting lovers and broken hearts.
I’m a male supremacist because, though I didn’t think success was off-limits to women, I thought that success was made for men, whose pursuit of it couldn’t be bothered with such mundane chores as making beds, washing dishes, doing the laundry, cleaning the house, tending to the children, changing diapers, giving birth, which were left to the women to do.
I’m a male chauvinist pig because I used to only like working with women because I thought women, unlike men who could be tolerated to be set in their ways, were wired to be the best version of themselves, therefore, whether as bosses or subordinates, they knew what they wanted, they were clear about what they wanted, and, if things went wrong, they would focus on what went wrong rather than on the bruises on their ego.
I’m an MCP because I’m in love with women who use the woman card to get their way, whose shoulders are killer blades, whose legs are up to there, whose lips draw blood, whose glances are enchantments, whose words are as sharp as stiletto heels or as sugary and velvety as lipstick, and whose hearts could reduce grown men to tears.
I’m a woman hater because I put them on a pedestal, I worship the ground they walk on, I drool over every curve of their bodies and the fabrics by which they emphasize these curves, I venerate the small of their back, I sing praises for the protrusion of their hips, I curse them with the perfection of goddesses, the grace of nymphs, the power of witches, and the beauty of fairies and demand that they measure up to these impossible standards—or I lose interest.