Feminist Dating Dilemmas

After our “How to Be a Feminist Boyfriend” post sparked its share of debate, we realized how ripe for discussion this intersection of politics and personal life is. Just goes to show that heterosexual dating is an endless minefield in a world that’s otherwise pretty clear-cut when it comes to implementing feminism. (In areas like the workplace and the law, strict equality is the standard; in relationships, where power dynamics constantly switch, some of us like to be tied up in bed, and, in any case, we need men, by definition, it’s a little bit more fraught.) To that end, we offer up some thoughts on more specific situations a feminist can find herself in — and our thoughts about how to approach them, many culled from previous posts on related topics. As always, these are just suggestions — feel free to offer up your own. (We know you will!)

What’s So Great About Happiness?

As we celebrated the 100th anniversary of International Women’s Day this week, there was a lot of retreading over the age-old question: Has feminism made us happier? So, so many people think they’re quite clever by telling us: No! It has not! It has, in fact, ruined everything! Phyllis Schlafly and her niece, Suzanne Venker, wrote The Flipside of Feminism to tell us this in many, many pages, over and over again. Venker states baldly, “Feminism has sabotaged women’s happiness,” while the book goes on to detail the many ways the women’s movement has ruined everything: It gave most families two incomes, thus making us want more money and more stuff. (Definitely feminism’s fault, not mass consumerism or anything.) It emasculates men. (Poor, poor dears.) And most of all, it apparently screws up sex in all kinds of confusing ways.

See, men want marriage and kids more than ever, while we women want to maintain our independence longer, Shlafly and Venker tell us. Except we apparently also don’t want to have enough sex: “Sex is a problem, too. More and more wives today say they’re too tired for sex. …Naturally, this poses a problem for husbands, who are rarely too tired for sex. Sex is a man’s favorite past time, and the wives who are too tired to have it are often resentful of this fact. If change is going to come, it will have to come from women—they are the ones who changed the natural order of things. Moreover, men aren’t the ones who kvetch about their place in the world—not because they have it so great, contrary to feminist dogma, but because it’s not in their nature. Men tend to go along with whatever women say they need.” Except, of course, we also want to have too much sex, because men are getting it somewhere, which is making them not want to get married, which is how feminism is apparently ruining marriage (which is sad because traditional marriage is always such a treat). Except, of course, as we learned earlier in this paragraph, there are men who do want marriage, who are seeking it and begging us for it while we selfishly and stubbornly maintain our independence.

In any case, it seems we’re caught in some kind of vicious (and nonsensical) cycle of unhappiness. That, dear ones, is the point here. We’re unhappy because men won’t commit, and because some of them want to commit; because we want easy sex, and because we’re too tired for sex. Know what’s weirdest of all about this? I agree. With all of it, in all of its nonsensical glory. Here’s why: It’s true, I’ve been frustrated by noncommittal men in my life; I’ve also run away from men who wanted to commit to me. I have wanted easy sex, and I have been too tired for sex, and I have even wanted easy sex sometimes because I was too tired for complicated sex. Oh, life, you vexing vixen, you! And the main reason for all of this complexity in my life is, in fact, feminism.

Happy Valentine’s Day, Men Who Don’t Suck!

There is no better evidence that men don’t suck — that is, that all men don’t suck — than all the female bloggers’ online valentines to the amazing men in their lives. As Rita Arens’ sweet BlogHer post about many such public declarations of love attests, not only are there plenty of wonderful examples of the male species out there, but love is actually much simpler — if, perhaps, more challenging — than all the hearts and flowers and endless gag-inducing diamond commercials would have you think. Love, to the modern woman, means loving us just as we are. Remember when Bridget Jones was so flummoxed by Mark Darcy’s “just as you are” admission of like? There’s a reason: Apparently none of us, in all of our overanalyzed, overachieved neurosis, can believe anyone could keep liking us, even during the moments we stop being our self-helped, women’s-magazine-perfect images and start being our actual selves. As Arens says, “Sometimes I think anyone who could spend ten years with me should get some sort of major award, but especially this man, who seems to have a level of patience at times inhuman. I am raw and difficult and flawed.”

I’ve felt — I feel — exactly the same way. I’ve had the surprising fortune to fall for such a man over the past year. Things were so perfect between us for the first ten months or so that we often tried to start fake fights just to ground things a little. (I know, sorry, we’re gross.) But reality eventually hits every couple, even the most grossly well-matched, and our reality came in the form of a late-night visit to the emergency room in October. I was having massive stomach pains and other symptoms best left out of this description; it was 2 a.m. on a Saturday. Jesse offered to come with me; I almost said no, but I knew I wanted him there. We were stuck in that ER for nearly six hours, much of which I spent in random crying bouts. It wasn’t so much the pain as the fact that I felt like I’d dragged my boyfriend through a sleepless night for just my silly little health problem. When I was diagnosed with a likely ulcer — not silly, but not serious enough to assuage my guilt over letting him come with me — and sent on my way, we stopped at a diner for a tired, and, honestly, awkward breakfast. I could tell he was unhappy; I was sure he’d be figuring out some reason to break up with me in a few weeks.  This was it, the end I’d always been anticipating.

Why ‘Men of a Certain Age’ Is Sexy — and Feminist

It’s about three middle-aged guys. It stars a guy, Ray Romano, who headlined one of the most mainstream family sitcoms of the last decade — a show I have never seen, even though I write about television for a living. And it’s a dramedy, that noncommittal genre that can mean anything (oftentimes: not that funny, and not that dramatic). Men of a Certain Age has no business appealing to me — the characters are nothing like me, a 36-year-old single woman in New York. And, in fact, I have loathed all previous attempts at men-with-feelings shows — yes, I mean you, Big Shots. And yet, once I gave it a chance, I was hooked: Truly, from the first few minutes of the very first episode, it charmed me, like an unassuming guy you start talking to in a bar just to pass the time and end up slowly, imperceptibly, falling madly in love with him by the end of the night.

As the show hits its midseason finale tonight on TNT, I beg of you, ladies: Please give this one a chance. There have only been 16 episodes so far — watch them online and be caught up by the time the show returns later this year. You will fall for Ray Romano’s doofy divorced dude, Andre Braugher’s struggling family man, Scott Bakula’s man-boy actor who’s finally trying to grow up, and the absolutely believable bonds between them. They talk about their feelings, but in guy terms — no Entourage showboating, no Sex and the City-wannabe salaciousness. You’ll understand men — and, yes, their struggles, which, yes, they do have — more. And if you’re anything like me, you’ll develop a surprising crush on Scott Bakula. I’m not the least bit shocked his character can still date a 25-year-old. I’m only shocked at how accepting I was of this plotline, and it’s once again due to the subtle writing and character development.

And while it may not have an overt feminist message, its progressiveness is built into its DNA: If men are free to be this vulnerable on TV, we’re no longer diminishing such traditionally “female” behavior. Not to mention that the way they treat the women in their lives — well-rounded, interesting, powerful entities in themselves — is nothing short of revolutionary on a male-centric show. Please give this one a watch. You’ll be doing it for mankind — and womankind.

 

Follow Jennifer on Twitter: @jenmarmstrong

The Trials of the 21st Century Wife

It’s not easy being a wife.

Eight years ago, my friend Olivia was planning her wedding. She and her boyfriend Jack had been together for seven years, living together for four. He had proposed on millennium eve, and they’d spent more than a year organizing a lavish party across the country, where most of her large family lives.

However, two months before the big event, with most of the details in place, she called me. “I don’t think I can get married,” she said.

“Well, that’s okay,” I said, snapping into automatic support mode. “You don’t have to. There’s no reason you should marry Jack if you don’t think he’s right for you. Better to realize that now…”

“No, that’s not it,” she cut me off in mid-support. “It’s not Jack. I just don’t want to be married. I don’t want to be a wife. I don’t want to have the kind of marriage my parents have.”

I’ve known Olivia for almost 20 years now, and have met quite a few members of her family. They are from the Mediterranean, and conservative. Girls in the family are expected to become wives and mothers, and make that their priority. Though both Olivia’s mother and grandmother (on Olivia’s father’s side) had advanced college degrees, neither made careers of them. One cousin, Olivia once told me, is a cancer researcher who is making inroads in curing the dreaded disease. But whenever this cousin goes home for a visit, her family won’t stop berating her for being single and childless.

Olivia, a rebel from way back, shocked her parents when she and Jack started living together. Her mother took to calling her long-distance, tearfully quoting Dr. Laura Schlessinger. When Olivia and Jack finally got engaged, she stopped. And it became Olivia’s turn to worry about what she was getting into. “You and Jack are not your parents,” I tried to reassure her during that wrenching phone call. “Your relationship is very different, and your marriage will be very different. It’s what you make of it.”

Olivia wound up marrying Jack, but I don’t think I quite understood the depth of her concern until I got married five years later. That’s when I truly understood what a socially fraught term “wife” is, and how, despite the dynamics of my own relationship — and I find myself happily married to a wonderful man going on three years now — it is often difficult and tiresome to deal with such baggage.

And lately, as the economy quakes and the feminist backlash continues, I worry that the progress wives have made will vanish. True, wifedom has changed in the last century. Just ask Gloria Steinem, who got married at age 63, saying she thought society had made enough strides that an equal partnership between husbands and wives is now possible.

A Love Letter to Good Men

A week before Valentine’s Day, my husband is driving to see my father just north of Los Angeles. Three thousand miles from home, blown tire on a rainy freeway (“Southern California owes me one”), romance is the last thing on his mind. After an afternoon with my father, he will drive to San Diego, drop the car and head to the kick-off of a convention of sullen mortgage bankers and lawyers (those still employed, for now). I talk with him as he drives, reading directions from an online map as he makes his way back to the airport to exchange the rental car. His afternoon in L.A. is an add on to a work trip—and it’s the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for me.

My Dad is in his 80s and I am in my 30s (for a little while longer)—he was in his mid-40s when I was born, not an uncommon age for new fathers in our downtown NYC neighborhood. Pushing strollers, graying hair matching silver Blackberries, seemingly worldly and, from a distance, less nervous than a new parent should be. Stepping out from a Paul Smith ad, they appear well-off, accomplished—as if a baby were phase seven of a long ago written, precisely edited business plan.

What those babies will realize later is that their parents will become old before time has stretched far enough through their own lives to cause them to think seriously (barring tragedy) about aging and mortality. They may be starting families of their own, their careers gaining momentum. Winding down is the last thing on their minds.

When He’s the One with the ‘Headache’

On my third date with Alexander, after he stripped me down to my underwear, I reached for the metal button on his jeans. Hard and out of breath, he blurted, “I don’t want to have sex.” My hand froze at his waist. “I mean, I don’t want to have sex yet,” he clarified.

I felt relieved. I, too, didn’t want to move too fast. After a series of meaningless sexual experiences, I wanted more. Four, five, maybe six dates, I reasoned, then sex.

So when Alexander said we should wait, I thought perfect. A 26-year-old man who wanted more than just sex? I had hit the dating jackpot. Alexander and I continued to see each other and continued to not have sex. We bathed together and spent the night in each other’s beds. Still, no sex.

As the weeks wore on, however, what had at first seemed sweet began to feel tired. One night, after Alexander came and I didn’t, he asked if I was “feeling satisfied.” I said no.

“It’d be nice if we could have sex,” I said. Not wanting to sound like a pressuring teenage boy from a health-class video, I added, “But I guess I understand why we’re waiting.” I didn’t, though. Not really. Alexander had explained to me that after his last relationship—“a waste of a year”—he wanted to be “serious” about someone before he slept with her. What wasn’t clear was why sex meant serious.

In spite of what popular culture would have us believe, could there exist a large population of men that wants meaning with a side of sex, as opposed to the other way around? Is a no-sex policy a growing trend among younger men? Just as we women become increasingly comfortable with meaningless sex, just as we’re unleashing our sexual desires and exhibiting power both inside and outside of the bedroom, men, it seems, are saying no. But why? And more importantly, how are we—women raised to believe any straight man worth his masculinity should want sex anytime, always—supposed to deal with that?

Why Interracial Love Is Still Hard

The miscegenation of our society may seem to be growing at a steady rate based on how often we’ve been talking about race lately. But let’s not kid ourselves. Interracial relationships represent approximately seven percent of couples in the country, which is incredible progress considering they represented just .07 percent in 1960. But for our ever-diversifying nation, these are alarmingly low figures. For the most part, everyone is still sticking to their “own kind.” Is this intentional segregation or just cultural tradition? Could be both. But one thing remains certain: Every interracial couple entering into a serious relationship knows what struggles lie ahead. Maybe that’s why 93 percent would just rather avoid them.

I can’t say I blame them. I’m white, and I lead a very happy life with my black husband. Our families love us and our friends are accepting. Of course it helps that we live in Los Angeles, a big city that’s had a longer time to get used to multiculturalism and interracial couples than most. Still, we experience little daily reminders of just how far we have yet to go to reach complete acceptance in this country—a raised eyebrow here, a snarky comment there, just enough to remind us that we’re still discriminated against. And we’ve got it easy compared to most: Had we been born at different times and in different states, we’d never have had a chance.

Men Love You Just as You Are … Seriously!

“[Men] might pretend they want one of these bimbas but they don’t really. They want a nice friend.”
— “Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason”

I asked my friend Sam, the smartest guy I know, why he liked his partner, Marie. This is the story he told me:

“Every once in a great while — particularly during periods of shared stress — she’ll decree it’s time for us to once more spend the entire evening playing one incredibly loud, raucous song after another on the stereo and dancing around the living room of our house on Canfield, singing along and shouting along and playing air guitar and generally enjoying making fools of ourselves. We take turns, each picking one song at a time. Sometimes Stevie Wonder gives way to Waylon Jennings, followed by Black Uhuru and then Led Zeppelin.”

I stared. He shrugged.

“It’s cathartic.”

We girls spend hours of our lives trying to please men in ways we think they want to be pleased. We plump up our tits, we Stairmaster our asses, we clip and shave and clothe and perfume. What I spend on my hair alone could feed a third-world village for a month, and don’t get me started on the cost of decent lingerie these days.

We worry about what to say to them, whether we’ve said the wrong things, started the wrong conversations, called them too often, called them too rarely, bought them lousy Christmas gifts, dragged them to too many chick flicks.

In the end, what do they love about us?

They love that we make them dance.

He’s a Husband, Not a Child or a Houseplant

By the time I met John, my co-worker Paula’s husband, I was aware of every single one of his faults. I knew the last five stupid things he’d done (forgotten to do the dishes as he’d promised, failed to mail a birthday card to her sister, purchased the wrong kind of soup at the grocery store, left the car unlocked with his cell phone in it, and didn’t pick up his wet towel on the bathroom floor). From the way she’d described the guy to me, I was shocked he wasn’t openly drooling.

We were at a mutual friend’s wedding, sitting around at a banquet table, and I was next to the (as Paula often called him) “total moron.” He was talking to me about football, one arm wrapped around the back of his wife’s chair, and though he didn’t flash a Nobel Prize in physics at me, he knew quarterback stats, he was polite, and he couldn’t say enough good things about his wife.

And about halfway through our conversation she turned around and snapped her fingers at him.

“Go get me a drink,” she said, then turned back to the talk she was having with a girl on the other side of her.

Jesus Christ in a prom dress!

Ladies: A man, once and for all, is not a pet.