I’m so happy Gail and others (as Maureen Dowd did re: nuns in the Catholic church) are writing about this again.  Here’s a piece I wrote a couple of years ago that hopefully will put a smile on your feminist faces ;o)

THE OTHER “F” WORD: 

  

By:  Ilona Saari

  

            You don’t know me from Eve, but I am now and always have been a member of the feminist party.  That’s not to say I don’t like men, some of my best friends are men, even my husband, and I don’t make this pronouncement to be arrogant or “uppity.”  It’s just who I am. 

 

            Recently I was on the treadmill (the fitness kind, not the one we’re on every day), off in my own zone, listening to Mary J. Blige through my headphones, while leafing through the latest “Bazaar,” when a woman I knew jumped onto the adjoining treadmill.  She’s one of those women who, when asked “Hi, how are you?” actually tells you—- non-stop.  As she warmed up by walking faster than I run at top speed, I recklessly opened the door for conversation by saying “Hi, how are you?”  She instantly picked up her pace and started telling me.

 

            As she ran her own private 10K, she plunged into her incredible story of survival in a corporate world of sexual harassment and gender backbiting (without the slightest strain in her breathing, thank you very much) and how she was forging headlong into the future ready to fight for her rightful place in the world.

                                                           

A half-hour later she finished and I was awestruck.       

 

In tribute to all she had overcome and all she planned to do, I called her a true                                                

“feminist,” naively assuming she would take it as the compliment I meant it to be.  Instead, she nearly leaped off the treadmill as she emphatically stated, “I’M NOT A FEMINIST!”

 

            I was so stunned by her reaction, I started to jog.

 

            As my shock wore off and I returned to my more reasonable pace, I asked her why.  Her answer was simple:  “I don’t want to alienate anybody.”  For the second time in my life, mere moments apart, I had an overwhelming urge to become a sprinter.  I couldn’t believe what she was saying!  After all the progress she had made, all the plans she had for the future, she was ready to give it all back!  I mean really, who could she possibly be afraid of alienating?   The people who didn’t want to hire, promote or pay her equally because she had “X” chromosomes?  Not likely.

 

            So what was it about that word that triggered such a response —- that makes too many of us cringe when we’re accused of being one, as if it were the ultimate insult?  Why has “feminism” become the other “F” word?  The mostly male media’s years of portraying feminists (f/k/a “women’s libbers”) as bossy, man hating mantises?  No doubt.  The growing backlash against independent women who keep moving up the corporate ranks?  Probably.  But, maybe… just maybe, openly feminist females, like myself, are partially to blame.  Maybe, just maybe, in our enthusiasm for equality, we forgot our common sense and lost our sense of humor.

 

            Before I married, I dated a guy I cared about, but he wasn’t willing to make a commitment… or is that redundant?  He insisted on the option of dating other women.  Saturday nights were mine, but the rest of the week was open to interpretation.  I was young and foolish, so I agreed.  After dating about six months, he inquired (I use “inquire” because he did… he was an attorney) why he always paid for our theater tickets, dinners, whatever.  As a self-proclaimed “feminist,” didn’t I want to pay my fair share?  I told him no (I was a feminist, not foolish), and explained that feminism had nothing to do with who paid for dinner.  Why should I pick up a tab for someone who wanted to use the money he saved on me to wine and dine the first bimbo who said yes to Tuesday?  Made sense to me.  Okay, maybe she wasn’t a bimbo, but you get the point.

 

            I really couldn’t blame him —- we had confused the poor guy, and ultimately alienated ourselves, with all that 50/50 rhetoric.  Nothing in life is 50/50.

 

            So maybe it’s time to soften our image —- to put a new spin on things —- to put “feminine” back into feminist.  No, I’m not talking crinolines and ruffles (though black lace garters have their uses)… But, if a man wants to open a door for us —- hey, why strain?  And, if some swain (don’t you just love that word?) wants to lay his coat over a puddle so your feet stay dry, smile first —- then step on it!

 

Ah, Los Angeles, the land of Dorian Grey where more and more people have their portraits aging in their plastic surgeon’s closet! As a transplanted New Yorker living in LA, I felt like an unretouched photograph, but proud of it. I looked down my birth nose at the people I knew for having their eyes “done,” their breasts enhanced or their thighs “de-hanced.” I never let an opportunity go by without telling them how ridiculous they were —- how they should age with grace. “Easy for you,” they’d say, “you’re a writer.” “You don’t make a living off your looks.” “You’re happily married.” “You’re younger than we are.” For years I self-righteously continued my crusade against elective surgery. I privately railed against celebrities who altered their appearances every couple of years or so—- who puffed up their lips, tightened their eyes, and changed the contours of their noses. Some beautiful women, still under 50, began to look like drag queens impersonating themselves. Why? Would it make them live longer? Not in this lifetime. But, would it keep them desirable? Maybe, but to whom? Well, I think I found the answer. Themselves. Recently I went in for a complete check-up. You know, the one you get every year or two after you turn forty—- the one with the EKG. After it was over, I got dressed and sat in my doctor’s office nonchalantly leafing through the recent Vogue, wondering whether I should go shopping for one of those cute, retro, straight skirt/pinched-waist jacket suits or go to the gym, when my doctor came in and told me I had to lose weight. She may as well have stabbed me right in the heart. What did she mean, I had to lose weight? I know I gained a little when I quit smoking a few years ago and my period became a little less reliable, but I’m an ex-model, an ex-dancer—- we don’t get fat! Naturally, I didn’t say that out loud, but she read my mind. She warned me that my blood pressure was a bit too high, but if I’d cut down on my salt intake, drink less wine and lose ten pounds, I’d be just fine. Stunned, I chose the gym over shopping, where I experienced a profound moment—- you know, one of those earth shaking realizations that come upon you at the oddest times—- things most people know at twelve. There I was, zoned out on the treadmill, staring at nothing in the mirror in front of me, contemplating this cruel turn of events, when I noticed this great NY Ranger hockey shirt on the woman treading next to me. No surprise the team name in the mirror was backwards. I turned to look at the shirt straight on when suddenly it dawned on me that I was backwards—- that the way I saw myself was not the way others saw me. That the part in my hair wasn’t on the side I saw it on. That my crooked “Ali McGraw” tooth wasn’t crooked in the direction I thought it was. I rushed home, dragged out my photo albums and studied my pictures. I couldn’t see a difference. So I grabbed two large hand mirrors and stood in front of the bathroom mirror trying to get the right angle. After a few minutes, I couldn’t remember which ear was which, so I borrowed two full-length mirrors and moved them around until I could see myself next to myself. My way. Then your way. It was an enlightening experience. I discovered a crease under my eye, a little extra skin under my chin and a body bulge I’d never noticed before. But what I really discovered was that I don’t like the way others see me. Did these revelations send me scurrying off to the nearest plastic surgeon? No, and probably never will. But, I’m at the gym more often. May even go back to dance class—- well, I’ll think about it anyway. I’m trying to eat less and use more sun screen. And, when someone I know tells me she’s having her face peeled or her fanny tucked, I don’t look down at her anymore. I understand. We’re all on the same whitewater, rapidly churning downstream, paddling to stay afloat. ilona saari “My Dinners With Richard & Other Musings” www.myspace.com/othermusings

Loved your piece on Sarah, Liz. I’m still in shock that she was chosen to run as McCain’s VP - tho it does show a man now so blinded w/ ambition to be President he put his country last by picking an unqualified woman whose only credential is that she would appeal to the right wing base. The interesting thing happening now is that she’s overshadowing him in her Huey Long glee to encourage anger and hatred toward an opponent. Her ambition seems to be trumping McCain’s as it becomes more and more apparent that he has a Lady MacBeth on his hands… If they win, I hope John’s smart enough to hire a food taster…

Can I vote for all the above?!?!?! www.myspace.com/othermusings

Ah, Los Angeles, the land of Dorian Grey where more and more people have their portraits aging in their plastic surgeon’s closet! As a transplanted New Yorker living in LA, I felt like an unretouched photograph, but proud of it. I looked down my birth nose at the people I knew for having their eyes “done,” their breasts enhanced or their thighs “de-hanced.” I never let an opportunity go by without telling them how ridiculous they were —- how they should age with grace. “Easy for you,” they’d say, “you’re a writer.” “You don’t make a living off your looks.” “You’re happily married.” “You’re younger than we are.” For years I self-righteously continued my crusade against elective surgery. I privately railed against celebrities who altered their appearances every couple of years or so—- who puffed up their lips, tightened their eyes, and changed the contours of their noses. Some beautiful women, still under 50, began to look like drag queens impersonating themselves. Why? Would it make them live longer? Not in this lifetime. But, would it keep them desirable? Maybe, but to whom? Well, I think I found the answer. Themselves. Recently I went in for a complete check-up. You know, the one you get every year or two after you turn forty—- the one with the EKG. After it was over, I got dressed and sat in my doctor’s office nonchalantly leafing through the recent Vogue, wondering whether I should go shopping for one of those cute, retro, straight skirt/pinched-waist jacket suits or go to the gym, when my doctor came in and told me I had to lose weight. She may as well have stabbed me right in the heart. What did she mean, I had to lose weight? I know I gained a little when I quit smoking a few years ago and my period became a little less reliable, but I’m an ex-model, an ex-dancer—- we don’t get fat! Naturally, I didn’t say that out loud, but she read my mind. She warned me that my blood pressure was a bit too high, but if I’d cut down on my salt intake, drink less wine and lose ten pounds, I’d be just fine. Stunned, I chose the gym over shopping, where I experienced a profound moment—- you know, one of those earth shaking realizations that come upon you at the oddest times—- things most people know at twelve. There I was, zoned out on the treadmill, staring at nothing in the mirror in front of me, contemplating this cruel turn of events, when I noticed this great NY Ranger hockey shirt on the woman treading next to me. No surprise the team name in the mirror was backwards. I turned to look at the shirt straight on when suddenly it dawned on me that I was backwards—- that the way I saw myself was not the way others saw me. That the part in my hair wasn’t on the side I saw it on. That my crooked “Ali McGraw” tooth wasn’t crooked in the direction I thought it was. I rushed home, dragged out my photo albums and studied my pictures. I couldn’t see a difference. So I grabbed two large hand mirrors and stood in front of the bathroom mirror trying to get the right angle. After a few minutes, I couldn’t remember which ear was which, so I borrowed two full-length mirrors and moved them around until I could see myself next to myself. My way. Then your way. It was an enlightening experience. I discovered a crease under my eye, a little extra skin under my chin and a body bulge I’d never noticed before. But what I really discovered was that I don’t like the way others see me. Did these revelations send me scurrying off to the nearest plastic surgeon? No, and probably never will. But, I’m at the gym more often. May even go back to dance class—- well, I’ll think about it anyway. I’m trying to eat less and use more sun screen. And, when someone I know tells me she’s having her face peeled or her fanny tucked, I don’t look down at her anymore. I understand. We’re all on the same whitewater, rapidly churning downstream, paddling to stay afloat. www.myspace.com/othermusings

Wonderful!!! www.myspace.com/othermusings

For me - it’s definitely ‘My Fair Lady’ - tho most all the great musicals of the 40s and 50s resonate w/ me… and they still had dancing!!! “My Dinners With Richard & Other Musings” www.myspace.com/othermusings