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You're reading an old entry from Michelle "Lexi Kahn" DiPoala's online diary, formerly called Jungle Sweet Jungle. Blog name changed to Low Budget Superhero in October 2005. Now I mostly go by SuperLowBudge. You can call me Lexi, Michelle or SuperLowBudge, or if you're my mom, then Shelly. Enjoy these old posts (except if you're my mom.) Please follow on Blogger at superlowbudge.blogspot.com. From there you can follow me on Twitter and some other platforms. Thanks!



Sir Fluke

(2000-05-28)

It's not easy being a girl these days. As a post-feminist-era, pseudo-equality-era anti-feminist, I face quite the conundrum almost daily. It's hard to put into words for the edification of others, even other women (even my friends), but in short: I don't want to be treated like a MAN. And I don't want to be treated like a WOMAN EQUAL TO A MAN. And I don't want to be treated like a LADY. I just want to be treated like the woman I am. It's a subtlety that very few understand.

Take chivalry. Say the word, feel the bite of it, the way it makes your lips into a sneer at first and then the toothsome way it trills off your tongue, instantly bringing images of mounted fighting men of the European Middle Ages on gallant crusades to avenge the honour of weepy damosels in distress.

Well, these days "chivalry" fits about as well into my life as a suit of armor fits into my wardrobe.

There's this guy at work whose parents raised really well in terms of respecting women, right down to holding her door open, paying for her drinks, and pulling out her chair. Everyone should have such a person in their lives, if only for the curiosity factor. The only problem? In corporate America, this display of knightly courtesy backfires. He calls our call center staff "the ladies," even though there ARE a few men working there. I found out by accident that he chose not to use a procedure I'd developed-- turns out it wasn't good enough. Rather than TELL me so I could revise it-- so as not to "hurt my feelings"-- he chose to simply not use it. And travelling with "Sir Stephen" is an exercise in trampled toes, spilled drinks, and near-crashes-on-my-butt to the floor.

Last week we had to go to a vendor for a quarterly review. I'm a Process Manager and he's a Transport Specialist, so we're often paired off for things like this. Entering the building, Steve opened the door and then stepped back to allow me inside first. I was putting away my cell phone and walked smack into him. And when was the last time a man pulled out my chair for me? I don't remember, but I'm sure it wasn't a conference room chair, and goddamnit, it never should be.

Now, far be it from me to un-train this guy in the fine art of making women feel tended like frail roses. But one of these days I'm going to land on my ass and seriously hurt myself.

Maybe I should re-think that suit of armor.

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