A dirty job
In my last post, I wrote about how women were special. This let loose a torrent of pent-up agreement, in email and in the comments. I’m always mistrustful of anything that is admired by the majority, even if it’s something I say. I feel there can’t be anything in it. I thrive on adversity. Let’s revisit this issue: how women can — should — be filthy and how we love them for it.
The first concern I’d like to bring up is the issue of the sexes. I’ve always been a believer in their equivalence, even though nobody, and not even science these days, seems to agree with me. I guess I believe in our equivalence (by which I don’t mean equality, which is merely a legal issue, but whether or not we actually work the same) as an issue of patriotic faith rather than rational investigation. I want men and women to be the same, because otherwise life seems unfair to somebody.
But at the same time, I do not want men to be dirty. It doesn’t mean the same thing.
Women should be dirty. The equivalent for men should be that they appreciate, or encourage, dirtiness in others, not that they undertake it themselves. Otherwise, they will end up wearing toupées and too much mascara. That’s not dirty, it’s silly.
A look through history confirms this division of labor must be honored at all costs. Susan Sontag was not dirty; now she’s dead. Conversely, Michel Foucault was dirty, and he is dead too. However, Liz Hurley is still going strong.
So, gentlemen, support your lady in every way you can: Victoria’s Secret gift cards are a beginning, but don’t rest on your laurels.
And, ladies, please keep doing us dirty. Do for us what we cannot do for ourselves.
by Jack, June 30, 2005 5:28 PM | More from Women
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