Bad Feminist.

Dear Feminists,

I have always considered myself one of you. Always.

I mean, I went to an all-girls high school. And a womens' college. In fact, for years, there were members of my family who wondered if I was more than just a feminist. Maybe 'cause I didn't date until I was 21? And, geez, I just like the Indigo Girls music. Why does everyone make that such a big deal?

Anyways, I digress. If you were to ask me if I were a feminist I would say yes. Even when I quit my job to stay home with my girls. And when I decided to homeschool. And when I signed up as a Mary Kay Lady.

I believe women should be treated equally with men. Maybe not the same as men, but with an equal amount of respect and dignity. So, that makes me a feminist, right? I mean, heck, I hyphenated my last name. That has to count for something,

But, I am starting to wonder if I'm just fooling myself. Because, my feminist friends, I have been behaving like bad feminist.

Case in point:

The other day it was time to upgrade our chickens from starter feed to...whatever it is that comes after starter feed. So, I went to the feed store to get food. And I could have googled it so I would know just what they needed. But, I didn't. And I found myself in the feed store (a bastion of masculinity and testosterone second only to the men's room at the Super Bowl) reverting to some scary gender role stereotypes.

Since I didn't know what I needed I decided to fake it and ask for a 50lb bag of chicken feed. The very big, very young farmer boy looked at me with a look I recognize as one I give to my kids and asks, "what kind of chicken feed? scratch? or bla-bla-bla*? or something bla-bla*?"

To which, I completely switch into my helpless female voice and say, "Oh, man. I don't know. My husband asked me to come and get it and I can't remember what he said to get. I don't want to call him 'cause he'll clobber me for not remembering (oh, yeah, and he doesn't have a clue what I should get) do you think you could help me figure out what I need?"

And, suddenly, I was swarmed with overall-wearing farm boys anxious to save me from my chicken dilemma. It was too fun. I got my feed, had it carried out to my car, was treated so sweetly by those feed store boys, and preserved my husband's reputation for farm-knowledge.

So, feminists, I think this must mean I'm out of your club. I can't imagine anything less in keeping with your ideals. Which is a bummer 'cause I sure do like your music...



*not intended to be an exact representation of terms used by the delightfully helpful feed store boy.