Before we get started, let me go on the record as saying I have nothing against feminists.
I am just not one. And it’s not because I’m a demure wallflower.
Words that have never been used to describe Margaret: demure, shy, reserved.
No, my reasons are as follows:
1.) They are just too gosh darn judgmental.
I have plenty of friends that call themselves feminists. And while they used to be the only people I could call up on a weeknight knowing full well that they’d be down for Happy Hour (they are perpetually single), they are also my biggest critics. They are the friends whom passive aggressively condemned women who change their last names after marriage…knowing full well that two months prior I had done just that. The same friends whose eyes narrowed when I declared I would not be returning to work. The same friends I dreading telling I was pregnant. They have a weird way of making me feel like none of my choices were my own. That they were forced upon me.
2.) The money I will save on Botox.
And that’s it. There you have it. This, in my opinion, is reason enough. Never will I worry about frown lines, crows feet, and that deep reservoir that seems to form between the eyebrows when someone is just too bitter and judgmental. At least not prematurely. I’ll age gracefully people.
3.) I don’t feel the need to be treated like an equal.
My husband NEEDS me, people. And only in a way that I, a woman, can provide. Exhibit A: My husband. Let’s take a closer look at the specials in its natural habitat. When we were dating (i.e. before I did his laundry; is this another reason why I can’t be a feminist?) he would often times run out of boxers, having to wear a pair or two inside out before he could get around to washing them. The man has SIXTY pairs of boxers. That’s right. Six-Zero. So, that means he would go over TWO MONTHS without doing laundry. Two moons would pass without the man lugging his giant heap of dirty clothes to the soon-to-be-overloaded machine.
I get more power out of knowing that I am irreplaceable than I ever could by having the same pay grade.
4.) All of my decisions are made based on emotion.
To be honest, I think this is true with all women. Including my very feminist grandmother who can’t talk politics with my dad without ending up in tears. Her tendency to throw back a few before broaching the topic could be partly to blame, but for the sake of this narrative we will pretend I didn’t mention it.
This is the number one reason I don’t think a woman should ever be president. There, I said it. Go ahead, nail me to the cross. Stone me in the town square. Hang me, quarter me, stuff my limbs and put me on display as a cautionary example. This is my truth, people. And if you’re a woman reading this, did that just make you emotional? Do you want to prove me wrong because this idea upsets you? Well look, there you go, basing your opinion on whether a woman should be president on your emotions.
5.) I just don’t care…enough.
Not that I don’t “care” about the advancement of my gender and being treated fairly. Just not as much as the die hard Libs. And not about the same things. Trump, Putin, Congress, investigations, sanctions, taxes, trade, war…yawn. These topics do not, in fact, get my panties in a bunch. Reading the news has the opposite effect on me actually. Meaning I read it to fall asleep. It literally puts me to sleep.
So really, I’ve got better things to do with my life.