Guest Post: Feminism Fatigue

ladies and gents out there in ubf land, once again proving that we are an equal opportunity depository of foolishness, allow us to introduce to you our partner in lines anani miss…more of her work can be found here…enjoy…

Picture this. It’s 2000.  Beyonce Knowles is just a girl who wears really ugly, really sparkly outfits missing really key pieces of fabric in really random places.  She sings a song about independent women.

Being 21, with my first job and paying my first car note, what did I do when said song came on?  I almost dislocated a shoulder attempting to throw my hands up at them.  I didn’t need no man, because I could get down like that.  I just needed me (well, and my mom to cosign for my car.)

I wanted to run the world.

Picture this.  It’s 2011.  The Patron Saint of Girl Power is just a mother-to-be finally able to afford clothes with enough fabric to cover her entire body.  She sings a song about girls running the world.

Being 32, way beyond my first job and paying off an infinite amount of grad school student loans, what did I do when said song came on?  I thought, “Ummmm, about that, B.  Running the world sounds like it might be too much work.”

I no longer want to run the world.

Yes, people, I have set woman-kind back 60 years.  And I am not alone.

My friends and I —  with our fancy degrees and good jobs — have all kinda come to a sad conclusion:  If someone told us that they would take care of us and we would never have to work for the rest of our lives, we would all say yes in a heartbeat.

Well, maybe not in a heartbeat.  First I’d have to roll my neck; wave one finger; stamp my foot; and do the hokey pokey while I turn myself around.  All the while asking him who he thinks he is to even have the nerve to ask blah blah blah  give up my dreams blah blah blah independence blah blah blah feel like a man.

But on the inside, I’d be thinking, “OMG!  I could wake up every day at 10 and STILL catch Judge Mathis!  Score!

I’m so disappointed in myself.  Even Beyonce’s fetus is probably shaking its half-formed head.  But Beyonce’s fetus is 12 weeks old and already rich, famous and scheduled to record a duet with Willow Smith.  So both Beyonce and her fetus can bite me.

Time Out:  Jay, if you’re reading this.  You and I are still cool though!  Where Brooklyn at? It’s the Roc.  Mic check. Time In.

Just like NWA Ice Cube would pistol whip “Are We There Yet?” Ice Cube, I know that Independent Woman Past Anani would slap the crap out of Present Anani.

Time Out:  I also used to think that NWA Dr. Dre would pistol whip Dr. Pepper endorsing Dr. Dre. But then I saw a recent pic of Dr. Dre and decided that NWA Dre would probably just back away very, very slowly.  Homeboy seriously looks like he used his proceeds from the last Eminem album to buy a lifetime supply of steroids.  Time In.

I am not supposed to feel like this.  It’s “I am woman, hear me roar.”  Not, “I am woman, hear me talk about how I spent all day not bothering to shower because a Chopped marathon was on.”

What went wrong?  How did I go from Independent Woman to Wanna-Be 50s Housewife?  I came up with three possible causes:

Reality Television:

If a show has either Wives or Love in the title, I will watch it, even if it’s just 43 minutes (minus commercials) of Evelyn Lozada picking her boogers. Me: “OMG.  Do you see how far up she was in her nose?  What a hoe!  Can’t wait for next week when she picks the other nostril!”

I have been brainwashed.  I now believe that life should be all about living in mansions, throwing drinks in chick’s faces, and pretending to be sexually attracted to 50-year-old men who still wear cornrows (and think clocks make good necklaces.)

Finally learning how to cook:

I bet you think I’m going to say some crap about it being the way to a man’s heart.  Wrong.   They have stoves (unless they removed it to make room for the 72 inch plasma TV).  They can cook their own food.

Before I learned to cook a couple years ago, I had to leave my house or I would starve.  As such, food became quite the motivation.   Thoughts about what I’d have for lunch would get me through the first few hours of work.  Then I’d spend the afternoon trying to decide if I was gonna get the chicken and biscuits or the chicken piccata from Cheesecake Factory on the way home.  Now that I cook, all desire to leave my house is basically gone.  Especially with gas at $4.00 a gallon.

Time Out:  To my non-cooking folks thinking about taking the plunge.  Do. Not. Do. It.  More cooked food in your house means more cooked food in your belly.  I’ve gained so much weight, I’m about 10 pounds away from looking like Dr. Dre’s evil twin sister. Time In.

The Man:

Everyone else blames him for their problems. And since I’m too lazy to think of a third reason, I am too!

So there you have it.  Ladies, before you vote to completely kick me out the tribe, let me say that at least I have not resorted to wanting to work the Pole!  That is way too demeaning (and I also don’t have the upper arm strength.)

Much love,

Anani ( )

About usbottlesandfriends
The tales of unpredictable truths from those guys your mom warned you about.

3 Responses to Guest Post: Feminism Fatigue

  1. TNK says:


  2. Pingback: Guest Post: Feminism Fatigue (via Us, Bottles, and Friends) « Anani Miss

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