I love my husband.

I’m cutting and pasting this post from my personal blog, dated late October, because I’m too lazy to retype the whole thing over again just to make a one-sentence point. Here:

So a few weeks ago I signed up for a subscription to Bitch magazine, and ordered some back issues as well – I’d heard mention of it on a few different sites I read on a regular basis, and was in the mood for some new reading material/food for thought. Feminism, pop culture, bitchiness; what’s not to love?

The back issues finally arrived this weekend, and J brought in the package to me last night, and I got all excited and ripped it open, anxious to get started (even though it was already 11). John picks one up; “’Bitch’? What is this?” and I explain, and he gets a very worried look on his face. “But…you’re not a feminist. You, like, shave your legs [on occasion] and wear a bra and you got married. To a man.” And so of course that got me all fired up, because 1) How is it that J and I have been together for 6 years and married for 3, and him not know that I’m a feminist???, 2) Let’s not stay muddled in 1970’s stereotypes, hon, and 3) I’ve been walking around with a chip on my shoulder for the last few days anyway; it was just a matter of time before I threw a fit of righteous indignance.

After I got over my initial shock at this revelation, I asked J a question: “Do you think, all things being equal (besides genitalia), that I should get paid just as much as a man doing the same job with the same level of competence?” He answers yes, to which I reply, “Then you’re a feminist too.”

And I know that’s putting it in incredibly simplistic terms, but…uh, yeah, that’s pretty much the core of the idea. Sars put it much better than I ever could.

**Update: I sent the above TN post to J on Monday, when I wrote this. He came home that night, after working late, and admitted to being a feminist in that sense of the word, and then he voluntarily gave me the most awesome foot rub while I lay in bed eating cookies and reading more Bitch. Fuckin’ A.


Okay, all this to say: Last night, my darling husband actually used the phrase “hypersexualization of preteen girls” in a conversation. It was awesome. You’ve come a long way, baby.