I’ve always been something of a feminist. Between having three brothers and being inherently competitive I don’t think I could’ve turned out any other way.

Trouble was, I was kind of an aggressive feminist.

With the hopes that my brothers and I would absorb old school values my conservative parents only let us watch PBS shows and mid-century movies. So, naturally, my role models became:

Lucille Ball

Calamity Jane

and Anne of Green Gables.

No Disney princesses for me.

In my mind the ideal woman was loud, scrappy, and unapologetic. She also couldn’t care less about being pretty.

Being pretty was impractical. It took up a lot of time and was never convenient.

It also proved to be the root of an incredible double standard.

I realized relatively quick that I was living in a man’s world and resentment toward the male species started to settle in around the age of seven.

It didn’t help that I was surrounded by the nasty vermin.

I remember believing that dresses were the ultimate symbol of patriarchal oppression. They made it difficult to run, and when you did run adults always got upset.

Dresses seemed like a genius scheme contrived by men to keep women slow and manageable.

Which is why I’ll never forget that red and white polka dot dress.

My mom bought it special while we were visiting my grandparents in California because she wanted to doll me up for church.

She was excited.

I was not.

 

 

 

It might as well have been a straight jacket.

As we were paraded into church, my parents beamed with pride at their adorable baby girl.

I was a ticking time bomb.

5…4…3…

2…1…

I couldn’t believe it.

I’d discovered a magic button that could instantly bring a grown man to his knees.

 

Adrenaline hummed through my body like a live wire. The power was intoxicating.

One at a time I would cut them down.

They would be humiliated.

They would be humbled.

Five minutes later…

Irritatingly enough, not a single person was impressed with my newfound superpower and the ensuing conversation with my dad was extremely awkward.

Mostly because I wasn’t sorry.

Not even a little bit.