It didn’t take long at all for my post-lent return to Twitter (I refuse to call it X) to throw me into a fit of rage. Post after post seemed like it was algorithmically-selected to make me mad and to make me hate women. To question why women even have the right to vote. (As if “democracy” is real anyway.) To sympathize with incels. A few hours later, I found myself driving in my car while loudly listening to The Highwomen’s song Highwomen and found myself singing Natalie Hemby’s verse at the top of my lungs, sobbing, thinking to myself, women are amazing. If you’re not a woman, this dichotomy may be perplexing. But for women, this is just another day in the life. Our duality is the stuff of dreams. (And nightmares.)
We’re fickle, we’re fanciful. I can be having “the worst day of my life” for “no reason at all,” my man will sweetly offer me a scoop of Pistachio ice cream, and I’ll immediately be better. The general consensus of all the well-adjusted males in my life seems to be that they do not love their wives/girlfriends/etc. despite these women being kind of irritating, but because they are kind of irritating. It’s endearing. I want to say that this is thanks to the security and stability that we’re afforded in these relationships. I rounded a corner in the last few weeks, and realized that in previous relationships, I’d been conditioned to wait for the other shoe to drop: neurotic, distrusting, leaning away from my innate female intuition and into my animus. Lately though, I’ve felt more feminine than ever, and that anxious energy has not manifested as neuroticism, but of “sweet quirkiness.” It’s waking up in the middle of the night and finding a tick on me— embarrassed but nonetheless horrified to the point of having to wake up my partner and enlist his help in finding the tick. (I finally did find it a few days later, it was in my hair, I’m not “crazy.”) It’s being a hormonal, weepy bitch all day and making my sweetheart a huge batch of pasta with a summer ragù to make up for it. It’s being a little bit clingy but knowing when to back off, because I possess the awareness required to know when I’m being “too much” and “not cute anymore.”
A good man has brought out the best in me. This is quite contrary to the message I’d heard growing up in the late 90s and early 2000s: to be dependent on a man is a sign of weakness. They’ll leave you poor, aging, and alone. They’ll beat you down if you’re more successful than them. To ask for help is a sign of co-dependence. Okay, but what happened to trust? Or rather, what happened to just being normal? What is this uniquely American impulse to conjure each and every hypothetical up from the fringes? Being able to sit in the passenger seat—literally and figuratively—has been freeing. It hasn’t felt like a prison sentence or willful manipulation. It feels good to trust.
Being able to lean on my partner has removed most of the major, existential stressors of wondering if the future will offer some semblance of security. Since being able to do this, I’ve settled into myself quite nicely and I must say: I love being a girl. Shoutout to all the girls who have come to this conclusion. It’s a wonderful place to be. I know this may sound odd since I’ve spent the last few years writing here in a way that’s pretty much crystallized my whole “bit” as being the precise opposite of a “girls’ girl.” I dislike 90% of the women I meet and I’ve started to wonder if this is because a lot of them hate being women.
“We love dogs because they express so honestly and without dissimulation what we also are and want. They and other pets calm us because promote a kind of carelessness normal to animal life, unencumbered by thoughts of the past or worries about the future, none of which actually exist. Women are, in their natural state, close to this condition as well, or closer on the whole, which is where they get much of their charm and power from (the modern education, that teaches women to be hyper-aware, anxious for the future, abstract neurotics, etc., actually takes away their power to a great degree, while tricking them into thinking they are being tough or sassy; but a hyper-conscious woman is made powerless and charmless).” - Bronze Age Pervert, Bronze Age Mindset
Under the rubric of modernity, I can understand why women would hate themselves. We’re taught from an incredibly young age that the only way to survive is if we choose to actively distrust every person we come across. By having our heads constantly on a swivel, we’re permanently frying our dopamine receptors. We soothe this with SSRIs. We go on hormonal birth control. We’re divorced of our innate intuition and biological impulses for selecting a mate and navigating life in general, and we know this on a subconscious level. Our resting state includes a healthy dose of anxiety—in fact, it becomes our baseline, and we habituate to those cortisol levels, allowing that stress to exponentially multiply. Spiritually, we’re so devoid of hope that we turn to doomerism as a cope. “I can’t have children because of climate change.” “I can’t leave my trendy, overpriced apartment without being raped—abolish prisons, btw.” “I would rather work than be dependent on a man.” (This last one is something I’m particularly passionate about and I feel the need to tell all the ladies reading this that your boss’s boss’s boss is either a man or a spiritually masculine woman and will discard you once you stop being profitable.)
As if that all wasn’t enough, women are especially brutal to each other. No one does misogyny like a woman, and I’m not even talking about myself. Ever notice how so many women only promote or build other women up if those women are less attractive, talented, or successful? (This is why I believe Taylor Swift has amassed such a huge following by the way—she lacks the looks, talent, and sexuality to be seen as a threat in any of the key ways in which inter-sexual competition manifests. She is mid in every sense, and women would rather venerate a delegate of their own pablum existence than someone actually charismatic or compelling.) It’s a miserable existence.
Despite all this, I love being a girl. Why? Because not all women are “like this.” I was, but I’m not anymore. I’m, dare I say, not like other girls. Women can be amazing, but these days, most women are decidedly not. We’re free to reject the things that make us neurotic and mediocre, but we must take a proverbial leap of faith to do so. You don’t need to hang out with women who are “like this.” You don’t even need to acknowledge them. You can find ones who are secure and stable but still a little bit crazy. I’ve noticed that all of my closest friends are in secure relationships with good men. We all know that we don’t need to compete to find a mate. We have ‘em. We know other women are vying for our partners’ attention (still—and yes, we see you, some of us carry Glocks in our purses…) and take to our group chats to mock the desperation. We think our jobs are funny things we use to make money, not something we take too seriously or make our entire personality.
We’ve discovered that one of the most beautiful parts of femininity is the unseriousness. We don’t need to dwell on the fantasy horror of living in some Handmaid’s Tale dystopian future. We don’t need to personally catastrophize every current event. We can simply exist. We can just chill. And we do. And it’s really beautiful.
Beaming reading this one. 10/10 no notes