The Chopstick Factor

Funny thing happened yesterday. But before I ramble, let me warn you. I don't know how to talk about it in a politically correct manner. I wouldn't want to talk about it in a politically correct manner. I cannot stand political correctness. It’s fatuous. It’s vapid. It's absolute bollocks. If he or she reading this feels offended, he or she should just go back to his or her own blog, and if he or she doesn’t have one, he or she should create one of his or her own and rant about me to his/her heart's content. See? Let me try this in Portuguese, it’s even funnier because our adjectives have a gender. Bear with me and pretend you understand. “Se aquele/aquela que estiver a ler isto se sentir ofendido/ofendida, ele/ela deverá regressar ao (seu, but i’ll cheat) blog dele/dela, etc”. It would be even more effective in Hebrew because the tenses are different according to whether it’s a she/he/they female/they male etc.

Oh, it aggravates me! Hersterectomy. Herstory. Herspanic. And why are its proponents so very often women harbouring Sidney, the Aussie Spider, in their armpits? Why can they mow the grass just by sliding over it with bare legs? The very type who will kick a bloke in the balls if he dares - the sheer audacity! - to open the door for them, or be gentlemanly in any way? And should they get married (oh but marriage is just a paper blablabla) why are they so adamant about hanging on to their own last name so as to not be corrupted by the males'? Did their mothers beget them by parthenogenesis or have they ramdomly decided to disregard the fact that their last name is their fathers’? Or, even more intelligently, they take the mother’s name and walk around carrying their grandfathers’.

I have a very low threshold for stupidity. Let me seriously say, rituals are important. Institutions are important. Hierarchies are important. They shape us, they guide us, they let us know who we are (both by identification and opposition to), they give us the conformity within which we can operate (don’t get me started on the ethological improbability of anarchy!), they give us the conformity against which we can rebel (ditto). So. How people - and in all fairness, they come in all shapes and sizes and aren't all very butch - can mistake politeness for condescendence is beyond me. Being animals, vertebrate at that, and most importantly, primates, we are physiology-bound to a fair extent (we base an amazing amount of our behaviour in biology/genes, I’ll post the T-shirt Smell Experiment story some other time) and we have rigid social codes as well- and what a good thing that is. We need structure, we need rules, we need a common ground upon which we are able to recognise and interpret all sorts of signals that are vital to our survival even on a day-to-day basis. We are not all created equal. We are never equal and we are not all the same. Show me 3 strangers thrown together for a longish period and I’ll guaranty a pecking order in progress. It may vary but it will be present. We can all hope to be Alphas, but we run the gamut from Alpha to Omega and most of us are somewhere in between.

Politeness of all kinds and among all people are wonderful things. It does not diminish me as a woman. I find it empowering, oh yes I do. I most certainly do not feel patronised. I actually feel respected. A hint for those currently praying for a shag: it is a TURN ON because EVERYONE (should they happen to be normal) LIKES TO BE WOOED. Chivalry facilitates the "woo factor", ascertains its potential. Which almost brings me to the Chopstick Factor. In a bold manoeuvre, seeing as I briefly inhabited a parallel universe, I'll digress about it a in a future post called Political Correctness or the Minor Gods of Balderdash.