women

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I guess I was a tomboy as a kid, but I didn’t really think about it. Now, of course, I wear it like a badge of honour in feminist circles — “Yes, I was a TOMBOY, how GENDER PROGRESSIVE of me!” — but back then, I wore what I liked, and most of what I liked came from the hand-me-down pile I got from my dad’s friend’s son. It was there, it was easy to wear, and it didn’t rip when I climbed trees or made my church’s wheelchair ramp into an impromptu set of monkey bars.

I did get flak for it now and then — I remember a girl in 7th grade trying to give me a hard time for wearing camo khakis because “army isn’t popular anymore” — but I honestly didn’t care. I didn’t realise that clothes were an extension of self, not really, until high school. Besides, I did wear dresses sometimes — to church or weddings, on class picture day, and when I pretended I was an orphan (my favourite childhood game).

Somewhere around the middle of high school I became more conscious of gender identity, and made a personal choice to flaunt it. Girls were expected to wear makeup and spend time on their hair, so I did neither. (With thigh-length curls, this … was more difficult than you’d think.) Girls were supposed to wear clothes that set off their figure, so (smack-dab in the middle of a mild, puberty-related body dysmorphia crisis) I snatched my dad’s oversized t-shirts and wore those. I started wearing things I knew would annoy people (riding boots, cargo jumpsuits, an entire outfit based on Han Solo’s look in “A New Hope” complete with Corellian Bloodstripe down the slacks). Every time someone made a nasty comment about my clothes, I relished it.

At the same time I found the community of tomboys, and fell head-first into that. Tomboys didn’t wear dresses, at least, not unless they’re forced into it, so I made sure to complain loudly any time I had to wear something nice for special events. I got special dispensation from my voice teacher to wear pantsuits instead of dresses at concerts. I put aside my geeky desire for a green wedding dress (the tradition of Corellia — sound off if you knew that!) and vowed to get married in pants.

This is not, in case people are waiting for it, a post about how I later realised my silliness and returned to the world of skirts and girl-jeans. It might be easier if it was, but my own gender identity, as it relates to clothes, is more complicated.

Now I’m an adult (or so they tell me) — I’ve been out of schooling and working full-time for several years now, anyway. I’ve stopped wearing baggy jeans a million sizes too big, and attempting to hide my size-D chest under enormous t-shirts (spoilers: that doesn’t actually work!). I still own more guy-jeans than girls’, and my general wardrobe is made up of t-shirts from Thinkgeek or Threadless or Topatoco, with a smattering of cheap wife-beaters picked up from outlet stores. For special occasions I have snazzy suits and pantsuits, usually pinstriped, and I still refuse to wear makeup or do anything to my hair (now short) other than wash it and let it dry.

Dressing up, girl-style

What I dress like 90% of the time

Dressing up, normal-style (pose mocking the manniquin, mind)

 

 

 

However. For the first time since I was 8, I also have dresses and skirts in my closet; for the first time ever, I’m the one who bought them. Sometimes I’ll wear a dress and go outside — just for fun! This sounds like I’m being facetious, but it’s honestly a momentous change for me. Those close to me will know what I mean.

Every time I do, though, I face a huge internal struggle. I feel like I’m betraying my cultural identity as a tomboy, and by extension, someone who flouts gender expectations — which is still extremely important to me. I feel like I’m somehow letting feminism down. I feel like I’m dressing in drag — even though I am a woman — and that someone is going to jump out of the bushes and call me a fraud. Ever watch that Daria episode where she gets contacts? Her dilemma is pretty much mine in a nutshell, but with the added embarrassment that I’m not 17 anymore. I should be over this.

It would help if people didn’t make such a big deal out of it, but that’s partly my fault. In maintaining myself as a tomboy, I can’t expect to switch to girl clothes and NOT make a stir. It’s subverting of expectations. But what really gets me is the satisfaction in people’s responses. “See, I TOLD you …” or “Oh, good, you’re FINALLY dressing yourself!” or “I KNEW you’d change your mind about dresses one day!” The most dreaded are the “If you do this every day, you’ll get a boyfriend in no time!” because a.) not applicable and b.) pretty much affirms every one of my reasons not to dress in girl clothes in the FIRST place (that men will only want you if you’re a stereotypical girl — FALSE — and that this is a consideration you should take into account daily).

Sometimes I wish clothes weren’t so complicated. I wish we could just wear what we want, when we want to, as long as it’s vaguely appropriate for the situation. I wish that I could wear guy’s clothes without people telling me I’ll never find anyone that way (ha, WRONG, suckers!) or that I’d “look better” if I wore makeup and dresses. I wish I could wear a dress for a day, just because I feel like it, without people saying they KNEW I’d come to my senses one day.

This sort of fails as a blog post because I’m supposed to wrap it up with a thought-provoking solution, but I don’t have one. But I can’t be the only one with confused sartorial gender identity, so shout out! Let’s get some community up in the house!

I was one of the guys in high school.

Saying this can evoke any number of responses or images from other women, but one I hear quite often is, "Oh, that must have been fun! I wish I could've been one of the guys." Recently I've seen a lot of romanticization of the position, as I live in Japan, where the girls-crossdressing-as-guys thing is a huge trope. When I was actually in high school, I heard this lament from my female friends almost weekly.

I'm here to tell you that no, ladies, you probably don't.

Don't get me wrong — I loved it. In high school I was not interested in dating, had no real romantic inclinations (except a preternatural attraction to men who turned out, without fail, to be gay), and would have been horrified to discover any of the guys I hung out with were interested in me. I loved the freedom, the fun, the complete lack of expectation of how girls were supposed to act in high school. I loved being able to joke with them and have conversations they'd never, ever have with other girls. I just don't think it would have worked for everyone.

This "one of the guys" thing has gotten romanticisized in a way that makes no doggone sense. The popular culture image of said girl is always one who's ridiculously attractive while liking whatever non-stereotypically-girly thing the boys like (sports and beer, if they're jocks; comics and gaming, if they're nerds, and so on), and most of the guys secretly want to have sex with her. I imagine that's how the girls I was friends with saw this — that I was, somehow, privy to a whole level of dating potential that they weren't. Unfortunately for them, there's only one actual rule to being "one of the guys", and that is:

None of them can want to have sex with you.

None of them can even see you as pertaining to sex at all.

Being one of the guys is basically a girl's version of the "friend zone", only moreso. I'm pretty sure all those girls in high school who had crushes on the dudes I flung my orange peels at would've been exceedingly frustrated had they actually been in my position. Where popular culture portrays us as being sex queens who are hot enough, awesome enough, and "not girly" enough (whatever that means) to get past the "NO GIRLS ALLOWED" door and into a private sex party, I can assure you it really, really isn't like that.

To reiterate: if any of them want to have sex with her, she's not one of the guys. If any of them hit on her, she's not one of the guys. The same works in reverse: if she is attracted to, or hits on, any of them, she's not one of them.

I mean, it might be possible. But most high school girls would get tense hearing their boyfriends speculate on which other girls either had, or would end up having, fake breasts, or who would be the best to sleep with if you were gay and didn't want anyone to know, and therefore, who would be the one to avoid sleeping with if you were straight and didn't want people to think you were gay. And, frankly, they'd be right to. That's not the sort of thing you generally talk about with the person you're dating.

Being one of the guys is not a privileged rank that I brag about. It means I was so far from even being on the sexual spectrum with these guys that I didn't trip any filters in their minds, the same way they wouldn't think sexy thoughts about their buddies. On one hand, that meant there was no wall between me and them, which was, I admit, pretty cool. But it also meant that I had to self-censor all the freaking time, because being one of the guys and being a feminist are two very difficult things to reconcile. Even though the guys had forgotten I had lady bits, I never did — and I knew that one wrong move would get me booted out, for good.

When they were sexist or patriarchal (which was, let's face it, about 80% of the time), at first I kept my mouth shut for fear of reminding them I wasn't actually one of them. If a guy makes a rape joke, what do you — ostensibly as one of them — do? Make a big deal out of it, ruining the friendship, or sit in silence, hating everyone and feeling guilty? Eventually I got the hang of telling them off without sounding like a girl, which usually involved being sexist right back, with a good side dose of mockery. It did get to the point where I could call a guy out for saying something sexist or offensive and have him back off, without tripping his defenses or derailing the train of the conversation. Sometimes a simple, chastising "duuuude" was enough; sometimes more. It just took a lot of concentration, and always felt uncomfortable.

Being "one of the guys" can be fun, illuminating, liberating, and challenging. It can also be awkward, uncomfortable, and give you the sense that you're compromising your values. Some days it's great, cracking jokes about Shakespeare and the Salem Witch trials and blackmailing them into dressing as girls for a school project; other days you look through magazines telling them which girls have implants and how to tell, and feeling vaguely icky about it. Like anything, it's a mixed bag. It's not, though, the plot of any movie where the girl ends up in an all-guys' school and ends up in a love quadrangle.

Anyone know any popular culture representations where the girl actually is one of the guys, and not in an uncomfortable way? Let me know! (The only one I can think of offhand is the blacksmith in "A Knight's Tale", and I love her.)

It's a sad day when I step in to save the Disney princesses. It's kind of like when the most fundamentalist of Christians think Fred Phelps is crazy. I have a feminist opinion on everything, and always have had since I was a little girl. I've been called "man-hater" and any number of lovely monikers for my opinions since before I hit puberty (though back then I think it was called "cooties").

And yet, I have to say, lay off Belle and Ariel. 

I've seen it all over the place, and it's beginning to drive me crazy. Not because I think the Disney women are paragons of strength and gender non-conformity, but because people are, so often, missing the point. I can passionately agree with someone's ideas, but if I think they're making them on mistaken grounds, I can't get behind what they're saying.

Let's start with Ariel.

What people say:

The "lesson" in The Little Mermaid is all about keeping quiet; it doesn't matter if you have nothing interesting or intelligent to say — and if you do, it's better to shut up, anyway — because men don't care about that. They want your looks.  Your pretty face.  And don't underestimate the power of body language!

Why they're missing the point:

Did that last sound familiar? That's because Ursula, the villain, actually says that in the film.  In fact, her entire reprise of "Poor, Unfortunate Souls" undercuts the very societal trend that feminists are accusing the film of espousing.  Ursula mocks society, highlighting the idea that men like stupid, silent women — and making fun of everyone for it. She clearly thinks Ariel's an idiot for taking the deal, because it doesn't actually work. This is what everyone tells you men like — but it's not true.  Not the good ones.  Not the ones who find true love.

And it doesn't work. Eric doesn't fall in love with Ariel based on her looks ("on her BODY!" one scandalized blogger spat, as though noticing someone's physical appearance is a sin).  There's an entire scene, leading up to the iconic "Kiss the Girl" song, devoted to wondering why the heck Eric hasn't sealed the deal yet on the basis of Ariel's big blue eyes alone. Sebastian's advice to Ariel about "you gotta bat your eyes, like dis; you gotta pucker up your lips like dis" is for naught.  Eric does lean in to kiss her in the boat, but only because the animals give him the subliminal equivalent of a sledgehammer to the back of the head.  It's not enough.

The other thing is, though, that Ariel and Eric do communicate. They communicate like a mute person and someone who doesn't speak sign language, or two people without a common language.  And it's not just mad flailing; while Eric occasionally misunderstands her, he responds to her as a person who is actually talking to him, not like someone making goo-goo voices to a baby or "you're so cute, aren'tcha!" to their dog.  So often in movies, when there's a communication gap, people talk at the other person, not expecting a response; Eric doesn't. He waits for Ariel to react and gauges her opinion on her expressions and gestures — watch the scene where he tries to guess her name.

Yes, all right, it is lame that he falls in love with her just because she saved his life, and this is not the best basis for two teenagers (sixteen and eighteen) to marry.  And yes, Ariel drastically changes her physical appearance and leaves her family in order to be with Eric, something that always made me frown even when I was five years old. I always cried at the ending, not because I was happy, but because I couldn't believe Ariel would leave her father and the ocean just for this guy. I'm not crazy. But this is why I get so annoyed at the people who focus on Ariel's silence — there are plenty of things to criticize, so why that point?

Let's move on to Belle.  First, let me just say that until I came across a number of blog posts castigating her — one that even referred to her as "the worst" Disney princess — I didn't even realize there was a problem. I, a person who routinely gets frothingly angry over commercials, no less.

What people say:

Belle's story is all about living with an abusive partner, hoping that if you stick with him long enough, he'll magically change and you'll have a prince. It sets up the unrealistic expectation that abusers will stop if you just keep quiet and take it — eventually, your love alone will heal them. That's a horrible message to tell little girls.

Why they're missing the point:

We already have a Disney princess whose moral is to keep quiet about abuse: Cinderella. But that's a rant for another time.

I don't even know where to start with this. First of all, Beauty an the Beast is not about putting up with domestic abuse, because Belle does not put up with it — not once!  She shouts back; she refuses to acquiesce to his demands; when he orders her to stay in her room and starve if she won't play nice, she waits until he's alseep and gets her own food; she ignores practically every rule the Beast sets out for her.  She never rewards his behaviour, instead calling him out openly and clearly, rather than reacting passive-aggressively and hoping he gets the point. When the Beast changes his temperament, it's not because he was healed by her love but because for the first time in his life — he was transformed when he was 10 or 11, for goodness' sake, and surrounded by nothing but kowtowing household objects after that — someone told him his behaviour was inappropriate.

This is not what abuse looks like.  If it were abuse, Belle would not have shouted back at him; she would not have "broken her promise" and left when he roared at her and broke things; she would not have refused to come to dinner; she would not have explored the castle against his wishes, even going so far as to barge in on his private sanctuary — which, when I was a kid, bothered me immensely, as I valued my privacy, and I understood why he went a little nuts.

Some people are not taught how to behave; the Beast certainly wasn't. Of course we don't date these people, hoping our love will change them — Belle doesn't do anything of the kind. If anything, she takes on the role of stern teacher, and shows not even a hint of romantic interest until after he realizes he's been behaving badly and attempts to change.

In fact, the movie gives us a distinct contrast in the way that potential abusers can react to being brought up short on their behaviour — Gaston.  Remember: the Beast behaves badly, and Belle tells him so; he falls back, reconsiders himself and his actions, and decides to better himself.

Now take Gaston.  He behaves even worse than the Beast, in my opinion — while the former has the excuse of being sequestered away in a tower, turned into a hideous monster, and never told the word "no" by his entire entourage, Gaston has nothing.  He's dismissive, disrespectful, physically threatening (notice how he's always inserting himself into Belle's space, and attempting to initiate contact while she expressly refuses).  His dream marriage is one where his wife is a combined mother, housekeeper, and sex slave — not unlike the marriage ideal of our society.

Belle calls him out on it.  Repeatedly.  She even uses small words when she realizes he's not getting it, just like with the Beast. But rather than realize that his behaviour is inappropriate, Gaston responds in the creepiest manner ever — becoming more attracted, and resolving to break her, even if he has to isolate her from her family and loved ones in the process.  The Beast does the same, but not out of sexual intent; Gaston does.  Gaston wants Belle, not because she's particularly beautiful, but because she's a challenge — and his ego can't handle a challenge.  Nothing would please him more than seeing this fiery, intelligent girl massaging his feet.

And so, rightly, Belle rejects him, because he does not change. Later, she ends up falling for the Beast because he does change. This is not a weak woman who knuckles under to abuse. Belle ignores the Beast when he's having a tantrum, smacks him when he's out of line, and doesn't fall for him until he grows up.  To accuse her of being an abuse victim misses the point so entirely that I can't even come up with an appropriate metaphor.

The fact that these bloggers write off the Beast for having a temper — one to which Belle never capitulates, but challenges herself — bothers me to no small degree.  In a way, what these women are suggesting is that the only men we're allowed to marry are, in fact, the personality-less Ken dolls of Disney movies past.  No personality, no faults, no temper.  As if no one could enjoy verbal sparring, when in fact I know several couples who use fighting as foreplay.  If we flipped the gender switch, would these bloggers argue that a woman should not be allowed to have a temper?  I think not.

Again, like The Little Mermaid, Beauty and the Beast does have its own weird mixed messages. After all the emphasis on falling in love with someone regardless of appearance, the Beast gets turned back into a cookie-cutter prince who, strangely, loses all his originality and appeal. With some thinking and twisting you can find ways to look at it that aren't disturbing — that, for example, this isn't Belle's reward, but the Beast's, as now he can marry without having pitchforks thrown at him, and his servants can stop being, well, tableware — but at first glance, it's definitely puzzling.  So why, again, stoop to the false premise approach?

Unfortunately, there's an even bigger problem at work here. More than one blogger expressed distaste for Disney princesses, and either refused to buy them for her daughter, or sighed and capitulated but gritted her teeth in secret.  Why?  Both these approaches are flawed.  In the first, the daughter won't understand the reasons, and will just think her mother unreasonable; in the second, she won't ever learn that her mother is upset.  There's a better answer here, and wait for me, because it's a radical one –

Talk to your children.

No. Really. If a child is old enough to absorb unhealthy messages from the media, then she or he is old enough to sit down with a parent and talk about these messages. 

When I was a child, my mother banned several things she thought were inappropriate. For some of them, she gave me reasons; for others, she just said "because I said so". In the cases where I was given a reason, I was able to consider whether or not I agreed with her reasoning, and decide for myself whether it was worth it to break her rules. Sometimes I ended up agreeing with her; sometimes I thought she was worrying unnecessarily, as I wasn't getting the message she feared I was. But in the cases where I got no reason, other than "it's inappropriate" or "it's not funny", I honestly didn't understand, and generally was angry or bitter about having something taken away. When we didn't have a meaningful discussion about why my mother disliked me watching or reading something, I took nothing away from it.

No one can force a parent to let their child watch Disney films.  If said parent really, really hates the Disney princesses with a passion but has a child who loves them, then why not make it a teaching point?  Why not counterpoint the "bad values" that the Disney movies espouse with positive ones, as contrast? Ask the child questions: "Do you agree with Ursula? Do you think girls should be quiet if they want boys to like them?" or "What should you do if the person you love shouts at you?" and see what they say. At worst, the kids will think exactly what the parents are afraid they're thinking — at which point the parent kicks off a discussion — and at best, the parent fosters the desire to think critically about the messages presented in the media from an early age.

Either way, in the words of that youtube guy whose name I don't actually know, leave Belle and Ariel alone!

From puberty onward, I have heard a certain phrase, uttered at me by friends, extended family, classmates, coworkers, strangers.  It's said by both men and women.  It's said in a range from completely joking, to half-joking, to completely serious, but always as though these people are doing me a favour, imparting incredible wisdom on me.  The phrase is this:

"You're never going to find [a man] if you keep being so picky."

The phrase can be triggered by any number of things: from friends, when I said I couldn't seriously date anyone who didn't have at least analagous religious beliefs, or that I didn't want someone who would pressure me to have sex and would break up if they did, or that I couldn't date a smoker; from strangers, while reading books that looked "too intelligent" (yes, honestly), or wearing shirts that said things like "Proud to be single" or "Talk nerdy to me"; from extended family members or colleagues, when responding to their "why aren't you dating?" inquiries with "I'm not interested in dating anyone who gets trashed and pukes all over the floor every night".  We won't even get into what happens if I speak my mind on an issue, feminist or no.

Now, I don't think I have an unacceptable list of requirements/prohibitions.  I love my God and would get tired of someone who insisted on reminding me my beliefs are "wrong"; I'm not interested in sex — not in being convinced, persuaded, cajoled, not now, not ever — and it would be unfair to date someone for whom sex was important; I'm asthmatic, so being with a smoker would mean daily attacks and a constant migraine; I'm intelligent and want to have conversations with my partner about things that interest me; and I'm allergic to alcohol, so someone with a daily obsession in which I have no interest in — and in fact a medical preclusion to — makes no sense.

Nevertheless, apparently this is so bad that these people — even store clerks in a clothing store or a random woman in the airport — felt the need to inform me that, if I did not change my ways, I would wind up alone, unloved, and surrounded by a million cats who would one day devour my cold, dead flesh before anyone thought to look for me.  

Meanwhile, I heard my male friends proclaim their "lists", which contained things like "must be hot", "must have a nice rack", "smart but not too smart", "isn't a gold-digger but makes a little bit less than me".  Did their male friends tell them they would never find a woman?  No.  Did their friends even warn them that it's more important to find someone you love than someone who fits random breast size requirements?  No.  Their buddies cheered and agreed, whole-heartedly.

It's not just me.  We see it every day on television, both in sitcoms and in real life — the average guy and the smokin' wife.  I'm not the only woman who's been told she's "too picky" for wanting someone who will share housework, while men are lauded for having "standards" if they refuse to bang anyone over 28.  

Why do we do this?  We're constantly telling women that it's no good having any preferences in a partner because they're not good enough to warrant choice.  They don't deserve someone who matches their life pattern.  They should just settle for the first shlub with working genitalia who doesn't hit them, because after that, theyre just being choosy.  And if they do insist on waiting for their "prince", this stupid, unreasonable, unrealistic, and just wait, one day they'll realize the truth of the world and it will be too late.

It's incredibly hurtful and unfair, and I do not understand it. Especially since we're programming into women's heads that there's no such thing as a good man — which is patently false!  There are millions of them, everywhere, every day!  Men who do not beat, abuse, neglect, or disrespect their girlfriends or wives.  But women are taught that these men don't exist, that they're an unrealistic fantasy placed into their head by Disney princes (yes, I hear this, all the time), and that settling is what's important.  No one bothers to mention that maybe these magical guys aren't going to be hanging around sports bars, looking to get laid.

It's also ridiculous to me — and what eventually made me start lashing out at acquaintances and strangers, giving me labels like "uptight bitch" and "feminazi" — that people think that dating a complete schmuck is better than being alone. I've heard people honestly say that "anyone is better than a Friday night by yourself", and I know it happens.  Guys who aren't as handsome stick around until last call at the bar because they know women get more desperate as the night goes on.  Women would rather lose their self-respect, go home with a complete jerk, and make the walk of shame in the morning than return home without sexual validation.  It's disgusting.

Once, in university, a family friend visited me and casually asked why I wasn't dating.  At that very moment, a group of guys ran by, drunk at four in the afternoon, cheering about getting laid that night.  I looked at my friend, raised an eyebrow, and said nothing.  She paused, then said, "I understand".  That's the only time I can remember this happening.  One of my favourite family members, whom I love and adore and respect dearly, got angry — actually angry! which she'd never done in my entire remembrance! — and snapped at me that if I was going to be so "unreasonable" as to "judge" a group of boys who got drunk in the parking lot of a restaurant at lunchtime and left their empties on the ground, well, I'd better be prepared to be alone for the rest of my life.

Why? Why are we doing this?  This hurts women.  It teaches them that being alone is something to be ashamed of — worse, that it's a mark of failure on the part of themselves, for not attracting someone, for being too "picky", for thinking they're "too good" for the regular guys that everyone else settles for.  It teaches them that it's better to have a man who sits on the couch watching television and occasionally demanding refills than to be alone.  It teaches them that even women who say they're happy being single are lying.  It teaches them that the ones who aren't lying are somehow damaged.

The other problem is that this hurts men as well.  No, really.

Men are led to believe that the only partners they are allowed to have must be thin (see: the mockery when men date a woman who's overweight), yet buxom (see: the remarks when men date a woman with small breasts), younger (see: the incredulity if a man dates a woman who's older and NOT a cougar just in it for the temporary sex), less successful or financially solvent (see: humiliation  and "kept boy" remarks regarding men who date women with better jobs), subservient (see: "hen-pecked" and "whipped" for men whose girlfriends "make" them wait an entire month before having sex for the first time) — on and on and on. 

Men who find happy, non-conventionally attractive, successful women willing to take an equal share in the partnership are not encouraged to be happy in society; they're mocked, mercilessly. It doesn't matter if their buddies are secretly jealous, deep down inside; they'll only hear the jibes.  The assumption that they could "do better". It's no wonder that so many married men cheat on their wives with someone younger, thinner, blonder, bigger-breasted.  They're taught that it's their right, if they settled for less.  It's no wonder that capital-N Nice Guys whine about hot girls choosing jerks, while they themselves ignore perfectly awesome, but not conventionally attractive, women who actually are attracted to them.  They're told that they deserve better.

This doesn't make it right, and this is not an excuse, but it does shed light on part of the reason this happens.

The subversion to this, bless her, was Jane Austen in Pride and Prejudice, with Mr. Darcy.  His list — not even of his ideal woman, but his idea of an "accomplished" woman, involving extensive reading, the modern languages, embroidery, musical instruments, etc. — gets shot down by Lizzie, who declares that she can't believe he knows even six such women. The Bollywood version, Bride and Prejudice, manages to miss the point so completely as to become hypocritical in and of itself, with Lalita castigating Will Darcy for wanting a voluptuous, athletic, intelligent woman while having an entire song to herself about her ideal man (not a drinker, humble, intelligent, not a control-freak, romantic, loves to dance, does housework, not obsessed with money, equal opportunity, and it keeps on going!) and not being called on it.  Apparently our society's idea of "progress" means flipping it around and putting impossibly high standards on men while insulting them for doing the same.  Insert collective sigh here.

Enough is enough.  This is not, as people continue to tell me, smugly, if I bring this up, the bitter ravings of an ugly, unloved dyke who couldn't land a man and is now striking back at the world that rejected her.  This is a problem that hurts everyone — men and women, adults and teenagers.  Moreover, this is completely unnecessary.  And it has to stop.

Bromance is a big hit lately.  Cop shows and other procedurals like Castle or Scrubs are rife with the fist-bumping variety of this, but you can also find it in period pieces or historical dramas like the BBC's Merlin.  Earlier shows had many more: Due South, The Sentinel, Starsky and Hutch, Hawaii Five-O. While occasionally shows make joking gay references that get laughed off or explained away, often the friendships are just there, strong and unapologetic. These are men who epitomize "bros before hos", who would, and often do, take bullets for one another.

Tolkien's Lord of the Rings is an uber-example of this, filled with the deepest, most transcendent of friendships. "I can't carry it for you," says Sam to Frodo, referring to the Ring, "But I can carry you!"  Men swear their lives to one another, literally, and mean every word of it.

Don't get me wrong; I love bromance. I love that friendship is making a comeback, and that the Pink Scare — our generation's answer to McCarthyism — is finally beginning to wear off.  But let's flip the coin and look at friendship on the other side of the sex line, shall we?

Materialistic and fatuous television shows like Sex and the City. Horrifying movies like Bride Wars.  The women in these stories are shallow, near-sighted, and back-stabbing — nearly every plot that involves two women has one of them betray the other in some way. Very seldom do we see female friendships presented in a way that doesn't suggest each woman would gladly throw the other out the window over a man, a pair of shoes, a wedding location.  We get the picture that female friendships are battlefields, or practice runs until women find their "real" companion — a man.

Even affirming stories about powerful women, like The First Wives Club (movie, not book), focus almost exclusively on their relationships with men. It is through men that they relate, and around men that almost all their conversations revolve.

It's exhausting. I miss Anne Shirley and Diana Barry (though to be honest, I thought Diana a little silly, and wondered how Anne could be such firm friends with a person of no imagination). I miss Cagney and Lacey.  I miss Cimorene and Morwen (but not Cimorene and what's-her-face, who disappears after book one when she gets married).  And I wish I could come up with more examples without having to strain myself. Occasionally I recall what initially appears to be a strong female friendship before remembering that no, yet again, it seems that poor, whiny Claudio was right, and friendship is constant, save in the office and affairs of love. Even Jane Austen can't give us friendships without the women fighting about a man at least once (Emma and Harriet, Lizzie and Charlotte).  Even Cathy, the love-it-or-hate-it girl-power comic of the last few decades, championed the maxim, "When the boyfriend calls, the single [female] friend gets dumped".

There are plenty of reasons to fight with one's friends, and even good friends will fight. But are writers so unimaginative that the only conflicts they can devise for women are about shoes, shopping, or weddings? Male friends in bromance stories fight about work, about principles, about family, about life-and-death. Why can't it be the same for women?  What, for goodness' sake, are we teaching our girls?

Part of this is personal, having grown up fiercely protective of my female friends, a trait that was appreciated when I was young but increasingly seen as odd the older I got. It was expected that I would grow out of it when I realized that my relationships with men were more important. When I didn't, people began to whisper, to accuse, to pity. Countless people have told me, to my face, when referring to my closest friend, to enjoy it now because even if I don't marry, she will, and then she — having recovered her priorities — will drop me, and it will be my fault for being so naive.

Because of this, I turned to fiction to find solace in the friendships there — and here the fictional world let me down, too. I found precious few friendships between girls that endured past a significant relationship with men, and instead discovered a discouraging minefield of ridiculous betrayals, boy troubles, and shoes. Why shoes? I have several female friends, yet I can count on one hand the number of times I've discussed footwear with them — and even then, it was whether I could get away with wearing combat boots with an evening gown to a formal I didn't want to attend.

I've complained about this before to others and have been given examples to cheer me up, and one of the most common is Glinda and Elphaba from Wicked (the musical). Despite the obligatory breakup-because-one-steals-the-other's-man drama, their friendship is indeed powerful and transformative; it is the glue that holds the entire plot together, and their final duet is the tearjerker that, in my opinion, makes the musical.  And yet, they can't be together.  Elphaba and Glinda don't get to ride off into the sunset.  That is, of course, the tragedy of the musical, but as the plot managed to circumvent a major point of The Wizard of Oz, I wish they could've figured out a way to keep them, as well.

How many girls are we training to dump their friends as soon as a boy comes along, because they don't have any positive friendship role models?  Little girls have plenty of stories, but once the teen years hit, forget it. By the time adulthood rolls around, apparently we should give up any meaningful conversation whatsoever and spend all our time talking about our sex lives and whether that purse goes with that skirt.  It's no wonder that women in real life have a hard time getting their relationships taken seriously.

And maybe I didn't escape as much as I thought I did. Recently, when looking over my own writing from the last ten years, I found a startling gap in my own fictional friendships.  I had male-male friendships, male-male relationships, male-female friendships, and male-female relationships, but almost no female-female friendships, and no female-female relationships.  Despite being outwardly aware of the phenomenon, I still found myself sucked into it, writing mostly male casts with one or two female characters.  Granted, my female characters were strong, positive role models on their own, but they had no meaningful female relationships of their own.

I'm working on changing that. This year's NaNoWriMo was one step in that direction, including two female protagonists who are best friends and who don't ever have a fight about men or relationships, who are good at their jobs and go into danger and who (I hope!) manage to be interesting, engaging characters. I don't plan to stop there, but it's discouraging and a little humbling to realize that not one of my other works-in-progress contains the sort of friendship I've been begging from others.  I foresee a lot of rewrites in my future.