a woman's right to shoes.

this morning, i woke up with cramps that hit my uterus like a thousand freight trains. i also woke up with a bad attitude. one might have had to do with the other, but nothing has been proven.

so.
when "i [was] provoked (this morning), by some p.o.s. a-hole", i almost imploded.
this is why i am here right now. with you lovely folks. to call her out. all of her kind, really.
"because [geared] [blogs] are still better than going postal".
and like i always say, it's better to explode on the internet than implode in real life, the well-known american proverb. i'm sure you've heard it.

so. here we go.

     sex & the city. season 6, episode 9. carrie bradshaw attends kyra's baby shower. when she arrives, she is asked to leave her shoes at the door. although wary, she agrees. slipping off her silver buckle heels, carrie proceeds to enjoy the celebration. she sits. she talks. she drinks. she laughs.
     the time comes when carrie is ready to leave. she walks to the door, searches for her shoes, and unable to find them, returns to kyra, who is unsure of where the shoes disappeared to. kyra then offers a pair of her own, worn out white tennis shoes for carrie to walk the blocks home. carrie is reluctant, but feeling silly, she accepts the offer. the next day, she shows up on kyra's doorstep, asking if she's found the shoes. kyra remarks that she had completely forgotten about the entire ordeal. she got busy and the incident slipped her mind. kyra goes on to say that she feels like a fool for not offering to pay for the lost shoes in the first place. she reaches for her checkbook and asks carrie for the amount. carrie waves her hands in the air, not wanting to make a big deal. kyra insists, and carrie gives in.
     "$485," she says. 
     "carrie. come on," kyra replies, "it's a pair of shoes."
     baffled, carrie responds to her attacker, "well, that's how much they cost..."
     "i'll give you $200. that's all i can do."
     "this is awkward," she says, "i didn't mean for this,"
     "well, 485 dollars is a lot to pay for a pair of shoes."
     "they're manolo blahniks..."
     "i'm not going to pay for your extravagant lifestyle, carrie. i'm married. i have expenses. bills. responsibilities. a real life."

later, carrie says this:

"marlo thomas sang to us about accepting each other and our differences. but then we got older and started singing a different tune. we stopped celebrating each other's life choices and started qualifying them. is acceptance really such a childish concept, or did we have it right all along?
when did we stop being free to be you and me?

 

today, a newly married woman made a remark on my schooling. she informed me that a certain class that i am enrolled in, a class that i am absolutely passionate about, was a waste. it was the sole reason she dropped school in pursuit of a husband. 

shockingly this happens more often than it should. and i have heard it all: 

"it doesn't really matter what you study. you'll find a husband one day, and that'll be that." 

"if you had met someone, like me, maybe you'd be getting married, too."

"why are you alone all the time? date someone."

or, my personal favorite, "you're not going to care about that once you're married. all other things become so trivial." 

when i hear these comments, comments that "belittle my existence" in the words of kathleen kelly, i start to get a little bit itchy. when elements of my own life (key phrase) are attacked by these ignorant yuppies, i first try really hard to pretend there are buttons to hold my lips together. i try not to make a fuss, and let these women feel horrified all by themselves. while i am a big believer in marriage, huge into families, babies, aprons, and homemaking, i am not so concerned with them at the present time... a statement i should not have to be scolded for. i celebrate all things white dresses, bunting on wedding cake, even burlap table runners and ginham bow-ties! it is all good and fine. however, so are michelangelo, pencil shavings, and drool from an all nighter. i'm on cloud nine with my textbooks and consider saturday night at the library with jeans and tupperware macaroni to be steps in the right direction, leading to the girl i'd like to be some day. i delight in keeping up with the kardashians and catching up on hulu. my knowledge of pop culture is astonishing, something i take pride in. and the beauty of it all? it is quintessentially me. and you don't have to want any of it.

so, as for the woman who barked up the wrong tree, consider this my rebuttle:

     forgive me, dear sweet one, for this morning i did not crawl out of a bed, away from a man like you did, but i have yet to see the way in which that elevates your success and discounts mine. i am sorry that my victories have little to do with other people, and much to do with making myself happy. i do apologize for my selfishness and the way that it offends you, but i am unaware of the part where it is any of your business.
     i wouldn't think to feel sorry for you. you are loved by another, and you love in return. you call him 'hubs', and that freaks me out, but hey, you're still a rock star... one with a glowing halo of rose gold that sparkles when you wash dishes. i celebrate you and your accomplishments, bring you wedding gifts in the form of cutlery, and i keep my mouth shut when i feel the urge to comment on how i wouldn't want to be you right now. please show me the same courtesy, though my fingers are barren as i run hot soapy water over my own dirty dishes. we all have them, regardless of how many we're doing. and be not mistaken, the water is equally hot.

you owe me nothing but the decency to respect my decisions.

however, if you ever read this and recognize the stupid you should feel, i'm "a size seven with excellent taste." 

yours truly,
a regular carrie bradshaw.