In between the cleavage and the sports is a fairly substantial financial section. I’m not talking about the layout of a newspaper. I’m talking about the layout of a Barnes & Noble bookstore. Sounds about right, I guess. And that was actually just fine with me until I saw the category marker: “Men’s Interests.”
Men’s Interests.
Yet there I was, scouring Forbes, Inc., Worth (too pricey at $16.95 despite charming art direction inside), Harvard Business Review. Me, in my cute coral wedges, my expertly highlighted blondey-blondishness, perched between Playboy and Esquire but reading the money stuff. Men’s interests? I like Bradley Cooper, I even tolerate Megan Fox (not a fan of so much unnecessary plastic surgery) but I really like strategy and business. So why were these just “men’s interests”? Why wasn’t there, simply, a “Business & Finance” category marker?
And what were so-called “Women’s Interests” anyway? Just what you’d expect. An entire wall of vacuous magazines inspiring one to look-younger, have-more-orgasms, bigger-bouncier-hair, keep-a-perfect-house, be-a-style-maven, entertain-like-royalty, and enjoy budget-conscious-luxuries, ad nauseum.
Don’t get me wrong. Those are my interests. To a degree. And yes, to be honest, of course I have read Playboy “for the articles” fascinated by the keen airbrushing and wondering if I might exact the same perfection later on with a combination of candlelight, skimpy lingerie and a bit of alcohol.
I have never claimed to be a feminist. But I’m not not one either. And yet, the longer I exist in this culture we’ve constructed, the more confused I am. Marilyn Monroe said it well “I don’t mind living in a man’s world so long as I can be a woman in it.” Agreed. But what does it mean to be a woman in a world that’s no longer just a man’s world but a world comprised of women competing not only with men but, perhaps even more fiercely, with other women?
I am currently working for myself. Translation: I am a (feast or famine) freelance integrated marketer and writer. A lot of the times a writer. Right now I’m writing what could be a very important article that I’m pretty excited. It might prove to be very lucrative if it falls into the right hands. And I’m writing this article for free. Yes, pro bono. Thing is, I’m not independently wealthy. I’m not living on savings. Hell no. Any semblance of savings I’ve ever had were squandered way back during my fun times layoff in 2008. I’m just a girl getting by and actually having a lot of fun seeing what happens next. It’s not exactly the dream I had in my head ten years ago of being a super-successful independent writer with a baby in tow and a home office full of cool furniture and hardcover books signed by important writers. But it’s pretty close. I do have a home office. It’s just filled with my father’s paintings and my old iMac and it needs a coat of fresh (beautiful, exquisite, inspired by a California vineyard) paint.
The girlie girl in me is about to go get a pedicure. And boy do I look it. I’m wearing a pair of Joe’s Jeans I got at Anthropologie, a LOFT animal-print cardigan, a David Yurman bracelet, a Tag Heuer watch, a little (Preppy as hell) shrimp ring gifted to me by mom. I will most likely enjoy a chilled glass of chardonnay while some sweet Vietnamese women pamper my tootsies. Oh I look the part alright. But I am not the part. I am only the part….in part.
The rest of me is a a sailor-swearing, beer-drinking tomboy in cutoffs and flipflops, hair up, no makeup, writing my weird thoughts down, daydreaming about the screenplay in my head, reading as many books, articles, or Seth Godin’s blogs as I can get my hands on, soaking up, drinking in, inhaling just about everything worthwhile I can learn in one day, intrigued by how things work, how people think, what matters most about an individual and collective sense of accomplishment. And it isn’t money. But, absolutely, without question, money is part of it. Of course it is.
And I’m very interested in money. In finances. In Amercia’s biggest companies. In the global economy. In investment trends. In corporate culture. In entrepreneurial spirit. In making things happen. And watching all the little gears of the machine move and make progress. That interests me. A lot.
So when I go to Barnes & Noble for a cup of coffee and to buy some magazines to inspire me to write an article (I always do this, other writers are like a starting gun at the beginning of an important race, or an “Adda girl!” or, sometimes, a firm kick in the derriere that I desperately need but can’t deliver to myself (I’m not that flexible). So when I’m there in my little outfit, in my color coordinated, blondified, accessoried persona, sure, I could be the one immersed in InStyle one minute (usually for long, boring plane flights more than anything), but I might also be reading about what Yvon Chouinard thinks about older women, the ones who’ve raised families and managed home budgets and have some life experience who are, in Chouinard’s opinion: “the most underutilized demographic in American culture,” I pause. And I look around. In between the ample, airbrushed and fantastic tits and the sporty athletic balls are women just like me: reading, learning, and deeply fasincated with so-called “Men’s Interests.”
Wake up Barnes & Noble. I might have to dump you for Borders or, better yet, Amazon.
