Right now, I’m reflecting on women. I, on the male side of things, knew I’d be the minority gender in this writing class, and I’m fine with that. Women, particularly in groups, add, a certain spice, vibe, perspective, scent to the air. Ah, women in their flocks…those mystical ways, their soft curves hidden in their secret folds, their embellished appearance, their voluble sociability, their arcane levels of meaning and nuance. Men are dogs, slobbering and panting; they’ve got to have the leash in their mouth, clenched in their gummy jaws, seeking attention: Please need me! Women are cats, coolly regarding the slobbering dogs of their world. They consult with their fellow cats behind velveteen curtains, plotting their strategies, while we dogs are hunkered down in our lonely dugouts, isolated and contemplating what it means to be a self-made man, simultaneously planning how to keep other men from co-opting our power, virility, egos and money. Women, they rummage through their pocketbooks, fully stocked with survival supplies. Men, limited to maybe three or four pockets, are vulnerable, sparsely equipped and rely on women to supply them with necessities—aspirin, band aids, tissues, connection, intimacy, sympathy, pity.
English major cast adrift in the corporate world.