Remember the days when simply having a vagina meant that you deserved a higher level of courtesy and respect than offered to those without one? I don’t. It must’ve been way before my time. Because today, I am completely convinced of this one thing:
My vagina means absolutely nothing in New York City.
It’s not that I’m in search of any single grand gesture. I just think it would be nice for the businessman seated comfortably on a subway car, reading his paper, to consider relinquishing his seat to a woman who enters the car with children in tow. Or, if upon seeing an older woman struggling to get from the train to the platform, a young boy would offer a helping hand rather than attempting to push past her. Or in my case, if after a long day of work & school, [[while rocking the flyest four-inch heels I’ve ever purchased in my life, feet throbbing in pain from the fabulosity that the shoes exude, laptop & books weighing me down, mean metropolitan area law student headache feeling like knives to my forehead]] a young man would see fit for me to have his seat. Not because I ask for it, or because he sees me struggling to keep my balance with my abundance of stuff, but because I am a woman and I am deserving of that kind of concern.
Any woman living in New York City who says that chivalry isn’t dead hasn’t attempted to board a subway near Wall Street during rush hour… where vaginas are obsolete and it’s every [[wo]]man for himself.
