I was sick on the 14th, and therefore the lateness of this post is justified. Anyway, let’s talk about it.
Before I launch into the anti-climactic debaucherus tirade on the celebration of the semi-lucid depiction of “true love” created by Hollywood mass marketing, I must take uno momento to make it clear that I do not intend to use this post to wage war on Valentine’s Day in and of itself.
Regardless of how I feel about a holiday dedicated to profit off the concept that true love is proved by making grandeur gestures and shaming people–particularly women–who aren’t in relationships for being frigid, weird, and/or ugly.
My rant today is a dedication to those who criticize women who do like ostentatious gestures in the form of dozens upon dozens of red roses raining down on them like bloody snow falling from a my-little-pony-esque sky delivered to them on horseback on Valentine’s Day. Just because you might not like it, does not mean you have the right to look down on them with your Trumpet-like air of condescension. You might think it’s stupid, or pathetic, or a perpetuation of stereotypes, but some women don’t, and you don’t get to judge them for that. That doesn’t make you a feminist.
That’s actually the very definition of anti-feminism. Feminism means that you get to have your own opinion and do what you want, be it rejecting the things that are considered “girly” by society or embracing them.
And just so I don’t leave the penis-weilding gender out, you get to have your own take on those same things, too. You can be just as much a manly man while taking a bubble bath and wearing Tiny Winky satin feety pajamas.
Don’t let them stop you. Be the squealing 5-year-old girl your dad wouldn’t let you be when you were little.
Cinderella’s godmother approves.