Wikipedia defines proteins as, "polymer chains made of amino acids linked together by peptide bonds." What that basically means is that the word "protein" is a catch-all for about 30 different amino acids. Most of those your body can produce itself, but 9 (the "essential" ones) you need to get from external sources. Protein is the the major structural component of all cells in the body -- including muscles, organs, skin, and hair.
There are three "urban myths" around protein:
1) Animal protein is "better" (or more complete) than vegetable protein
2) Vegetables don't contain enough protein
3) Without sufficient protein, you will feel tired and listless
I'll tackle these individually:
1) In 1971, in the book "Diet for a Small Planet," the author advocated a vegetarian diet but, referencing an old study on rats, stated that vegetable proteins were "incomplete" -- in other words, they did not contain all the "essential" amino acids. This had actually been proven false years before, but the idea caught on, mostly by people who promoted meat! The author has since recanted this claim but the myth still lives on.
2) By weight, meat is 23-33% protein (depending on cut), fish is 18-23%, chicken breast 25%, and lamb 27%. By comparison, fruit is 7% protein, rice is 7.5%, nuts are 11%, wheat 14%, vegetables 22%, beans 28%, and soybeans are an amazing 38% protein.
That said, the US Dietary Reference Intake guidelines recommend 50 grams of protein per day for a normal sedentary person (although some estimates think this is too high, and may be as low as 12 grams per day). At 4 calories per gram, that's about 10% of the "average" 2,000 calorie diet. More importantly, since most food contains more than 10% protein, as long as you eat 2,000 calories per day, you will get more than the recommended amount of protein! The problem with iceberg lettuce (for example) isn't that it is deficient in protein, but it is deficient in calories -- at 1 calorie per leaf, you'd have to eat 31 heads of lettuce to get 2,000 calories!
According to a National Health and Nutrition Examination Survey from 2007-2008, the typical American diet provides a net protein intake of 102 grams to males and 70 grams to females a day. The body is unable to store excess protein, and so it is processed by the liver and kidneys, and excreted through urine. It also causes the body to excrete calcium, although no one is sure why. High animal protein intake increases the probability of forming kidney stones by 250 percent.
So the real problem isn't that vegetarians don't get enough protein, but meat eaters get too much.
3) Proteins have four calories per gram, while fats and carbohydrates have nine. That's why exercise burns fat, not muscle--your body is selectively choosing the best energy source. If a person consumes too few calories, and has no fat reserves, the body will start to eat muscle (and then organs); however, as you can imagine, this is pretty rare in developed countries.
To sum up, there is *no* relation between protein and energy; if you eat enough calories, you will get enough protein; there is no difference between animal protein and vegetable protein; and if you eat too much protein, your body will quietly throw it away (and you may get heart disease, cancer, and/or kidney stones for your trouble).
Now I have to figure out why, on some days, I have no energy. (Which is why I started researching protein. When I started this, I believed all three myths!)
You can read more here: http://michaelbluejay.com/veg/protein.html
Thursday, April 26, 2012
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
My uncle
My rants on America the beautiful, hidden sources of wheat (corn muffins and tomato soup!!), and television will have to wait while I post another maudlin article on my uncle.
First, by the numbers. My uncle was born in 1927, and he will be 86 in June. When he was 13, he watched his best friend get run over by a car; at 14 his mother died; at 17 he dropped out of high school and joined the navy. It was 1944 and he spent a year escorting convoys across the Atlantic; when the European theatre ended, he was posted to the Pacific where they were having trouble convincing the Japanese on remote islands that the emperor had surrendered. He came back to his home state
of Connecticut, got a job in an insurance company, and married a woman 6 years his senior. He was a natural born salesman, with an easy disposition and a penchant for alcohol, and he soon made his way into the hot new sector of office calculators.
His company moved him to Florida just as the Kennedy space center moved to Houston; they then moved him to Silicon Valley while it was still a sleepy little suburb, and finally they moved him to Atlanta. His wife didn't enjoy the south and quietly moved back to Connecticut, then proceeded to divorce him. In Atlanta he met, and married, a true southern belle, and they've been married 44 years now.
Sadly, the past few years my uncle has been sliding downhill. 18 months ago, when I visited, I was sure it would be the last time I saw him. Remarkably, he pulled through, and last July he was doing quite well. This trip I thought he was doing okay, except this morning he was still asleep at 10am. I went in to wake him, and when he opened his eyes and saw me, he was absolutely terrified. He recovered quickly, but I knew something wasn't right -- for years the man always woke up and said the exact same thing: "I'll get a job in the morning, ma." It was one of those jokes that had passed from being annoying to hilarious, and I'd give anything to hear it again. Seeing the fear in his eyes was heartbreaking.
He got up and had a cup of coffee, but when he went in the kitchen to put the cup in the sink, we heard the thump. No yell, just a thump. I was the first in there, and he was sprawled on the floor with his head still propped up by the oven. His elbow had a small cut and his head was a bit braised, but no other obvious injuries, but all he wanted to do was lie down. Obviously, I couldn't let him nap on the kitchen floor, but I also discovered I couldn't lift 150 pounds of dead weight. I guess I'd never tried to pick someone up before; I was actually surprised at how ineffectual I was, and it certainly made me appreciate my 93-pound aunt, who has had to deal with this several times before.
I eventually got him into a chair and he eventually recovered, although he was incoherent for a while. He later went to bed, and I ran some errands. After I came home, and with everyone else asleep, I saw him come out of the bedroom, go in the kitchen, open the box of tea bags I'd brought (yes, I brought my own tea!) and tear one open. At that point I intervened, taking away the teabag and asking what he was doing, and he was completely incoherent, and inconsolable, worried about something he needed me to ship to his mother-in-law. I got him to sit down again and after a while he was back.
Around 5pm he went back to bed and I followed him in, and he wanted to talk so I sat beside him. He said some profound things, he said some nonsensical things, he reminisced about his first dog, Buddy (although he couldn't remember his favorite dog, Clancy), we talked about getting old, about what's important, about who we were. (The parallels to his life are remarkable: In his late 30s he'd been married for about 16 years, got divorced, moved to a new area, got remarried, and started his life over.) But mostly we just gushed over how much we mean to each other, in some tear-stained moviehouse version. Of course, it might have helped if he could hear a word I said, but he is completely deaf.
But it really got me to thinking how people connect. We are, to use an English expression, "chalk and cheese" -- he is witty where I am thoughtful; he savours the past while I am planning the future; he is social and likes crime novels and crossword puzzles, whereas I can't stand any of that. He's hopeless with money, can't cook an egg, has never done his own laundry, and likes to get big dogs and let them go feral. He thinks all of his friends look like actors, such that you can hardly watch a show without him saying, "Doesn't that look like so-and-so?" (The answer, invariably, is "no.")
But the trait that he has that I don't, the one thing I envy him for, and the reason I'm so grateful to be part of his life, is that he really cares about people. Not superficially, not casually, not condescendingly, but from the core of his being, he genuinely cares, and people respond to that no matter their age, background, or circumstances.
Sure, some people have taken advantage of him (his step-daughter and grandson, to name two), and he's lost touch with most of his friends over the years (mostly because his hearing keeps him from using the phone and his eyesight keeps him from driving), but I know from talking to his friends over the years, that they all kept George in a special place in their heart.
Tomorrow will be my last day here; I probably won't get back for another 8 months, maybe longer. I will leave my aunt and her mother to watch over George, although neither of them are in better physical condition. The neighbor who kept an eye on him has moved away, and the people who take him to church (usually against his wishes) only see him on Sunday. His doctor has George on a dozen pills, some of which I wish he would stop taking -- I don't know how much longer George has, but at this stage I'd prefer he had a clear mind than lower cholesterol -- but otherwise can't do anything to make George healthier or more comfortable.
Part of me would like to put George in a home, where I know he'd be safe and looked after, but I know the only things that are important to him are his wife, his dog, and his bed -- taking all three away would be worse than death. I don't know what happens next -- Lord knows I wish I had the answers -- other than I go back to England, not because I have family there, or roots there, or anything there really, other than I like it there. And I leave my uncle, this man I profess to love, the closest thing I've had to a father for 15 years, to face his uncetain future...without me.
First, by the numbers. My uncle was born in 1927, and he will be 86 in June. When he was 13, he watched his best friend get run over by a car; at 14 his mother died; at 17 he dropped out of high school and joined the navy. It was 1944 and he spent a year escorting convoys across the Atlantic; when the European theatre ended, he was posted to the Pacific where they were having trouble convincing the Japanese on remote islands that the emperor had surrendered. He came back to his home state
of Connecticut, got a job in an insurance company, and married a woman 6 years his senior. He was a natural born salesman, with an easy disposition and a penchant for alcohol, and he soon made his way into the hot new sector of office calculators.
His company moved him to Florida just as the Kennedy space center moved to Houston; they then moved him to Silicon Valley while it was still a sleepy little suburb, and finally they moved him to Atlanta. His wife didn't enjoy the south and quietly moved back to Connecticut, then proceeded to divorce him. In Atlanta he met, and married, a true southern belle, and they've been married 44 years now.
Sadly, the past few years my uncle has been sliding downhill. 18 months ago, when I visited, I was sure it would be the last time I saw him. Remarkably, he pulled through, and last July he was doing quite well. This trip I thought he was doing okay, except this morning he was still asleep at 10am. I went in to wake him, and when he opened his eyes and saw me, he was absolutely terrified. He recovered quickly, but I knew something wasn't right -- for years the man always woke up and said the exact same thing: "I'll get a job in the morning, ma." It was one of those jokes that had passed from being annoying to hilarious, and I'd give anything to hear it again. Seeing the fear in his eyes was heartbreaking.
He got up and had a cup of coffee, but when he went in the kitchen to put the cup in the sink, we heard the thump. No yell, just a thump. I was the first in there, and he was sprawled on the floor with his head still propped up by the oven. His elbow had a small cut and his head was a bit braised, but no other obvious injuries, but all he wanted to do was lie down. Obviously, I couldn't let him nap on the kitchen floor, but I also discovered I couldn't lift 150 pounds of dead weight. I guess I'd never tried to pick someone up before; I was actually surprised at how ineffectual I was, and it certainly made me appreciate my 93-pound aunt, who has had to deal with this several times before.
I eventually got him into a chair and he eventually recovered, although he was incoherent for a while. He later went to bed, and I ran some errands. After I came home, and with everyone else asleep, I saw him come out of the bedroom, go in the kitchen, open the box of tea bags I'd brought (yes, I brought my own tea!) and tear one open. At that point I intervened, taking away the teabag and asking what he was doing, and he was completely incoherent, and inconsolable, worried about something he needed me to ship to his mother-in-law. I got him to sit down again and after a while he was back.
Around 5pm he went back to bed and I followed him in, and he wanted to talk so I sat beside him. He said some profound things, he said some nonsensical things, he reminisced about his first dog, Buddy (although he couldn't remember his favorite dog, Clancy), we talked about getting old, about what's important, about who we were. (The parallels to his life are remarkable: In his late 30s he'd been married for about 16 years, got divorced, moved to a new area, got remarried, and started his life over.) But mostly we just gushed over how much we mean to each other, in some tear-stained moviehouse version. Of course, it might have helped if he could hear a word I said, but he is completely deaf.
But it really got me to thinking how people connect. We are, to use an English expression, "chalk and cheese" -- he is witty where I am thoughtful; he savours the past while I am planning the future; he is social and likes crime novels and crossword puzzles, whereas I can't stand any of that. He's hopeless with money, can't cook an egg, has never done his own laundry, and likes to get big dogs and let them go feral. He thinks all of his friends look like actors, such that you can hardly watch a show without him saying, "Doesn't that look like so-and-so?" (The answer, invariably, is "no.")
But the trait that he has that I don't, the one thing I envy him for, and the reason I'm so grateful to be part of his life, is that he really cares about people. Not superficially, not casually, not condescendingly, but from the core of his being, he genuinely cares, and people respond to that no matter their age, background, or circumstances.
Sure, some people have taken advantage of him (his step-daughter and grandson, to name two), and he's lost touch with most of his friends over the years (mostly because his hearing keeps him from using the phone and his eyesight keeps him from driving), but I know from talking to his friends over the years, that they all kept George in a special place in their heart.
Tomorrow will be my last day here; I probably won't get back for another 8 months, maybe longer. I will leave my aunt and her mother to watch over George, although neither of them are in better physical condition. The neighbor who kept an eye on him has moved away, and the people who take him to church (usually against his wishes) only see him on Sunday. His doctor has George on a dozen pills, some of which I wish he would stop taking -- I don't know how much longer George has, but at this stage I'd prefer he had a clear mind than lower cholesterol -- but otherwise can't do anything to make George healthier or more comfortable.
Part of me would like to put George in a home, where I know he'd be safe and looked after, but I know the only things that are important to him are his wife, his dog, and his bed -- taking all three away would be worse than death. I don't know what happens next -- Lord knows I wish I had the answers -- other than I go back to England, not because I have family there, or roots there, or anything there really, other than I like it there. And I leave my uncle, this man I profess to love, the closest thing I've had to a father for 15 years, to face his uncetain future...without me.
Sunday, April 15, 2012
Dark moments
In the dark moments between living and sleeping, the self-reflection overwhelm us. The good times are fleeting but the regret lingers. The things left undone, the words unsaid, the self recriminations. We fill these moments with routine, with music, with distractions. On a plane, I cannot escape.
I am dating two lovely women, who only serve to remind me of Jessica's absence. They are both beautiful, but not as. They are both clever, but not as. They are both interesting, but not as. Can I settle for 'not as'?
My heart wants to connect; it is tired of being alone. My head wants to connect; it doesn't enjoy my company in the best of circumstances. But my soul won't connect, because it knows what possibilities there are. Only recently awakened, it is the genie I cannot put back in the bottle.
And yet, in the dark moments, I wonder if I'll wander lost forever, trying to find something I'm not even sure I ever had. It feels a bit of a dream, or perhaps a nightmare: the overarching need, the constant longing, the absolute certainty; it all appears to be completely irrational. Why would I want that again?
Why can't I live without it?
Saturday, April 14, 2012
The Invitation
It doesn't interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing.
It doesn't interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love for your dream for the adventure of being alive.
It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon...
I want to know if you have touched the centre of your own sorrow
if you have been opened by life's betrayals
or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain.
I want to know if you can sit with pain
mine or your own
without moving to hide it, or fade it, or fix it.
I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own.
if you can dance with wildness
& let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers & toes without cautioning us to
be careful, to be realistic, to remember the limitations of being human.
It doesn't interest me if the story you are telling me is true.
I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself.
If you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul.
If you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy.
I want to know if you can see beauty even when it is not pretty every day.
And if you can source your own life from its presence.
I want to know if you can live with failure
yours and mine
and still stand at the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon,
"Yes."
It doesn't interest me to know where you live or how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up after the night of grief and despair
weary and bruised to the bone and do what needs to be done to feed the children.
It doesn't interest me who you know or how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand in the centre of the fire with me
and not shrink back.
It doesn't interest me where or what or with whom you have studied.
I want to know what sustains you from the inside when all else falls away.
I want to know if you can be alone with yourself
and if you truly like the company you keep
in the empty moments.
--Oriah Mountain Dreamer
Auto blues
I don't love my car. Actually, at the moment, I hate my car.
I only bought it because my company offered me a company car or a cash equivalent, and of course I immediately took the cash and then bought the cheapest car I could find.
So I tell myself, when I have to spend money on the car, that I am still coming out ahead. However, in the past week it will have cost me £1,685 (US $2,685). That's more than I paid for the darn thing!
I've had problems with the exhaust system since I bought it (it was 10 years old, after all) and I've had it patched twice, but the problem kept recurring. In the UK, you have to pass an annual safety test (MOT) and I knew it would fail, so last week I spent £300 replacing the whole thing.
Thus I took it for its MOT reasonably confident it would be fine...only to be told a shock absorber was leaking, which meant I had to replace both of them, and some part required to replace them was frozen, so needed to be replaced as well, and it came to £335 -- plus £35 for the test!!
I then took my test result to the post office and gave them another £220 for property tax. (Why you renew your car tax at the post office is beyond me.)
And when I got home, I sent a cheque for £790 for my insurance for a year, which is slightly less insane than what I paid last year. (The UK works on a "no claims" policy, and of course coming from the States I did not have any "no claims" so for the first two years I was paying the same price as a 16-year-old who just got his license!)
Usually when you buy a car, the MOT, tax disc, and insurance are due at different times, making it a little more palatable. When I bought the car, I had to get it inspected, taxed, and insured all at the same time, and thus each year renew it all at the same time. So I expected to pay about £1,100 for the car, but that's not to say I budgeted for it...
I only bought it because my company offered me a company car or a cash equivalent, and of course I immediately took the cash and then bought the cheapest car I could find.
So I tell myself, when I have to spend money on the car, that I am still coming out ahead. However, in the past week it will have cost me £1,685 (US $2,685). That's more than I paid for the darn thing!
I've had problems with the exhaust system since I bought it (it was 10 years old, after all) and I've had it patched twice, but the problem kept recurring. In the UK, you have to pass an annual safety test (MOT) and I knew it would fail, so last week I spent £300 replacing the whole thing.
Thus I took it for its MOT reasonably confident it would be fine...only to be told a shock absorber was leaking, which meant I had to replace both of them, and some part required to replace them was frozen, so needed to be replaced as well, and it came to £335 -- plus £35 for the test!!
I then took my test result to the post office and gave them another £220 for property tax. (Why you renew your car tax at the post office is beyond me.)
And when I got home, I sent a cheque for £790 for my insurance for a year, which is slightly less insane than what I paid last year. (The UK works on a "no claims" policy, and of course coming from the States I did not have any "no claims" so for the first two years I was paying the same price as a 16-year-old who just got his license!)
Usually when you buy a car, the MOT, tax disc, and insurance are due at different times, making it a little more palatable. When I bought the car, I had to get it inspected, taxed, and insured all at the same time, and thus each year renew it all at the same time. So I expected to pay about £1,100 for the car, but that's not to say I budgeted for it...
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
My commute
120mph on a 'pendolino' train, so named because it tilts into the corners, providing an...interesting...experience.
I've been working near Manchester for the past month, 2-3 days per week, which will likely continue until September. The train from Reading takes 3 hours and is miserable, so the past two weeks I've been staying overnight in London and taking first class on the fast train. It's only £40 more round-trip (or as I like to say, £10 per hour) but the difference is amazing.
I can even get work done, when I'm not posting photos on my blog. :-)
Friday, April 6, 2012
Schedule
Easter is a four-day weekend in the UK, but you wouldn't know it from my schedule:
Tonight I'm going on a date in London.
Friday I have to go to Southampton for Passover.
Saturday I have to be in Kent at 10am (this is a 3 hour drive from my house!) then be in Maidenhead for *another* Passover meal.
Sunday I am helping a friend in London move stuff into storage, and trying to go to an art exhibit.
Monday I have a friend visiting me in Reading.
Tuesday/Wednesday I'm back in Manchester; Wednesday night I have a date in London.
Thursday I have a date in Oxford.
Friday I am packing, because Saturday I'm flying to Atlanta for 5 days, then driving to South Carolina for 4 days, then driving back to Atlanta.
I have two days at home, then I am flying to Amsterdam for 3 days.
From Amsterdam I fly to Manchester for 2 days, and get the train back to London.
Thursday I have a night off, but Friday I have security duty at my synagogue.
Then I have a 3-day weekend which I don't have any plans for...yet.
This means I have about 3 days to myself over the next 5 weeks. Which explains why, after a date dumped me and left last night open, I immediately booked a ticket to see the Monty Python play, "Spamalot." (It was well worth it.)
Tonight I'm going on a date in London.
Friday I have to go to Southampton for Passover.
Saturday I have to be in Kent at 10am (this is a 3 hour drive from my house!) then be in Maidenhead for *another* Passover meal.
Sunday I am helping a friend in London move stuff into storage, and trying to go to an art exhibit.
Monday I have a friend visiting me in Reading.
Tuesday/Wednesday I'm back in Manchester; Wednesday night I have a date in London.
Thursday I have a date in Oxford.
Friday I am packing, because Saturday I'm flying to Atlanta for 5 days, then driving to South Carolina for 4 days, then driving back to Atlanta.
I have two days at home, then I am flying to Amsterdam for 3 days.
From Amsterdam I fly to Manchester for 2 days, and get the train back to London.
Thursday I have a night off, but Friday I have security duty at my synagogue.
Then I have a 3-day weekend which I don't have any plans for...yet.
This means I have about 3 days to myself over the next 5 weeks. Which explains why, after a date dumped me and left last night open, I immediately booked a ticket to see the Monty Python play, "Spamalot." (It was well worth it.)
Thursday, April 5, 2012
And then there were 9...
A quick rundown: Of the 732 "matches" delivered over the past 6 months, I've probably talked to 50 women and gone on 20 first dates, which proceeded to 8 second dates, five kisses, and one 3-month relationship. Since January:
- Ellie, the artist, dumped me after the first date.
- Karen tried to dump me before we met, then seemed interested after the first date, then dumped me before the second date.
- Rachel, we were talking when she posted a new photo of herself which was so horrific, I never spoke to her again. :-(
- Kishani, from Sri Lanka, called me twice a day and spent most of the time yelling at me for not calling her. Eventually, I asked her to stop calling me.
- Sarah, I was planning on asking out when she texted me to say she was drinking wine at her hairdressers. I never contacted her again.
- Rachael of London, who decided that because I hadn't confirmed the date the day before, she'd go to the gym instead, leaving me wandering the National Museum alone. (I had a great time, and I never contacted her again.)
- Suzanne, who clearly had a tough life, worked unsociable hours, and we could never find a mutual time to meet. After the third attempt, I gave up.
- Lisa from Plymouth, met me twice, kissed me once, dumped me, then suggested we meet for breakfast, and invited all her friends as well. I was just left confused.
- Helena, the wheat-free vegetarian who inspired me, went on three dates before she sent me an email saying she wasn't interested. (I was a little relieved--she reminded me of my niece, and dating her freaked me out a little.)
- Rachael of Oxford, exceptionally cute, reformed Essex girl, but too...American. I dumped her.
- Lexin, Chinese-born and living in Wales, who came all the way to Manchester for a date (she thought it was an hour away, which explains why she was an hour and a half late...) She spent the entire time complaining about her job, and at the end I told her I wasn't interested in a second date.
- Jana, from the Czech Republic, was very cute but very shy. We had one date and she went back to Czech for a month. We had a second date scheduled but the day before--literally the same minute-- I sent her an email with a couple of restaurant options, and she sent me a text cancelling the date.
- Sarah, redhead, we started a conversation then she went to the States for a month. Not sure what (if anything) is going on.
- Amana, British-born Indian, absolutely gorgeous, incredibly friendly, can't fault a single thing...which worries me.
- Gayle, Scottish girl, very sweet but no spark. I really like her, just can't see a relationship forming.
- Aneta, Polish girl, very attractive but appears to be extremely possessive and demanding. After three dates, not sure it will go anywhere.
- Ursula, another Polish girl, extremely cute, vivacious, and lives in Reading (!) but seems a bit unstable. She did not make it to the second date, and doesn't seem interested in rescheduling.
- Florence, typical English girl, won't discuss anything of any importance, probably will not progress to first date.
- Emily, Chinese girl, terrible English, can't see a first date.
- Hilary, very cute, obviously bright, hopefully will progress to first date.
- Becca, I started talking to back in January, but then got overwhelmed and just stopped talking to everyone. Very rude, I know, but she's still on and she lives in Manchester, so I'm thinking about contacting her again and seeing if she wants to meet. (It doesn't hurt that shhe's uploaded a much nicer photo...)
More importantly, two months ago I was trying to talk to 40 women, which was overwhelming. I've whittled it down (my choice or otherwise) to a much-more-manageable half a dozen or so. Unfortunately, I honestly don't see any of those going the distance. :-(
Which just means I'm going to open the floodgates again...
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
Male apologist
I'm not sure how it happened, but I've become an apologist for my gender.
Part of it is because I've been talking to so many dates and realising just what they have to deal with.
Part of it is because one of the dates recommended Caitlyn Moran's brilliant "How To Be A Woman," which really made me appreciate the female condition.
Part of it is because I converted to Reform Judaism, where most of the "reform" was around how women were treated.
But mostly it's because men are just horrible, myself included!
Things like abuse, rape, sexist and derogatory remarks, etc. always made me wince, of course, but it was something other people did. Now, and for no apparent reason, I identify with these people. I no longer feel detached; I feel like I was the one who did these things!
When I see a stick of a woman tottering around on heels looking like she's about to break an ankle, I no longer think, "silly girl." I think, "What have we done to create the conditions to make this woman feel she has to practically torture herself to gain societal approval?"
These are not normal thoughts!!
When I hear men objectifying women, I think, "How would we feel if our bosses made similar judgements about us?"
And when I tell myself to grow some balls, I think, "Why do I equate testicles with being confident and self-assured?"
The world has suddenly become a much more confusing, and depressing, place. I've always adored women, most of my friends are women, and I have no doubt that much of the discrimination we see today is man's brutish attempt to maintain the status quo, because we recognise that in our own laziness, we organized society such that muscles are obsolete, and which allows women to surpass us in every walk of life. In fact, the only reason we are still preferred in the workplace is because we are incapable of carrying babies.
Taking this to its logical conclusion, male children are still heavily selected by fathers...but more and more women are choosing to have children of their own, and it is these same women who realize they don't need a man who will soon realize they don't need a boy, either. After all, there is a reason farmers maintain a cow-to-bull ratio of 30-to-1, or higher.
Now, go make yourself a sandwich.
Part of it is because I've been talking to so many dates and realising just what they have to deal with.
Part of it is because one of the dates recommended Caitlyn Moran's brilliant "How To Be A Woman," which really made me appreciate the female condition.
Part of it is because I converted to Reform Judaism, where most of the "reform" was around how women were treated.
But mostly it's because men are just horrible, myself included!
Things like abuse, rape, sexist and derogatory remarks, etc. always made me wince, of course, but it was something other people did. Now, and for no apparent reason, I identify with these people. I no longer feel detached; I feel like I was the one who did these things!
When I see a stick of a woman tottering around on heels looking like she's about to break an ankle, I no longer think, "silly girl." I think, "What have we done to create the conditions to make this woman feel she has to practically torture herself to gain societal approval?"
These are not normal thoughts!!
When I hear men objectifying women, I think, "How would we feel if our bosses made similar judgements about us?"
And when I tell myself to grow some balls, I think, "Why do I equate testicles with being confident and self-assured?"
The world has suddenly become a much more confusing, and depressing, place. I've always adored women, most of my friends are women, and I have no doubt that much of the discrimination we see today is man's brutish attempt to maintain the status quo, because we recognise that in our own laziness, we organized society such that muscles are obsolete, and which allows women to surpass us in every walk of life. In fact, the only reason we are still preferred in the workplace is because we are incapable of carrying babies.
Taking this to its logical conclusion, male children are still heavily selected by fathers...but more and more women are choosing to have children of their own, and it is these same women who realize they don't need a man who will soon realize they don't need a boy, either. After all, there is a reason farmers maintain a cow-to-bull ratio of 30-to-1, or higher.
Now, go make yourself a sandwich.
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