If my fifteen-year-old sister ever came home from a Bruno Mars concert wearing that tragic excuse for a pair of shorts, I would simply keel over in agony and die on the spot. My body’s ten major organ systems would shut down so freakishly quick that I wouldn’t even have time to ask her urgent questions like, “Who do you think you are?”, “Are you brain-dead?” and “Do you seriously think Bruno would catch a grenade for you?”
Oh, wait. Ahem. Let’s try this again.
My fifteen-year-old sister did come home from a Bruno Mars concert wearing that tragic excuse for a pair of shorts. And so I puked on her face (love you, sis).
Nothing against Mr. Bruno – he’s got some lovely tunes up his sleeve – but come on, now. When in the history of consumerism did it become okay for females to purchase and subsequently don shorts that have the words “Property of (insert alpha male or corporation name here)” slapped across the butt? I need to know the impetus behind this sickening trend. Perpetuating these motto-ingrained booty shorts as a marketable product is basically akin to perpetuating the tenets of servitude. Newsflash for my fellow ladies: slavery ended 146 years ago and there have been about three amendments to the Constitution that passive-aggressively advise women to stop viewing themselves as the inferior gender. Please read an eighth-grade US History textbook. Or, not going to lie, HBO’s “Drunk History” series works too.
You see, the last time I checked, my sister was not a mere item or a measly piece of property. Therein lies the problem. We girls are made up of everything from blazing human emotions to fully functioning cerebrums, and you cannot and will not take the Homo sapiens out of us. We should not constitute a merchandise company’s contrived vision of property, nor should we be reduced to cocoons of obsequious compliance. We are not possessions, nor are we chattels that you can flippantly smack price tags on. We own ourselves. We are teeming with individuality. We are bastions of independence. I have no issue with marriage or anything of that sort, but you can be sure I’ll act like a stubborn grandma whenever women are referred to or refer to themselves as “property.”
Now, as for all you girls out there who willingly adorn your buttocks with the aforementioned shorts, I do get it. You’re a huge fan of Bruno Mars or Zac Efron or whoever. You would marry the dude in a millisecond, at a Taco Bell, at three in the morning. The wording on your rear end is supposed to be construed as facetious. But what you don’t understand is that society can’t be joking around about gender roles anymore. Such imprudence only counteracts the progress we’ve made in ushering women out of the ensnaring black hole that is the “cult of domesticity.” Moving forward with feminist ideals requires not only that we grapple with the super-sized issues, but also that we work to stamp out the small wrongs. The classification of a female as an object via a piece of clothing, whether intentional or unintentional, happens to be one of those small wrongs that I am not going to stand for.
So does anyone have a propane torch I could borrow? Or like, whatever fancy equipment the arsonist chick from that one Criminal Minds episode had? Those shorts are going to look so much better with a finely executed ‘charred stripe’ across the bum.
Featured image taken by yours truly.