Today I learned I didn’t get the job I was interviewed for. It cut a bit, but I’ll heal. And this is just the beginning; I’d better buck up.
Even as I exited that interview, I realized I’d better show more Moxy. I gave an impressive sales pitch—but yeah, I was sporting a curly do and comfortable flats. On the Facebook survey, I was “The Mom.” My resume is solid, but these days it’s 40% skill set and 60% Mojo.
I suppose I could have planned better. For 30 years, I’ve attended the school of Timothy: “the wife of one husband, and having a reputation for good works: if she has brought up children, has shown hospitality… devoted herself to every good work.” Oh, I was also working, so I’m qualified—and am doing well on current assignments. But as for interviews, tweaking may be needed: I’m more Blithe than Badass.
I’ve never followed feminism’s path; ‘couldn’t reconcile the logical end. Plus, I’ve seen first-hand what can happen when a woman practices manly behavior; and it’s not pretty. (Pardon the pun.) A life consistently forced outside of its Design requires overcompensation, making for what I experienced as an eerie, abusive severity.
My daughter shared an article that made the case for feminism having catastrophic results on society. Erin Pizzey was verbally and physically abused by *both* of her parents. She writes, “Feminism, I realized, was a lie. Women and men are both capable of extraordinary cruelty. … The movement, which proclaimed that all men are potential rapists and batterers, was based on a lie that, if allowed to flourish, would result in the complete destruction of family life.” —– I’ve seen this—up close. I’m not goin’ there.
So as I venture forth, I’m praying for balance. Heaven forbid I should backslide from the holy woman I’ve been called to be—just to pay a few bills. This balancing act is somewhat of a tightrope. It’s a good thing I’m wearing flats.