I try not to bind myself in titles. Sure, several will affix themselves on their own -- African American, wife and mother, artist, graduate, amazon, arachnaphobe. These subtitles of mine have merely assigned themselves to points of fact. I am all those things. In other cases, the labels we choose on our own tend to define how others may us and govern the way we see ourselves.
Well … one of my former interns recently confided that he and a few of his buddies held a meeting and decided to crown me with another label: MILF.
Wow.
For those who don’t know, a “MILF” is a Mothers I’d Like to F— ummm ….Follow into the Bedroom. Me, a MILF? At once, I was stunned, embarrassed, self-conscious … and delighted! Yes, I admit it. I was perversely flattered.
But after I’d sedated my inner Mrs. Robinson, I started to feel a little guilty. How could I consider myself an enlightened womanist if I allowed myself to be blatantly objectified?
Maybe … because the “objectified” part didn’t set in. Maybe, I should just relinquish my N.O.W. membership, Oprah DVDs and Rosie the Riveter t-shirt? Maybe it’s not enough to simply believe in the power of my own “woman-ness.” Maybe, somehow, I missed the memo commanding us women to denounce anything that does not outwardly celebrate our independence, intellect, compassion and sophistication.
Maybe.
But the simple truth is that I appreciate the idea fact that me, my husband and my parents aren’t the only souls who think I’ve still “got it.” Who wouldn’t? In fact, I’d bet Susan B. Anthony, Mary McCloud Bethune and Jane Addams all secretly enjoyed a little flirting and ogling from time to time.
So, to all of my woman-hear-me-roar sisters, please don’t disown me because I endorsed a small dorm room fantasy with adorable and chiseled 20-somethings. I am as committed as ever to our collective responsibility of uplifting and pushing forward the Agenda of Women. I’ve just decided to simultaneously keep shaking what my mama gave me.
How ‘bout you?
