Lisa is freshly in love. There is nothing wrong with this. It is certainly not dishonorable. But at least strange. After I can name Lisa my closest girlfriend, I can definitely judge that. But it is not just Lisa. There is probably no woman in the world who is spared from it. So far it has amused me, where it should be sad. It’s always the same. It begins with the infatuation. No, in order to really understand the phenomenon, I must go further. The initial situation plays an important role.
There are women – and even that is not to be criticized or dishonorable – who like to be something I would call a mistress. With all their openness, they are not just wanting to devote themselves to being pretty, talking about dieting and fashion, and wanting to get under the hood as quickly as possible, as they say. Feminism consider them to be Humbug. Not even what the expression, someone comes under the hood, means they want to know. The ring on the finger is simply their life purpose, their right to exist.
But Lisa was not one of those mistresses. Vehement, she advocated the rights of women, equal wages for equal work, equal access to higher positions, and whatever concerns may be. In the sense of Virginia Woolf she had set up her room. A room for her alone. It reflected her personality, her values, her attitude and her mission unadulterated. Until the day she fell in love.
Suddenly, as if there had never been a yesterday, she cleared half of her room and dragged him into the room. Not only voluntarily, in obedient obedience, she lets him in, gives up her room, her retreat, her own. Suddenly, she does not talk about anything else, if she knows nothing else, she is interested in nothing but him. When I try to steer the conversation on what we used to do earlier, her eyes grow wide, and she does not seem to know what I’m talking about. From then on, everything goes its course, seemingly unavoidable. Lisa wants to marry. She will marry. Lisa wants children. She will have children. He’s playing along. Maybe he wants it too. Then they are married, working, taking care of the children.
What happens to Lisa? She mutates over the years to a bizarre, drooling, controllable kite. Nothing her husband does or says, even if this doing or saying consists in nothing-doing or nothing-saying, is her right. She insists on her property rights and pursues every other woman who has the mistake of calling her own eyes and using them, with anger and bitterness. Actually, exactly the situation against which Lisa has always struggled. But hardly a man emerges, she is ready to throw everything overboard, which she had thought was right and important. Their self-determination, their dignity, their freedom, their development, their life, and that without any one of them having asked for it. Then she sits and curses her husband. This is called feminism. Their features have haggard and hardened. There is no use of cosmetics or make-up. He is responsible for this, of course, her husband, who stole her life and her best years. It was she who could not give up quickly enough. It is much easier to push someone else’s guilt into the shoes, than to admit that you have chosen yourself exactly, yes, urged. She is now doing everything to evade him so she is not alone with her mutilation.
Lisa had a room for herself. She had set herself up with strength and energy. Not unjustly, she was proud of her achievement. But hardly a man entered her life, she was ready to give up everything.
Lisa is still enthusiastic about him as I leave the restaurant. I have no interest in what is happening now. It’s so depressing. So humiliating. Lisa does not even notice it. Only he is important. Nothing else so that she did not notice her betrayal, her betrayal of feminism, of all her fellow-combatants, but above all of herself. Nevertheless, I must smile. Feminism needs no opponents. It is enough to have a ring that makes it ridicule.