After just arriving home from the Buick capital of the country, Sarasota, Florida, I’ve had a lot of time to contemplate summer while baking in the sun. My crispy fritter self is back in drizzly, chilly Columbus just in time to prepare you for a summer of porch lounging, margarita sipping, and drunkenly stumbling about in remarkably uncomfortable flip flops or summer sandals. Either way, you’re going to get shin splints. And either way, you will be blown away like I was by the summer activities we all love and how fucking sexist they are when you break down their components. Don’t worry, along with a list of problems, I will list alternatives.
The first sexist clusterfuck? Swimming. In what universe is it fair that men get to wear glorified workout shorts and women have to spend a LOT of money and put on a nylon crotch hammock with two sets of lining and tie our tits up in some sort of cat’s cradle concoction just to get a little sun? I know what you are saying… “But Brooke, I don’t spend a lot of money on my bikini!” Then you look like shit, reader. You need to make sure your bathing suit has a liner, otherwise you’ll be nipping out and camel-toeing the entire kiddie pool at the park. No one wants to be mistaken for a sex offender at the country club, it’s just not classy. I’m certainly not arguing for men in speedos, but make it a little even. My solution, ladies? Go topless. That way you avoid unsightly tanlines AND save money! Just make sure you invest in spf 45 for the girls. No one wants purple nipples unless clamps are involved.
The second sexist activity really separates the men from the boys I usually date: croquet. If you don’t play croquet, fucking learn because it is the only summer sport that allows you to drink with class while also not looking like a lawn toolshed who is throwing bean bags into a plywood hole. That’s not a game, that’s a sobriety test. My fascination with unsavory types has gotten me into too much trouble, as I generally date men (and girls that look like men) with little to no knowledge of this WASP-tastic sport that I grew up loving. My issue with croquet comes with the dress code. Croquet whites are NOT optional in any tournament-like situation and I challenge any woman in this country to find a pair of white pants that don’t create epic swamp ass in the heat of a summer day. Again, men can wear loose white or seersucker shorts while I try to pull off a white summer dress and end up with chub rub on my soccer player thighs from sweating my wickets off… croquet humor! HA! Our only advantage, ladies, is that women have been scientifically proven to be better multi-taskers, and I can hold my mojito while simultaneously knocking my ball through two wickets. I’m a big deal. A big deal with a sweaty bum, but a big deal nonetheless. My solution is to be a spectator until the sun goes down and then play glow croquet. Wow, I just got a little yuppier.
The final sexist activity is golf. Holy shit. I hit the links a few times on vacay, often with my aunt and uncle who socially play up to five times a week. Among the conversation topics? Which has better traction in snow, Porsches or Maseratis (a topic to which I have nothing to add), and what sort of real estate is better to buy in this market, condos or houses. Ya, I really have nothing to add. I get a little wet when I can pay my rent on time, so I had to focus on the game. What frustrates the shit out of me is the ladies tee. Yes, you heard me right. With FOUR different areas to tee from, only one is for “ladies” (and yes, we are not women, we are fucking ladies.) The first three tee areas are for men. The first, the farthest from the hole, is for experienced male golfers, and the next two consequently for average men and then for senior golfers. Old men. Finally, we get to the ladies tee, designated by two red circles. Probably because we are always menstruating. And don’t even get me started about the awful golf attire for women: baggy salmon skorts, sleeveless argyle frocks in clashing colors, and MISERABLE sock tanlines. The solution to this, of course, is to use sexism to your advantage. Hang out in the golf cart and flirt with the beverage cart boy, get a few free wine coolers, and get wasted. If you miss the hole, just chalk it up to being a skirt, pick up your golf ball and head into the clubhouse for a reuben and a cocktail. Golf clubhouses generally have delicious sandwiches.
I feel like the only way to fight the overwhelming number of double standards is to just enjoy the sexism, bask in it like a 1950’s broad covered in tanning oil, and swallow the stereotypes like a champ. If you need me this summer, I’ll be on the croquet quart with my golden retriever puppy. I posted below a quick pic of me from last summer for you to enjoy, but it was early in the day so I hadn’t sweat my balls off quite yet. I didn’t even know I was getting photographed… oops!