The feminine mystique

Wow! I feel so much pressure to produce a post worthy of Single of the Week honor. Thank you for the shout out, Grins. (Do you prefer check or money order?) I fear, however, that I am buckling under the pressure with this distinction. I have had three ideas for posts, but none of them really inspire me at the moment.

Or perhaps, it's just that I am still in vacation mode. This past weekend, A.K.A Senior Advisor (an occasional commenter here at the Martini lounge) and I met Max in New York City for the Labor Day weekend.

Between watching Spamalot on Broadway and listening to jazz at the historic Blue Note of the West Village, the weekend was perfect with one exception. The remnants of tropical storm Ernesto followed us to Manhattan and attempted to ruin an otherwise lovely weekend.

A little rain wasn't about to slow our pace, but by Saturday afternoon it seemed that the clouds were producing buckets of water, not just drops. And although distinctive, yellow cabs are as prevalent in the city as unemployed actors, sometimes finding one is as hard as landing a starring role on Broadway.

Ironically, it was near or about Broadway that I realized Max, who loves to take the lead in chivalrous acts, wasn't about to successfully flag down a taxi for us. It was 4:15 on a rainy, Saturday afternoon. All the matinee performances had just ended. The streets were flooded, not with rain, but with panicked and gawking tourists in need of lifts to the local Hard Rock Cafe.

Under these conditions, Senior Adviser and I hovered under the umbrella, which was doing little to shield us from the elements, as Max did his best to hail a cab. But like a small-town actor at his first big audition, he faced fierce competition. The plain truth was that Max, a young, strapping male, was not about to land the role of damsel in distress.

Trying not to destroy the fragile mail ego, I waited in the wings as patiently as I could. But the rain began to intensify.

"Sweetie, you'd better leave this one to me," I said motioning Max away from the street and under the umbrella. He started to protest, but I was insistent. "Watch how it's done."

It took less than 60 seconds for a blond, seemingly unescorted, skirt to land a cab on a busy rainy Saturday. Senior Adviser could only chuckle, and Max just shook his head. He thought it coincidence until I pulled the same stunt after Saturday night dinner--only this time my foot had barely hit the street and I hadn't even raised my hand to signal the cab. "Don't send a man to do a woman's job." I said taunting, poor Max as we shuffled in the back seat.

Some would call all of this the power of the female persuasion; others would say manipulation or even exploitation. I call it putting your best foot forward.

Unlike the young wannabe starlet on the casting couch, I'd never consider exchanging sexual favors in order to advance in my career. However, I do not hesitate to throw on a low-cut top when I'm headed to a bar on a Saturday night. Cleavage gets the bartender's attention faster than cash, cutting the wait time for a drink in half. But in the strictest sense of the larger picture, how is what I will do any different from what I won't? After all, I'm still using assets to get ahead. Is this wrong?

But then I think otherwise. Sometimes I wish that, as women, we would all band together and use our feminine powers to accomplish even greater achievements. Why not parlay those free drinks and faster cab service into something more--like more stalls in women's restrooms, for instance? Because when you stop and think about it, what I, and all women, save in wait time at bars and on the streets hailing cabs, we certainly lose standing in line at public restrooms, waiting for a single, unoccupied stall with a fully functioning door.

And with that realization, suddenly I feel no guilt for putting my best foot forward, or any other body part for that matter. You do what you have to do. After all, while blessed with the feminine mystique, we are also cursed with very, tiny bladders.