The Curse of Emancipation

Sure, independence and all that is fantastic. As a happening lady in her mid twenties it’s a relief to know that my destiny is in my own hands. I am at perfect liberty to pursue gainful employment, own property or even run for governmental office if I did so choose (I don’t, never and in no way do I think that’s the right path for me but it’s comforting to know that options are open to me as if they were some sort of basic right or something).

There is, sadly and however, a distinct downside to these freedoms. You wouldn’t have thought there would be. Certainly, historical feminists are rolling their eyes at my flippancy. They’re calmly shouting at me (I was going to say shrieking but that suddenly struck me as downright disrespectful. It’s a word pretty much exclusively applied to the ladies and I just don’t think it’s remotely appropriate here. They wouldn’t shriek at me, such behaviour would be utterly beneath their dignity) that these notions would never occur to men.

Of course they wouldn’t. They’d never fret of fuss over the idea that they don’t deserve a say in the state of the nation of the future we’re all heading towards. They’d take it as a given that they ought to be granted an opinion in any and all discussions. But these newly granted rights to the double X-ers means that we have to start worrying our pretty little heads and taking responsibility for decisions made.

Wouldn’t it all be simpler if we went back to the days when our husbands and fathers decided everything for us? Then we wouldn’t have a say any more but we’d no longer be saddled with this heavy guilt over the way things are headed. This is the unwelcome curse of emancipation.

Song choices courtesy of: Murray Gold and The Chamber Orchestra of London

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