Ah, the meaning of life, or rather, its futility, am I right? That’s what I often ponder, sitting alone in my tiny apartment, surrounded by plants that are somehow more alive than I am. In one of my more sentient moments between contemplating the sweet release of death and ordering pizza that inevitably will be my dinner and breakfast, I stumbled upon a wild tale worth sharing.
So, on one absurd afternoon in breezy Newton, Mass., let's call our protagonist Judy Screwy (certainly, no one named or unnamed). Judy was all about making childbirth slightly less nightmare-inducing for women when she met with a group of would-be revolutionaries. You know, the kind that would yell at puppies for being too capitalist.
One of these enlightening souls screamed at Judy, "You are not a feminist, you’ll never be a feminist and you need to go to school!" Honestly, I've been screamed at for less glamorous reasons, like forgetting to wear pants to the supermarket – a simple oversight.
Anyway, Judy was understandably shaken but also started to doubt her feminist credentials. And let’s be fair, the ‘60s were wild. If you weren’t being yelled at, you clearly weren’t trying hard enough.
Now, Judy knew a thing or twenty about the condescending chaps in the medical world – where only a measly 6 percent of fresh, hopeful medical faces were women. The kind of chaps who'd probably still prescribe a cigarette to ease the nerves of a woman in labor. Those were the days!
Was she deterred? Maybe for a moment, between a martini and a protesting session. But come on, dying alone from anguish sounds like a Tuesday for me. Let's have a toast to Judy, or whatever her real name is, for trying to sort out her feminist agenda in a room full of yelling.
To cap it all, life is short, and sometimes you just need to be yelled at to really feel alive – or maybe that's just my impending doom talking. I think I'll call my mom tonight. Ah, who am I kidding? I’ll die alone anyway, might as well enjoy the silence while it lasts!
Based on the original article "Norma Swenson, ‘Our Bodies, Ourselves’ Co-Author, Dies at 93".
