Sylvester Weighs In

Musings from a whiskered observer

Thufferin’ thuccotash, have you heard these humans lately? All this talk about equality, and nobody can agree on what it even means anymore. You ask me, the modern feminists have gone from fighting for a fair shake to trying to grab the whole milk bottle.

Now, don’t get me wrong—I’m all for fairness. I’ve spent a lifetime being blamed for everything that happens to that bird. But there’s a difference between balance and payback, see?

Men and women, they’re different critters. Always have been, always will be. You can’t pass a law to make a tomcat into a tabby, and you can’t expect the same wiring to do the same job.

Men, for instance, can sleep through a marching band. They can ignore a crying baby, a dripping faucet, or a wife asking, “Do you hear that noise?” Pure talent. They can also open stubborn jars and fix things with duct tape and misplaced confidence.

Women, though—whoo boy—they’re the multitasking masters. They can cook, talk on the phone, balance the budget, and remember everyone’s birthdays while still finding your lost socks. They’ve got eyes in the back of their heads, and I suspect at least one extra brain.

Sure, there’s still work to do—equal pay, fair leave, the whole ceiling business—but let’s admit it: things are way better than they were fifty years ago. Mad Men could’ve been a documentary, and don’t tell me otherwise.

The women of the 1920s fought for the vote. The women of the 1940s went to work and kept the world spinning. The women of the 1970s kicked down office doors and said, “Move over, buster.” That’s ninety-five miles of a hundred-mile race. And now? Some of the new ones are acting like the last five are an endless uphill climb.

Me, I think they should take a breath, look back at the road behind them, and maybe stop hissing at each other for a minute. Equality’s not about sameness—it’s about respect. About knowing we need each other.

But maybe that’s just the cattitude talking.