Severian led off with this terse observation:
I’m tempted to argue that you can sum up all of pop-feminism with “we think we’re cuter than we actually are, and we’re going to get the government to force you to agree.”
See also Steve Sailer, similarly:
“The most heartfelt articles by female journalists tend to be demands that social values be overturned in order that, Come the Revolution, the journalist herself will be considered hotter-looking.”
At this point, Nightfly sees an opening:
Is it that they think they’re cuter than they are, or is it that they realize they’re not cute enough to get by on cute alone, so they are determined AT ANY COST to make “looks” a dirty word — or even a punishable offense?
The dreaded Male Gaze. They despise it at least as much as they despise the male who withholds it; the only true joy in feminism is to find some way to humiliate men. (See about every fourth article by Robert Stacy McCain.)
We’re talking about lasses who could work their way into the 5-6 range, right? Well, that means that, in college, their absolute best efforts would leave them behind at the quarter pole of life, though with diligence they could be in that second wave of ladies who settle down (emphasis on “settle” in their minds) in their late 20s or early 30s with guys whom they would have considered beneath them in school, but who are also the only ones left once all the good catches are made.
This is at the heart of Garfunkel and Oates’ “29 31.”
And it’s not, you should know, the creation of those horrible folks with the Y chromosome either:
[M]en aren’t the builders of this game, contrary to insane assumptions — we’re just fellow players. Just as there are plenty of women who can never land a Mr. Darcy, there are plenty of guys with no prayer of securing a Ms. Bennett. We all face this realization about our own status in life. I mean, do you think all men are equally handsome, equally ambitious, equally smart, equally accomplished? Plenty of us had to take stock while the top catches had their pick of our peer group, and quickly figure out what else could capture and hold someone’s interest. (Or, not so quickly. I was pretty much 35 years old when I got married — I’m not exactly Dr. Genius McQuarterback over here.)
For a while, I came off as more interesting than I actually was; at least, that’s the only explanation I can find for having any notches on the bedpost at all.