The Women’s Marches may already be history, but the pussy hats linger on. Yesterday, a chilly, wet, blustery day, brought out a couple of those pink hats. It wasn’t until I saw the second pink-hatted lady wandering down the aisles at Trader Joe’s that something struck me about her, about the gal I’d previously seen, and about the many “ladies of a certain age” who showed up in photographs in their pink hats or at the parades.
The premise for my observation is that these are women my age and older who are ostensibly taking a stand for empowerment, for unconstrained women’s sexuality, for women’s freedom, yadda, yadda, yadda. What they should look like is bountiful, cheery (yet slightly ferocious) Valkyries, updated hippie gals who once danced in parks thanks to their liberation from centuries of male oppression. Certainly many of the young women on parade looked cheery enough, if vapid and ill-informed (content warning about vulgar images):
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