The Women’s March is coming early this year. Texas Gov. Greg Abbott recently signed into law one of the most sweeping abortion restriction mandates in history and prohibited access to mail-order abortion medicine earlier this week, so the women cannot wait until January. Roe v. Wade could possibly be overturned by the hack-ass Supreme Court, but walking in a straight line with an agenda for the fifth consecutive year is going to work this time, I hope.
Sorry, I can’t make it on October 2 because I will be waiting for a dining table with a delivery window between 10 a.m. and 2 p.m., but I am a feminist, but also, plainly, I can’t keep doing this. Once, the lure of three-fourths of the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants reuniting was enough to get me on a Bolt Bus filled with men in red hats so I could stand outside in January with women in pink hats for 12 hours. Once, I was 25 and addicted to Pure Barre workouts as a mechanism to cope with mental and emotional strain. Walking as a white woman was easy, purposeful. I saw Dorinda Medley and Carole Radziwell there, and they gave me courage.
Now I am 30, and I recently fell off a horse at a bachelorette party. My tailbone hurts, and my legs are weak. My right to a legal abortion is atrophying. I haven’t changed my water filter since January 2016. I’ve worn the same KN-95 mask for the last 35 days even though it’s supposed to be single use. Can you imagine all the mask litter the women marching will reap?
Wait, am I depressed?