I didn’t believe in gender stereotypes…now I do

I just didn’t believe in it. I had no interest in it. Left-wing, ultra woke nonsense I thought.

I laughed in the face of radical feminism, “Me Too” and other such annoying agendas.

I got into a debate on Twitter once as I took umbrage at the statement “It’s tough being a woman”. I regarded that as a tear of society, a hybrid of nihilism and existentialism. I still wince at the digital kicking I received from females around the world. I just didn’t understand, and just sought to “man-splain” them all.

At least I can claim genuine reform in that regard, only a fool Tweets let alone enters debate on the platform.

How I realized gender stereotypes were real

I would never blink an eye at a female Doctor or a female Fund Manager. I’ve had plenty of both in my life, thankfully, and built strong relationships. So that satisfied me that I was not discriminating on the back of Gender. Doctors and Fund Managers are traditionally male, and I didn’t bat an eyelid at a female in those roles, well, then I must be okay.

I patted myself on the back and considered myself an enlightened, renaissance type beta male.

That was until recently. I injured my shoulder and was unable to clean my flat properly anymore. So I hired a cleaner. Looked it up on Google, and proceeded to Gumtree where I was provided with a number to call.

“Hello, Gregory speaking”

“Hello, I was ringing about a cleaner — is she there”

“…I am the cleaner”

Well, I was astounded. My mind was blown. A male cleaner? Like a thief in the night, I just didn’t see it coming.

Then I was forced into a period of intense self-scrutiny;

Why had I asked for “she” on the phone?

Why was I surprised that Gregory was the cleaner?

It hurts to realise it, but I concluded that I am hard-wired with in-built gender stereotypes.

And then, it got worse.

For some reason, the idea of a male cleaning my flat whilst I lounged like a feudal Lord made me deeply uncomfortable. It just didn’t seem right.

I found myself apologising to the guy. I wore my sling for the first time in ages, just as a visual cue that I was injured and unable to clean.

Sentences such as:

“I would do it myself, but…”

“Are you sure you don’t mind?”

Were escaping my mouth like errant missiles before I could stop them. It was weird. It was as if my brain and mouth were operating of their own accord, whilst my soul was desperately trying to reign them in.

I spent two miserable hours in a coffee shop buying expensive pastries just to avoid the skin-crawling misery of watching the man clean. I felt like it was beneath him, and in turn, I felt like some sort of slave trader.

I found myself tipping Gregory an extra tenner. It was almost as if I was compensating him for emasculating him or buying his silence. All the while, wearing my sling and complaining loudly of pain.

I was embarrassed. And I don’t know why. He did a pretty good job, but I was almost on my knees thanking the man for his work — tossing around superlatives like confetti.

I hired the man to do a job, and he did it. There should have been no spine-tingling shame or remorse.

Why?

I haven’t had to hire a private psychoanalyst to understand why my brain betrayed me the way it did.

It is a legacy of traditional matriarchically defined stereotypes, as well as my own hard-wired equating of females with unskilled work. It hurts, but there it is the bare truth.

My thoughts turn to how difficult it must be for aspirational females in this world. Continually dealing with these subliminal stereotypes must be dispiriting and emotionally exhausting in equal measures.

The law graduate who is mistaken for a secretary. The Doctor who is mistaken for a nurse. The Detective who is mistaken for ancillary staff.

It must hurt a great deal. I can only imagine because it hasn’t happened to me, but it must feel like being a pre-determined handicap in life. Like entering a sprint race in flip flops or throwing a javelin made of lead.

To overcome that, and to be inherently discriminated against, must be exceedingly tough. If some female activists are a bit radical and a bit exuberant in their exhortations, maybe it is because they have good reason to be.

Me?

Well, the visit of Gregory has been an eye-opener.

I have resolved to do better. To question my inherent assumptions.

And, most of all, to stop being triggered by the phrase “It’s tough being a woman” — because, just maybe…it is.