The Vestal Virgins of North Dallas: an average nouveau-riche white guy combines the feminine ideal with life-size entoga-ed yard ornaments.
Still on my whirlwind tour of the Dallas-Ft. Worth Metroplex. This post will necessarily embrace brevity as its guiding aesthetic principle.
“[...I]f girls and women choose pink equipment to play [...] sports, are they somehow reclaiming femininity in a good way?”
I despair of the idea that femininity is in any way something that can be “reclaimed.” Of course it can’t be reclaimed, because women never owned it in the first place; women’s feminine identities are universally shaped by male ideas.
Possibly the author of the question really meant “can we redefine ‘femininity’?”
To which I reply: even if, back at the dawn of time, women did wake up one fine spring morning — perhaps in the throes of a mass folie brought on by eating too much ergot — and joyfully cry “Hey, I know, let’s invent a bunch of vapid social conventions that demonstrate our endorsement of our own oppression and deprive us of full participation in life’s rich pageant,” why would any rational person wish to embrace such a thing as a basis for one’s identity? Femininity, as one commenter pointed out, does not exist in a vacuum; you can’t, as a woman or as a feminist or as anyone else, erase eons of accumulated symbolism and cultural narrative by simply lurching to your feet and proclaiming, “pink golf balls are empowerful!”
I hate to leave it at that, but duty calls. Until Austin’s gravitational pull acts sufficiently upon my person to propel me from this purgatory of strip malls and rich old helmet-headed honky dowagers, feast your eyes upon the facade, above, of a typical North Dallas house.