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Definitely better than the sex I had last night, anyway. I left Mr. Forty Seconds of Fury lying sprawled on his back in his bed without a backward glance. I should’ve known it would be a disaster when he claimed to be packing a python in his pants. I have heels bigger than his dick.
“The word aggressive is commonly only used in reference to rabid dogs, savage dictators, or a woman with an opinion. If a man is aggressive, he’ll be described as a go-getter, or ambitious, or even simply masculine. In fact, every word in the definition of bitch that you see here is a masculine attribute. Warlike? Difficult? Unkind? Controlling? Those are all the antithesis of what society tells a woman she should be, because they are inherently masculine traits. So when a man calls you a bitch, he’s really saying you’re acting like a man.”
I pause for effect and then say forcefully, “And I’m here to tell you that acting like a man is the only way you’ll ever get what you want out of life.”
In the ballroom, it’s silent as a graveyard. Everyone stares at me, waiting.
“This is a man’s world, ladies. It might be cliché, but it’s the truth. Women are born at a disadvantage. We lack testosterone, the hormone responsible for the urge to build skyscrapers and fly to the moon and go to war. We are conciliators, peacemakers, nurturers. We are self-sacrificing, which is not only ridiculous, but also a ridiculous waste of potential. What we need to be in order to live truly fulfilled, productive lives is powerful. Can anyone tell me how a woman becomes powerful? Just shout it out. You don’t have to raise your hands.”
There are a few calls of “Education!” and “Self-knowledge!” and even “Weight lifting!” which brings on laughs. I laugh too, loving the energy of the room.
“Those are all good examples. But none of them get to the heart of the matter.”
I always make sure to use the word heart. It’s every woman’s Kryptonite. Well, that and love. But that word is strictly verboten in my seminars.
And in every other part of my life.
“Here’s a quote from Roseanne Barr. ‘The thing women have yet to learn is that nobody gives you power. You just take it.’ Sounds simple enough, right? The problem with that is that it assumes the source of power is outside you. It isn’t. You already have all the power you need, but you’ve been giving it away. You’ve been trading it, bartering it, squandering it, because your need to be liked is stronger than your need to honor yourself. Every time you don’t speak up if you’re disrespected, every time you say ‘yes’ when you should say ‘no,’ every time you put someone else’s needs or desires ahead of your own, you give away your power. And what do you get in return?”
I wait. The audience leans forward, a collective held in thrall.
“Frustration. Resentment. Anger.”
Heads nod. I’m preaching to the choir. Picking up energy, I turn and stride stage right. Every eye in the auditorium
follows me.
“Here’s a fun statistic. Women are nearly twice as likely as men to suffer from depression. Twice as likely. Do you think that’s fair?”
When I hold out the mic toward the audience, I get a blistering shout in return.
“No!”
“Of course it’s not!” I pace back the way I came, my legs eating up the stage, my hair tumbling over my shoulders, a lioness going in for the kill. Agog, they watch me.
“And can you tell me who NEVER suffers from depression?”
Right on cue, hundreds of voices cry out. “Bitches!”
“That’s RIGHT!” I roar. “Bitches never suffer from depression! They don’t suffer from anything, in fact, because if it makes them unhappy, they move on! They don’t try to change it, or whine about it, or spend hours with their girlfriends analyzing why. They simply open their hands and let it go!”
Clapping. Ah, how I adore the sound of clapping. It takes a great deal of effort not to break into another grin, but I manage it. I stand with my legs shoulder-width apart in the center of the stage and gaze lovingly at my audience.
Even in my thoughts, I’m careful not to call them my “minions,” as my best friend Darcy does. The word is far too disrespectful for a group of people who are putting half a million dollars in my pocket for a few hours of listening to me talk.
“The bitch’s motto is, ‘After me, you come first.’ Whether it’s a man, or a job, or a family member, the priority is always her own happiness. In this way, and in this way only, a woman controls her own destiny, and realizes and safeguards her power. She’s never at the mercy of anyone else.” I pause briefly to let that all sink in. “What you need, ladies, is simply a new interpretation of that old insult for a strong woman. A definition you can truly embrace.”
A new graphic flashes on the large projector screen on the wall behind me.
Bitch: noun a woman in control of herself, her life, and her destiny, who always gets what she wants.
Shouts of “Amen!” and raucous hoots of approval erupt from the audience. Now I can’t help myself. My mouth breaks into a huge smile.
“That’s right. A bitch always gets what she wants. A bitch isn’t bossy. She’s the boss. In life, in work, and in relationships, bitches always do better. Now let me ask you ladies…”
I throw my shoulders back, lift my hand to the sky, and raise my voice to the rafters.
“Are you ready to become a BITCH?”
