But as my inner anthropologist quickly realized,
there was the undeniable fact of their cloistering from men. There were
alcohol-fueled girls’ nights out, and women-only luncheons and trunk
shows and “shopping for a cause” events. There were mommy coffees, and
women-only dinners in lavish homes. There were even some girlfriend-only
flyaway parties on private planes, where everyone packed and wore
outfits the same color.
“It’s easier and more fun,” the women insisted when I asked about the sex segregation that defined their lives.
“We
prefer it,” the men told me at a dinner party where husbands and wives
sat at entirely different tables in entirely different rooms.
prefer it,” the men told me at a dinner party where husbands and wives
sat at entirely different tables in entirely different rooms.
Sex
segregation, I was told, was a “choice.” But like “choosing” not to
work, or a Dogon woman in Mali’s “choosing” to go into a menstrual hut,
it struck me as a state of affairs possibly giving clue to some deeper,
meaningful reality while masquerading, like a reveler at the Save Venice
ball the women attended every spring, as a simple preference.
segregation, I was told, was a “choice.” But like “choosing” not to
work, or a Dogon woman in Mali’s “choosing” to go into a menstrual hut,
it struck me as a state of affairs possibly giving clue to some deeper,
meaningful reality while masquerading, like a reveler at the Save Venice
ball the women attended every spring, as a simple preference.
And then there were the wife bonuses.