Hey, Danica Patrick! (Cuties Pt. 2)
I was rummaging through the pile of magazines stashed on my desk when I found a recent issue of Sports Illustrated, the one whose cover you graced.
Anyway, my, oh my, this got me thinking about why you’re on it in the first place.
Well, according to this article, it may be because “Last month, [you] became the first woman to lead a lap at the Indianapolis 500. [You] finished fourth, the best finish by a female in the 89-year history of the race.”
I applaud you in this accomplishment. It’s done more for your gender than I have for mine, and you’re younger than I am. (Age, by the way, is the way to compare your life’s accomplishments with others’.)
Ah, but then there’s this.
We knew it would happen; it’s the American way. My favorite might the third one down, or perhaps the one where she’s sprawled across that yellow car there, near the bottom.
What’s going on? What always goes on. It’s the push-and-pull of American gender politics and marketability, that’s what.
Women are free to lead fulfilling lives, and are allowed to expand the preconceived limits and expectations of men to create their own collective destiny.
But they must look good in a bathing suit.
And if you don’t, you’re SOL.
You could help discover the secrets of DNA (as one Rosalind Franklin did – it’s true, look her up), but unless your accomplishments can be SIMULTANEOUSLY lauded and belittled by men, unless you women are to be recognized as instruments of progress AND delectable sexual treats–
–few men will remember your name.
Danica Patrick, I know that to make even more men aware of what you’ve done, you have to harness their irretrievably shrunken attention spans. But maintain your dignity. Even though your name sounds like that of a porn star.
Remember — it’s because you’re a good driver. Don’t let them convince you otherwise.
Why else would you garner space on my little soapbox here?
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