Handmaids and wing-men

We've been watching The Handmaid's Tale and it's a little disconcerting. Actually, it's a lot disconcerting. Last night, it filtered into my dreams and I woke up feeling on edge, like I was being watched, or something was about to go terribly wrong. It didn't last long, but it's no way to be - watching someone hold a glass above a concrete floor, waiting for them to drop it.

I've also been having some complicated conversations about women and safety and responsibility and I didn't quite make it to a place I feel comfortable standing in with any of those conversations. But - what a luxury - to be able  to have wide open conversations about those things and not have my eyes gouged out or my feet whipped for insolence.

Last week, I was sick, and my husband got me anything I needed and stroked my hair back off my face and kept the home fires burning (literally, he made a really excellent fire in the fireplace). I was grateful, but I did not see it as remarkable and neither did he. We operate alongside each other, in this way: partners in what feels like the truest sense for us. While he was at work, qualified and gentle people looked after our son, and I lay in bed. I had no qualms about doing so. I want to say I was convalescing, but that sounds really nice and it was not nice. 

My point is, unlike the Handmaids from Margaret Atwood's sinister and achingly possible world, I never have to pretend I am anything other than a flag-waving feminist.

As such, it was an honour to be included in a round-up here.