Not my sisters

Today’s reason for feeling particularly morose: my failure to participate in the worldwide protests against the new POTUS. I couldn’t muster the outrage, solidarity, or commitment to go out and march. The whole thing just seemed too unfocused and antagonistic, and it seemed to take Trumpery way more seriously than I think it deserves. Now, of course, I’m berating myself for being a bad woman—or bad human—for staying home.

In 20 years will I regret not joining the feisty, playful, caring, ideological throng? Probably no more than I regret wearing a skirt to high school on the day in 1969 when many girls wore pants to protest the restrictive dress code. As I recall, it turned out to be something of a non-event, with the administration pretty much shrugging and saying, “OK, you can wear pants.” If the Trump administration similarly capitulates, I will definitely regret not marching.

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