In my Utopia, work will be just like that parttime intern job at the California Coastal Commission. The boss wears red cowboy boots, we come to work late and stay late when we want to, the coffee is communal (and Peets), everyone knows everyone's therapist's name, meetings are frowned upon and sports analogies are banned, wages are based on hours contributed to community service, and "family leave" includes relationship crises, change-of-life time off, and bad hair days. I realize most women are struggling to get and keep jobs while they're running households, raising children, tending elderly parents and maintaining friendships. They need stable jobs, decent wages, and realistic benefits. But we also want to work in places where the color of our lipstick, or the height of our heels doesn't matter; where grey matter is equally valued, whether encased by a full or partial head of hair. A place where we can have fun too. Where the old boy's club is just a bar down the street, and sexual harrassment on the job is as rare as a pubic hair on a soda can.

I won't be holding my breath 'til that day arrives. I will be dusting off my resume a few more times before that first Social Security check arrives (let's be optimistic, shall we?). Meanwhile, some little girl out there could be dreaming about a pale mauve oval office with her name on the door.

Copyright © 1997
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