We’ve all been there.
You step onto the train after a hard day’s work, exhausted and ready to collapse into a hideously upholstered seat. But alas, there are no seats available, and even though the evidence of your hearty lunch in your stomach suggests that you could be with child, no chivalrous stranger offers you theirs.
Resigned to standing up, you are jostled and nudged and pushed into an individual who clearly chose not to practice personal hygiene that day. With your personal space invaded, you make a mental note to bring this up with your well-intentioned but generally useless therapist next week.
And then you see him. He is average looking at best. Brown hair, an entirely forgettable face, and shoes that do not match his outfit. His knees are spread as wide as can be, forcing the two women on either side of him to fold into themselves just to avoid contact.
But none of this matters, because he is reading a book. And not just any book, ladies, a book written by a *gasp* woman.
Immediately, you picture your first date, drinking wine and discussing Virginia Woolf’s prose, second-wave feminism, and the worldwide injustice of women’s unpaid labour. Wedding bells ring as you picture running hand in hand on a beach, the sun setting while dolphins leap in the background. He is sensitive, responsive to your needs, and a happy house-husband. Always ready with a home-cooked meal when you return from your high-flying and well-paid job because in this world, the gender wage gap does not exist. He is your partner, your equal…
Ladies, he is not real.
Firstly, his choice of book is likely a ploy to trap innocent and unsuspecting prey (i.e., you). Look at him again, dear reader. Is he glancing around to see if he’s caught anyone’s attention whilst stroking his underdeveloped beard in thought? When you lock eyes, does he give you a lingering gaze, flash a thoughtful little smile and return to his novel? If yes, you’re in danger.
In the unlikely instance he is actually invested in this book, repeat after me: OUR LITERARY CHOICES DO NOT DEFINE US! Reading female-written literature does not a feminist make!
So, my fellow idealistic public transport takers: be strong, keep your guard up, and do not fall for the tricks of train-riding lotharios.
Unless he’s reading Jane Austen, in which case, you’ve found the one. Congrats!
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