Don’t serve me first – unless I’m closest to the kitchen
I was at a wedding on the weekend. It was a beautiful affair: a traditional ceremony in a heritage church and dinner at a prestigious local hotel. I can’t say enough good things about the day, the setting and the true love that beamed from the couple as they said their vows and celebrated with loved ones.
When we sat down to dinner that evening, the servers began to deliver the soup—women first. “Really?” I thought. “Are we not past that?”
I didn’t say anything, though. Who am I to rock the boat? But by the time the main course arrived, another woman at my table noticed and said, “They’re serving women first.”
“I know,” I said. “Are we not past that?”
I don’t need to be served first.
I appreciate being paid the same as a man if I do the same work, but I don’t need to get my soup before my husband. I appreciate not being passed over for jobs because of my gender, but I don’t care about having the first crack at the salad. I like being able to walk down the street without being harassed, but I can wait for my dessert.
I don’t like discrimination, but I don’t care much for inexplicable privilege either.
They don’t decide the order of plate service by eye colour, waist measurement, the length of fingers or the size of ears. Why should gender be a deciding factor? Wouldn’t it be better if they decided to serve the people who are, oh say, closest to the kitchen?