This anecdotal allegory arose after a recent concert by the original Sloths. This band, led by a Rick Springfield doppelganger unable to afford what should be a mandatory quota of Botox and Juvederm but who is nonetheless dedicated to his female listeners in much the same way as the “Jesse’s Girl” legend, played recently in a fairly obscure downtown club that must have brought home the fact that the County Fair is not rock bottom for an aging hair band. The Sloths are a classic rock group from L.A., and have undergone many incarnations since a few top 40 hits in the 60s. I was not yet a gleam in mommy’s eye when Tommy McLoughlin first took to the stage, and the Admiral of the Garage Era is still at the helm…in knee pads. The title-generated dry ice fog might now be clearing a bit. As my friends and I settled in for a night of fandom (sort of a middle-aged version of One Direction boy band hysteria ridiculed by our accompanying males), the Sloths ascended to the stage. Tommy sported the Sunset-Strip standard black leggings that showed off his waning virility. He also wore a pair of industrial strength knee pads that he would need as the head-banging mounted to a crescendo. During “Wanna New Life,” Tommy showed startling agility by leaping from the stage and sliding a respectable 20 feet into an arm-sweeping, kneeling elegy to a female fan he’d spotted in the crowd. We erupted in fits of teenage-girl exuberance. Throughout the night, he seduced, cajoled, and conjured the ladies in the audience, perching fetchingly on stools next to us and crooning into his wireless mike to emphasize lyrics in “Lust,” and generally cudgeling Rick Springfield holdouts into oblivion.

The next day as I was cruising Home Depot to buy supplies for two HI projects I am planning over spring break, there in the hardware section, I spotted them. Knee pads. Shiny black ones, industrial strength elephant-sized pads, and gel-infused non-rockers for the classically-minded set (pun intended. I never mind rocking, even during delicate HI projects). The selection was dazzling to a lady who is no dilettante in the art of 1940s bungalow restoration. In fact, I chose a sturdy pair that just happen to match my tool belt. I was so delighted that I sent a pic to my fangirlfriend who was at the Sloths show to celebrate the purchase, gushing “I was so inspired I bought a pair.” She replied, “You need them more.” By was of exposition, my FGF and I have been friends more than 20 years. She is a delicate lady, an intellectual but a withering violet when it comes to women doing “man’s stuff,” aka how I lead my life. She also knows I climb on roofs often, and that I prefer nail guns over Vietnamese manicures. I told her I was coating my roof and sealing my patio this week. She told me, as she often does, that I am a Badass. Her sexual allusion is funny. I am a small blonde woman who enjoys exploding the stereotypes of the mohawked, jackbooted feminist one might expect to see in Carhartts. My hackles do rise when women themselves shame one another for expressing sexuality on any level.

After the global recession, I saw the retreat of hard-won gains in the feminist movement. I watched many accomplished female students downgrade their goals from “doctor” to “nurse,” and once again childbearing and housewifery gained momentum as the ultimate form of female self-realization. Any suggestion that a woman’s skill set might also include non-traditional endeavors like HI skills is socially shunned. The bullying and cattiness aimed at women who embrace their sexuality (slut-shaming), who wear overalls and know their way around a garage (lesbian, undatable) has snowballed into the type of misogyny I thought we left behind in the 1980s. The millennials are at the forefront of this new, primeval Cult of Domesticity, just as they are shockingly driving the bus and chanting racist slurs. I say, woman-up and strap on your knee pads, ladies.