In the grand scheme of things, women have been recognised as bona-fide people for about five minutes of recorded history. And that’s not to say that things are as they should be today: 10,000 years of prejudice takes a while to shake off, and plenty of ground remains to be covered between us and equality.
Nonetheless, it would be hard to argue that the last fifty years or so haven’t seen some monumental strides in the right direction. We get to do things like own property, vote, work, and control our reproductive systems. And I for one am having a blast, with all of the above. Even more recent history – say, the last five years – has seen shifts in attitude as well as policy. Take, for example, the fact it’s no longer just evil to grope female employees, or pass them over for promotion – it’s also no longer socially acceptable.
But we’re a funny bunch. Stalwart pockets of antiquated thinking hold tight, like a silverfish infestation you think you’ve blitzed until one crawls across the bathroom floor six weeks later. Salient reminders of how far we’ve come – but also of how deeply rooted such ideas are. Like what, you say? Well, I’ve got a million up my sleeve: but the last week has brought one in particular to the surface, which I still can't believe persists into 2020. It’s the weird lore of February 29th – the one day every four years that women are ‘allowed’ to propose.
It sounds harmless enough, until time comes to think through the rage-inducing logic of such a tradition. For most of human history, and still in many parts of the world today, marriage was something brokered by men. A father gives his daughter to another man, in return for allegiance – or just the sheer relief of having her off his hands, amiright. And today even in the most female friendly circles, it remains a perplexing norm that the man in a heterosexual couple should be the one to pop the question.
Whatever your stance on marriage as an institution (I’m not wild about it personally, which might not surprise you), the decision about who to spend one’s adult life with is unanimously agreed to be a Pretty Big Deal. And when the right to broker that arrangement is left entirely to one half of the population, so too is the autonomy and agency which comes with it.
As such, I’ve been taken aback by the jokes and insinuations (ooh, it’s a leap year!) from people who are otherwise all about female empowerment. Friends in long term relationships – women with jobs and plans and the most admirable and remarkable lives and ideas – still whisper at the end of a long night and a few drinks, ‘I wonder why he hasn’t asked yet?’ In all other arenas, they wouldn’t think twice about asking for exactly what they want – yet, this is one patriarchal hangover we remain gripped by.
And for all its fluffy flippancy, that's a sentiment that to me seems rooted in some pretty grim ideas: women, granted agency once in a blue moon; a special treat, like letting a child stay up late on their birthday or a dog eat from your plate at Christmas. As someone much smarter than me once said: tradition is just peer pressure from dead people. If you want to get married to a man, ask him – as long as it’s not February 29th.
READ MORE: It's Okay To Say No To A Bad Proposal
READ MORE: It Turns Out Women Proposing On A Leap Year Is Still A Thing