Why Feminists Should Be Wary of the Obsession With the GlassCeiling
Last weekend, as I was sorting my clothes to give some away, a navy blue J. Crew suit buried in the back of my closet threw me into an existential crisis. Rationally speaking, I knew there was about as much likelihood of me wearing that suit as Paul Ryan suddenly donning my Stop Stop-and-Frisk pin. As a freelance writer focusing on social justice movements, my daily wardrobe includes only four items: jeans, underwear and a T-shirt for the days I leave the house, and my pajamas for the days I sequester myself and my coffee maker in the closet to write.