While waiting for Battlestar Galactica to return in January, I've become obsessed with another cable show that, on the surface, also appears to take place in a completely alien universe. Mad Men is set on the Madison Avenue of the early 1960's, and the creator, designers and producers go to impressive lengths to ensure that the show remains firmly rooted in the past: every crystal decanter, every Wheel-O children's toy, every Chip 'n Dip are carefully chosen for period accuracy. This throwback world is ruled by huffing, puffing, slick-talking suits and their harems of pencil-skirted secretaries (at the Sterling Cooper ad agency), coiffed wives (at home) and sultry mistresses (everywhere else). Beneath the cloud of cigarette smoke and the haze of 11am martinis lies a pervasive chauvinism and near-misogyny.

It can be easy for modern career gals like me to dismiss the craven office politics of Mad Men as an anachronistic blast from the past, and to breath a sigh of relief that the show's blatant and infuriating sexism belong to bygone days. But while I may be lucky enough to work at a women's magazine where the male-female ratio of top execs is the inverse of Sterling Cooper's, it's still a mad, mad world out there in the industries of law, finance, science and yes, advertising.

I was reminded of this the other night while listening to some of the Mad Men behind-the-scenes commentary for Episode 6: Babylon (that's one of the nice things about watching a show for the first time on DVD: you can totally gorge on the special features). This episode, in which several characters reveal a secret longing for some unattainable conquest (Don for Rachel, Rachel and Betty for Don, everyone for personal fulfillment) while the agency pursues an account with the Israeli Tourism Bureau (hence the beautifully metaphoric title), was written by the husband-and-wife team of André and Maria Jacquemetton.

During the writers' voiceover, Maria Jacquemetton provided historical context and led us on a tour of the gender landscape of the time. "Women were forced back into the home largely by advertising," she said. She explained that advertising made women feel like they had to be the perfect housewife, with the perfect house and the perfect children, and still be able to "cook dinner in a crinoline skirt." She blamed the 60's for forcing women back into the straightjacket role of homemaker. Jacquemetton then went on to observe that what was happening in the 60's "is very similar to what is going on today."

But instead of pointing out examples of sexism that still exist, Jacquemetton chose instead to turn on young women workers. "It's surprising to me that a lot of the attitudes are kind of similar to today," she said. "I talk to young women, and it's upsetting to me sometimes how many of them want to stay home and raise their children and don't care so much about their careers."

Aha! I got it. Jacquemetton was referring to the women who desert their professional posts and ditch their careers in order to care full-time for their children. This group, first brought to national attention (obsessive national attention, I might add) by that infamous 2003 New York Times article by Lisa Belkin, have become popular whipping-girls for older feminists. I could see where this was heading.

As expected, Jacquemetton then launched into defense of the Women's Movement, which quickly turned into a rebuke (albeit mild one) of my peers. "[These women] see their mothers and my generation, women like us fought really hard, we fought to make inroads for people to have something for themselves.

"I'm not diminishing children --I'm a mother: I have two children. But at the end of the day, who are you as a person and what do you have for yourself…that's what matters. I see young women stepping back into that role [of housewife] now and it's scary how similar it was to back then."

Oh, Mary. A catfight? Really?

I agree that advertising created impossibly high standards for feminine perfection, and that not only drove many well-off women back into the home in the 60's, but also led to a national epidemic of female low self-esteem (this is classic Women Studies 101). I agree that there's more to life than cooking, cleaning and kids, and that women need to pursue meaningful work outside the home – hey, I read The Feminine Mystique.

What saddens me is Jacquemetton's desire for intergenerational antagonism. I think it’s a bit of a hyperbole to make it sound like today's young women emulate the housewives of the past, like we're all marching off to some "scary" Stepford Wives future. At that NY Times piece has been endless criticized for overstating the situation and focusing on a narrow subset of women. Why are older women so stuck on that article?! There are so many more of us who have absolutely no intention to leave our careers when we have kids -– but we still don't have a clue how we're going to do both.

It's a bummer to hear highly successful First Wave feminists--our mentors--turn around and blame younger feminists for failing to reach similar levels of success, or for defining success differently. We all agree that young feminists owe their moms and aunts and big sisters a grand debt of gratitude. But I get frustrated when I see women in my mom's generation adamantly refuse to sympathize with the challenges faced by their daughters who want a family and a career. I'm sure it wasn't easy for Jacquemetton to become a hugely successful writer and producer and to raise a family. I have no doubt that she faced all kinds of insurmountable-seeming obstacles. Perhaps one of the ways she dealt with them was partnering professionally with her husband (or marrying her writing partner). She clearly found a solution that worked for her, and she's happy and fulfilled, and has two kids and a long list of impressive writing and producing credits--not to mention a shiny new Emmy for Mad Men. In fact, as an aspiring writer (and maybe an aspiring mother, as well), and someone who is feeling great stress and despair over how to do both, I'd love to learn more about her choices.

I assume that Maria Jacquemetton figured she was giving female viewers a little shake, and embarrassing some of them for entertaining pathetically retrograde ambitions of housewifehood. But if you were contemplating or embarking upon a life path that everyone else agrees is "challenging" at best and madness-inducing at worst, her jibes probably wouldn't provide much comfort. And if you were already a stay-at-home mom, hearing your choices referred to as "scary" and the first step towards a return to the stifling, repressive past probably won't compel you to make any bigger decision than to turn off the DVD commentary and return to the main menu.

On second thought, that may be the best and most effective plan of all. Because Mad Men constantly reminds us that while all women were treated second-class citizens back then, the stay-at-home-moms ranked the lowest. Housewives like Betty Draper have little power and no autonomy, and their empty lives are micro-managed by philandering absentee husbands (who are always running around with more independent, successful working women!). Poor disillusioned Betty is bored and lonely, in denial about her crushed expectations, and can barely control her frustration (remember when she slapped her single-mom neighbor in the supermarket? Or when she shot the neighbor's pigeons with her son's BB gun?). No thinking viewer could ever envy Betty's situation. The lesson best and most persuasively expressed in the episodes (not the commentary) is that the world of Mad Men is not a world we'd ever want to return to.

Cradle Robber?
Women aren't supposed to think about the childbearing decision as an economic one. But how does a young couple factor the cost of a kid into an already paycheck-to-paycheck existence? One would-be mother stares down the crib sheet.

I’m everlastingly grateful to my wonderful family (especially my mom) and my fiancée, K.O., for encouraging me to write honestly about my experiences -- and for being so supportive and understanding when I went ahead and did just that.

Curious to hear reactions to this one...

UPDATE: My story is now available online at elle.com
http://www.elle.com/featurefullstory/14629/cradle-robber-rising-childbearing-costs.html

The event began with a one-hour press Q&A with the men responsible for Battlestar, Ronald D. Moore and David Eick, Sci Fi's head of programming, Mark Stern, and all of the major stars of the show. We scored great seats, and were eye-level with Katee Sackoff (Starbuck), Mary McDonnell (President Laura Roslin), Tricia Helfer (Number Six), Grace Park (Boomer/Athena), Edward James Olmos (Admiral Adama), Jamie Bamber (Apollo), James Callis (Gaius Baltar), Michael Hogan (Colonel Tigh) and Aaron Douglas (Chief Tyrol). Bestill my heart!

After taking a little while to get comfortable (the reporters seemed as nervous as the stars wriggling awkwardly in their director's chairs), there was a comfortable back-and-forth. Most of these actors, save for McDonnell and Olmos, were basically unknown before Battlestar. That means they haven't yet had time to develop celebrity-sized egos and still seem like really nice, down-to-earth people. They're also genuinely (and justifiably) proud of their work on the show –- they don't take this for granted. As they sat there on stage answering questions about the fourth and last season of BG, which starts April 4, you could tell that they've all enjoyed working on such a smart, progressive show, and they're going to miss the experience. Edward James Olmos was pretty frank about what a "helluva ride" it's been, and expressed how emotional it will be when the season draws to a close –- whenever that will be (the writer's strike means that there are still about ten unfinished episodes).

The big news of the night for hardcore fans was that Sci Fi has green-lighted a BG spin-off prequel called Caprica that take place 50 years before the period covered in Battlestar. Caprica, which is the name of now-destroyed planet, will explain the creation of the Cylon robots, will focus on the struggles and conflicts of two important families. Ronald Moore compared Caprica to a sci-fi version of Dallas -- a good, if unconscious, hook for female viewers (and Sci Fi could certainly use more of us).

After the Q&A, members of the press (and our VIP Guests) headed upstairs to join the crowds of advertisers and execs to eat, drink and mingle. There were more announcements about other new Sci Fi shows, one involving anime, and something about a tech web site called dvice.com (sorry, I wasn't really listening to this, as I was too busy worshipping Mary McDonnell from across the room). After the suits had left the stage, the stars were let loose to pose for photo ops and chat with everyone. The cast of one of Sci Fi's other shows, Eureka were also there, working the room. When I asked Mark Stern and Sci Fi/USA president Bonnie Hammer if they had any other programs that might appeal to women, they reflexively mentioned Eureka. However, I haven't had a chance to check it out, and at the upfront, I only had eyes for the Battlestar crew. My conversations from that night:

Mary McDonnell: It's hard not to get chills watching Mary McDonnell play Laura Roslin, former schoolteacher turned Leader of the Free Universe. Any aspiring candidate, black or white, male or female, could learn a lot from President Roslin's pragmatism, humanity, and ability to make tough decisions quickly and decisively. During the Q&A, a reporter asked Mary if Barack Obama had asked her to be his running mate. "Actually," she responded with a twinkle in her eye, "Hillary has." Can you imagine a Clinton-McDonnell ticket? Talk about experience: Mary's been doing the job for four years)! And, Mary's wit and charisma would be a nice balance for Hillary's aggressive opportunism. Later that night, Mary admitted to me that she was actually a fan of both candidates, but that Hillary was the "right candidate for right now." "She could "pave the way for Obama," she said. Time will tell if "President Roslin" has paved the way for "President Clinton"… In the meantime, wish I had a "Clinton/McDonnell '08" T-shirt.

Katee Sackhoff: In her role as Starbuck, the fastest, toughest and possibly craziest fight pilot in the Galactica fleet, this woman can make a drab cotton racer-back tank (part of the pilot's standard uniform) look sexier than a black lace g-string. She's fit, she's sassy, she's gorgeous, she completely fearless -- she's my hero. Sounds like I'm not the only woman who has a crush on Katee, though: she told me at the party that she "keeps getting offers from The L-Word." I personally think that with her up-for-anything grin and confident swagger, she could give slutty Shane a run for her money...but Katee said that while she has nothing against the L-Word, she wants to convince audiences that she's without-a-doubt straight (proof: she's got a director boyfriend in New Orleans), and fears that her roles in Battlestar and Bionic Woman may have given them the wrong idea. I don't get this, as everyone knows Starbuck has slept with just about every dude on the ship (she's never dating less than two men at a time) and is as hetero as they come. In person, Katee is beautiful and feminine: she was wearing a cute sleeveless black trapeze dress with gold patent stilettos, and her makeup looked great. I guess some people automatically assume that short hair + shameless sexuality + muscles = lesbian. What a shame. I also think it's a bit of a shame that Katee is growing out her hair, as it's still a little unusual to see sexually powerful women on TV or in the movies with short hair. Anyway, Katee was really fun to talk to, and devoted a lot of her time to us. The only time she tried to break away was to grab her dad (!) and ask him to tell her mom (!!) that Mrs. Sackhoff simply must try one of the little chocolate dessert tarts because she'd really like them. I love Katee -- platonically speaking, of course.

Tricia Helfer: Stunning (and tall -- she towered over me) Tricia had a successful career as a model before switching over to acting. In fact, she's posed for ELLE many times, and one of her covers from the mid-90's is still hanging in our main hallway. I look at her every time I walk down to our executive editor's office. She has caramel-colored hair in that photo, but has since gone white-hot-blond for her role as a cyber-babe Number Six, and is almost always shown wearing skimpy little outfits that look like they came from Victoria's Secret "Space Angels" collection. Honestly, Tricia is almost too gorgeous for her own good. Every time I've heard her speak (on last year's ComicCon panel, in interviews), she comes across as exceptionally sharp and pragmatic. Even dressed in the kind of second-skin minidress she was wearing Tuesday (my Spanx covers more surface area), she's also cool and likable, the kind of girl you'd totally want to get drinks with -- if only she didn't attract so much unwanted male attention. I was absorbed in our conversation at the upfront, and thus didn't realize that no fewer than five men were circling around the two of us like pinstriped sharks. Tricia chatted with me about how female viewers seem to really appreciate the complexities of her character (a robot with a preternaturally developed sense of morality, also surprisingly spiritual and empathetic. She sympathizes with the humans even though she is programmed to destroy them). However, Tricia said, men don't seem to pick up on that as much, and see Number Six as more of a sex object. Sigh. I'm not surprised, but I am a little dejected. Six is a profoundly conflicted character, and I think Tricia expresses that very well, with subtle facial expressions and anguished glances. I do hope that more producers and directors take note of her work on the show. I asked Tricia what else she had coming up, and she told me that one of her recent projects was a direct-to-DVD movie called Walk All Over Me. Tricia starred alongside Leelee Sobieski (cool!), but played a dominatrix (boo!). She sounded pretty excited about it (was it genuine?), but I'd love to see her in a role that makes takes more advantage of her acting talents than her model figure. She's had enough of that kind of exposure already. Tricia informed me that she looks a little more regular-girl and a little less blond in this season of BG, so perhaps that will be a little less distracting for the guys.

I also spoke briefly with Jamie Bamber (this Brit's dad is from Detroit, and that's why he's able to nail Apollo's American accent) and fawned over Ronald Moore (that man is brilliant. I could listen to him talk about writing for television forever). Such a great group. I'm looking forward to watching them in this season of Battlestar, and beyond.

As homework, I just started reading the novel on which the film is based. It’s a surprisingly modern feminist fairy tale about a dowdy, down-trodden spinster who shrugs off the bonds of virtue and propriety for one day in order to experience how the other, non-virtuous, half lives. Miss Pettigrew finds herself suddenly thrust into a world she thought only existed in the movies, involving lots of indiscriminately jolly sex, cocaine, seedy nightclubs, dangerous gentlemen, foxy ladies, and dubious cocktails with names like “Snake’s Venom.” Acting as a de facto lady-in-waiting to a glamorous starlet named Delysia LaFosse, Miss Pettigrew gambols about London to the tune of lines like this one: "She was a gentlewoman ranker out on the spree, and, oh shades of a monotonous past, would she spree!" But beneath the candy floss, this novel contains golden nuggets of wisdom concerning the beauty of female solidarity and the importance of self-actualization. Simply irresistible!

My friend Priya Jain recently wrote an interesting feature for Film in Focus about the story behind the story behind the movie. In it, she explains that the author of Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day, Winifred Watson, was popular English chick-lit writer who wrote just six books about love and marriage (sound familiar?). Miss Pettigrew (published in 1938) was a bit of a departure for Watson, and its representation of life in London's fast lane made it almost scandalously racy for its time. When her publisher balked, Watson swore that the book would be a winner (she also agreed to churn out another of her standard bodice-rippers as collateral). She was right, and the book's charms endure today. Unfortunately, Watson's writing career was one of the many casualties of WWII, and these six books (and now this one movie) are all that remain of her legacy.

I’m off to finish the book. I’m lapping it up, "as the vulgar say, with eager gulps!”

I've been noticing a lot of unabashed, in-your-face cleavage on prime-time television lately. There's Tina Fey as Liz Lemon in her unbuttoned button-downs and plunging V-neck sweaters on "30 Rock"; Kristin Chenoweth and Anna Friel in low-cut frocks and push-up bras on "Pushing Daisies" (Friel recently acknowledged this to "People" magazine: "There's a lot of attention drawn to [costar] Kristin [Chenoweth's] and my breasts as the season goes on"); Julia Louis-Dreyfus in partially-unwrapped wrap dresses in "The New Adventures of Old Christine." On just about every channel, the ladies are busting out.

Stylists and wardrobe consultants have always tried to draw the viewer's eye to their clients' best assets, of course, but in the past, breasts were visual shorthand: Cleavage = bimbo. If the character was supposed to be smart and sexy, then maybe she'd reveal some leg, or the curve of a derrière in snug slacks, but she'd strive to remain brainy above the belt. This was especially true in the T&A-era of the late seventies: Sexy, spazzy Chrissy Snow pratfalled in tight T's and halter tops on "Three's Company" while sensible Janet stuck to collared polos, and the most clever of "Charlie's Angels," Sabrina Duncan, was far less likely to be karate-chopping in a bikini than co-angels Jill Monroe and Kelly Garrett. More recently, girl-"Friends" Rachel and Monica occasionally gave viewers an eyeful, but in the course of their daily squabbles, breakdowns, frolics and fantasies, they preferred to keep all eyes at hair-level. They were sophisticated, professional Manhattanites, after all.

The interesting thing about today's TV women is that they're baring more, but viewers are ogling less. All of this plunging, pushing and revealing seems to be flying under the radar. No one is making a big deal about breasts –- unless, of course, they're unavoidably enormous and patently fake, like the parting-shot pneumatic globes that belong to Michael Scott's girlfriend Jan on "The Office". But for most other characters, breasts have become irrelevant.

They certainly don't signify sexual prowess in the way that they used to. Christine's cleavage and Lemon's cantaloupes (I mean, check out the cleavage in this video) haven't been able to secure either of them a satisfactory partner. In an odd bait-and-switch (or a bad casting decision), Christine's supposedly sexy nemesis, "New Christine", is more covered-up than she is! Christine's ex-husband's new partner--a classic bimbette-- is often shown in sack-like shirts that reveal little more than a clavicle, while funny, take-charge "Old Christine" is practically popping out of her sweaters as she bops from her son's school, to her office at the gym, to (often disappointing) dates out at night. Christine is a stunning woman, but she doesn't use her looks or her figure to her advantage. Hmmm...maybe she should!

The same goes for Liz Lemon, the brilliantly funny and extremely capable TV producer on "30 Rock." Her wit and sass have made her top-dog on the set of her show, but not even her killer curves can get her a date with a decent guy. Listening to Liz's coworkers mock her looks, her age, and her semi-pathetic singleness makes us want to shake some sense into them. The woman is hardly mockable. She is smokin' hot! Am I the only one to notice this?

Over on "Pushing Daisies," cleavage is practically part of the uniform for women at The Pie Hole bakery, but the ladies aren't getting any bonuses for it. Waitress Olive Snook is constantly overlooked by her true love, Ned, despite her lovely, prominently-displayed wares (and I'm not talking about the pies). For Olive's sartorial sister and romantic rival, Charlotte "Chuck" Charles, those cute, low-cut dresses and snug cardigans pay off -- sort of. She got the guy, but he'll never be able to lay a hand on any part of her body (if he touches her, she dies). All that wasted décolleté!

These characters don't seem to have to worry about whether their sexy clothing choices will compromise their credibility or detract from their intelligence. In fact, Liz Lemon was recently shown wearing a loose-fitting but extremely low-cut J. Crew dress that I happen to own. I'm afraid to wear it to my casual office without a tank underneath, but Lemon wore it to NBC with pride, sans tank and sans bra. Instead of showing Liz in her cute, figure-flattering ensembles partying it up after work, the show makes a big point of telling us that Liz usually goes home alone, with only a meatball sub ("extra bread") as her companion. A nice rack doesn't hurt these women at the office (hooray for that!), but, unfortunately, it doesn't seem to be helping them much outside the office, either (what's up with that?).

It's almost as if cleavage has been de-sexualized -- on TV at least. Or maybe it's more that breasts have been put in their proper place, and are no longer the clues or props they once were. Producers and stylists have finally realized that women can be brainy and buxom, they can be sarcastic and sexy, they can be neurotic and nicely put-together, they can be voluptuous and...lonely. Or not. One thing is certain: you can't judge a woman by her cleavage. Today's female TV characters are more than the sum of their parts.

"Like Moonlighting," writes Christian, "Pushing Daisies knows that screwball means more than just snappy banter and sexual tension: it means having the discipline to be in constant pursuit of the good part of the story — the chase, the flirt, the best joke at hand — then move on to the next thing with giddy momentum."

I was initially wary that the show, with its saturated colorscapes, flouncy frocks, sweetly chaste lovers and CG sets would send my internal Quirk-o-Meter into spasms. But like Christian, I was lured in by the soothing, Potter-y baritone of venerable British actor Jim Dale, and charmed by the moony green eyes and expressive eyebrows of American actor Lee Pace. I'm still occasionally irked by the "Gilmore-ish" dialogue (add that to the Gen Y lexicon), but I'm really enjoying the bizarre weekly mysteries and the Chuck-Ned-Olive love triangle -- and Olive herself, played with lots of sass and cleavage by Kristin Chenoweth.

"Moonlighting's" ratings plummeted after Maddie and David finally slept together. Lucky for "Pushing Daisies," sex will never be an option for Ned and Chuck (if he touches her, she dies). So as long as the characters keep their libidos and their quirkiness in check, we'll be able to have a satisfying and fulfilling relationship.

When do you ever see male TV characters talking about how many kids they'd like to have, and making decisions accordingly? We're used to young female characters factoring family and kids into their career plans, but that never seems to be on the mind of television's young male professionals. Ignoring the connection between work and family, guys in the city, especially, seem to believe that they'll be able to afford as many kids as they want...eventually. Yet here's this cute, smart, ambitious dude, newly married and barely out of his "Me Years," evaluating his job options based on how they synch up with his personal goals. What a guy! What a show!

While Marshall is cursing his conscience (and his much-desired future dependents), Robin is back at the apartment, asking Lily what every viewer of this show has been dying to know. "You're a kindergarten teacher, and you make a kindergarten teacher's salary," Robin says while looking over Lily's latest acquisitions. "So how do you afford such expensive clothes?" After watching Lily parade around in a different, trendy outfit each week, I've been wondering the exact same thing!

Turns out Lily shops like the rest of New York's journalists/do-gooders/teachers/non-investment-bankers: on credit. A big proponent of retail therapy, Lily has used a collection of credit cards to run up an undisclosed (but presumably horrifying amount of debt. That's why she's secretly rooting for her husband to take the job with the evil firm -- not because she doesn't support his values, or his family plans, but because she knows that his ramen-noodle NRDC salary won't support her shopping habit -- or her very typical NYC lifestyle.

I can relate to this. Every time I tally up our monthly expenses, or pay my student loan bills, or peruse the real estate listings, or meet a new friend's baby, I can't help wishing that my boyfriend and I were just a little less "principled."

I should mention here that this was just one of the episode's two main plots. The other story was something about Ted discovering that a famous porn star shared his same name. But as always, the Ted storyline (like Ted himself) was silly and forgettable.

Back to the Eriksens ... the episode ends with Marshall accepting the sell-out job after being promised that he'll only work on one client, his favorite amusement park (he doesn't realize the park is just as sleazy and underhanded as the rest of the firm's clients), and with Lily fantasizing of a future of fabulous footwear. Kudos to Marshall for not making the "right" decision! He'll be much better off suffering under The Man for a few years, after which he can find a new, more satisfying job, and take the money and run... right into his little kids' arms and into a new career. If he takes the NRDC job, the only things he'll be able to afford to nurture are his principles. You can't support a pair of shoes (never mind a pair of kids) on that kind of salary in this city. Trust me.

(Photo credit: Christopher Lane for the New York Times.)

In another example of character behaving against their best interests, on Monday we saw Claire Bennett, the Indestructible Cheerleader, do a back-tuck off a three-story tower just to prove that she could -- even though her only hope to avoid discovery (and certain death!) is to avoid attracting attention through stupid stunts exactly like this one. Kind of reminds me of how, last season, doomed person after doomed person would wander unsuspectingly into empty artist’s studios and dark, ransacked apartments, refusing to read the writing on the wall (or the blood on the wall, as was the case). Sometimes it feels like Sylar has tampered with everyone's brains... or at least their common sense.

At the end of this season’s first episode, as Claire's mom cooed at her pitiful pup (after all her memory-replacement treatments, shouldn't this woman be effectively lobotomized by now?), and Claire’s dad shot a soap-opera-caliber “portentous look” at his daughter; as Matt "The Mindreader" Parkman cradled the precocious Molly in his arms (I'm sorry, but this kid drives me nuts); as Hiro was left standing in the middle of a field "somewhere outside Kyoto", conversing with a blond, British samurai (okay, I'll admit I'm curious to see where this storyline goes), I was left wondering, why the heck am I still watching this silly show?

Well, after some reflection, I've come up with a few reasons:

Back in the 1990's (my salad days), I used to be a semi-serious runner. I trained for four marathons, and finished three of them in respectable times, once qualifying for Boston with several minutes to spare. I wasn't an elite athlete by any standard, but I was decent. I was also dedicated, averaging two road races a month in the summer. These mass running convocations tended to be dominated by men --- teeming, steaming masses of broad, hairy men with sneakers the length of my tibia. Even with my cropped hair and boyish figure, I always felt conspicuous at the starting line. The female runners stood out like poodle skirts at a drag race, especially in the faster groups like mine. This made it easy to find female training buddies: once you found a woman who could keep your pace, you kept her contact info. It also made it easy to meet men. All I had to do was open my mouth and say something during the race ("Whoa, it's hot out today" worked fine). Chances were likely that the person who heard me--and responded to me--would be a guy.

As I approached 30 and entered the pizza-and-prosciutto phase of my life, my competitive spirit fizzled as individual body parts snapped, crackled and popped. I took a long hiatus from long-distance running, forsaking road races in order to tend to other hobbies, like watching television and reading comic books.

A few months ago, my boyfriend (who was also a fanatic runner in his twenties –- in fact, that's how we met) and I started feeling old and puffy, so we decided to see what we had left. We signed up for the Manhattan Half-Marathon, and committed to a fairly regimented 9-week training program.

Today we ran our first competitive race in six years. A lot has changed!

I was also surprised by the number of women I saw in the race. Official stats showed that the gender split was nearly 50-50, and women easily outnumbered men in the 20-29 age group (1787 vs. 1015), the second-largest age category in the race. As we were waiting in line for the bathroom, we kept spotting gaggles of gals greeting each other with kisses and squeals. Along the course, we noticed that many of these women ran in pairs or triads. For many young professional women, it looks like the 6am run is replacing the 6pm happy hour as a way to get together and catch up.

During my time off from racing, I read numerous articles gloating about the increasing number of female runners. However, these seemed written from perspective of someone (like the publishers of Runner's World or the organizers of the New York Road Runner's Club) who had a lot to gain from the discovery of a new market for sneakers, running apparel and race participation (for those non-runners out there, races aren't free, or free of brand sponsorship. I paid a whopping $70 to run in Nike's Manhattan Half-Marathon). I didn’t hear much about the accomplishments of these new hordes of female racers, or whether they were advancing the sport. No one seemed to care about how well these women were performing, just that they were getting out there on a regular basis. I developed the impression that while more women were running, the regular girls--not the elites--weren't necessarily running fast. The female race participants may have been using up all the toilet paper in the Port-o-Johns, but it didn't sound to me like they were giving the John Does in the middle of the pack a run for their money.

This was important to me, because when I used to run, I didn't just run to finish, I ran to beat my PR -- and to beat other runners. I took pride in my sport, and in my ability to keep up with the men (ie, the "serious" runners). I loathed the idea of distance running becoming simply an alternative to Pilates or a great way to lose that maternity weight.

From what I could tell, most of the women in today's half-marathon were taking the race very seriously. I definitely wasn't the only lady sprinting up hills in the park, or streaming past panting dudes on the West Side Highway. I felt surrounded by hard-working, hard-running women at all points on the course. It's true that I've slowed down a bit as I've aged, but even that is a testament to women's speed and athleticism. With a time of 1:54:37, I was still the 1,051st woman to cross the line out of 4758 -- I would bet that put me farther back today's pack than it would have in the pack of a half-decade ago.

Today was a lot of fun, and it was inspiring. Maybe this new crop of female runners has learned how to be feminine and fast, friendly and fierce on the course. Instead of spurring me to stay with the guys, these runners made me want to kick some skirted female butt. And that's a good thing.

One of the funniest and (oddly) most empowering moments was when two preppy female racers in headbands, both running faster than me and one wearing a black skirt, made a dash for Central Park woods. Men have traditionally been the only ones able to sneak a pee in a potty-less stretch of the race course. It's nice to see women--speedy women--earning that right.

ps: The race course went straight through Times Square, across 42nd Street, and down the West Side Highway. It was such a treat to be able to sprint past the Carnegie Deli and the city's largest theaters without having to worry about traffic or tourists. Some really cool photos of the Times Square stretch can be found here and here and here.

But it's also fundamentally flawed in a way that nagged at me all the way home, even as I recited my favorite lines and chortled over the funniest scenes. And the more I think about it, the more annoyed and disappointed I feel.

It really bugged me how the girl (Alison Scott, played by Grey's Anatomy's Katherine Heigl) didn't give abortion a second thought. Alison is a radiantly gorgeous, ambitious young producer for an entertainment news program who was just offered an on-screen promotion. This is the opportunity of a lifetime for her, and she knows it. The boy (Ben Stone, played by Seth Rogen) is a pothead slacker with suspect career aspirations who is currently living off the insurance settlement from an accident that took place in his teens.

While I can buy the idea of these two getting it on (Ben's benignly jokey and cute in a cuddly, bearish sort of way), I was not convinced that Alison would sleep with Ben a second time -- never mind attempt to raise a child with him! More than that, there's no way a woman like this, a woman in the prime of her personal and professional life, who could have any man she wants and has at least twelve good child-bearing years to find a good one, whose dream job of interviewing celebs on television just fell in her toned, non-pregnant lap, would chose to give birth to this ill-conceived baby. Okay, maybe if she was an extreme, fundamentalist religious fanatic, but that's the only reason I can come up with. There's nothing in this movie to make us think that Alison is obsessed with kids, or with her biological clock, or mortality or even Ben! If this were real life, a smart, self-possessed career gal like Alison would seriously consider terminating her pregnancy, and something pretty intense would have to happen in order to convince her to keep the baby. On second thought: if this was real life, Alison and her sister (with whom she's very close), would split for the abortion clinic the second they saw that double line on the pregnancy test. Why does this otherwise clever, thoughtful movie insist on thumbing its nose at reality, and feminist politics?

Yes, I caught (and admittedly liked) the "smashmortion" line, but that was just between boys, and doesn't do anything to explain why Alison isn't taking the abortion option -- it merely hints at why the movie isn't (my guess: to avoid alienating viewers, to keep things light and fun). Alison's mother was the only one who brings the idea up to her, and not in a very persuasive or supportive manner. In fact, the mom is portrayed as cold, unsympathetic and rather unlikable. And this is the only pro-choice voice we (and Alison) will hear. If the movie wants to avoid talking about abortion (which I think it does), then why include this at all?

The refusal of mainstream television shows and movies to even utter the word "abortion," never mind incorporate the option into the plot, has long been a feminist cause celébre. So it was no surprise that the no-nonsense, avowedly feminist web site Women's eNews jumped all over the movie as soon as it came out. "Judd Apatow's 'Knocked Up,' a raunchy comedy in a cinema near you, turned abortion into the "A" word, in league with the "N" word and other epithets so taboo as to be bracketed off from regular speech," wrote WeN commentator Sandra Kobrin. Kobrin puts the film in historical context, quotes a pro-abortion joke from "Fast Times at Ridgemont High," and also mentions how conservatives have embraced "Knocked Up's" unintentionally family-friendly message. I support her in pointing out the movie's obvious shortcomings. However, she kind of misses the point that "Knocked Up" is a comedy. In refusing to even crack a smile at this undeniably excellent, funny film, she comes off as shrill and militant.

As a feminist, I shouldn't have to sacrifice my sense of humor for my principles! Kobrin and others like her, who condemn "Knocked Up" for its botched handling of the abortion issue without acknowledging the film's other merits, make us pro-choice feminists look like humorless, lame, anti-comedy radicals. I don't want to jump on that bandwagon; I don't think that attitude does anything to raise awareness, understanding and empathy for the pro-choice movement.

Regardless of what those on both sides of the abortion issue may think, Judd Apatow wasn't trying to sell an ideology; he was trying to sell a good, funny, believable story. And it's for that reason that he should have addressed the abortion issue more directly. In interviews, Apatow has mentioned an abortion debate scene that was eventually cut from the movie. But that debate wasn't between Alison and Ben, or Alison and her mother or sister -- it was between Ben's friends! Even with that missing scene, we learn nothing about Alison's intellectual process or value system, or about how she made the decision to go against logic, reason and emotion to keep this baby.

Look, I know the movie is called "Knocked Up" for a reason, but it would have benefited in terms of integrity and believability if Apatow had just devoted one scene, a few short minutes, to a frank, realistic discussion of Alison's options, or a scene that helped us understand why she made such a counterintuitive decision.

This isn't too much to ask. The Irish film, "Breakfast on Pluto" with Cillian Murphy, has a great scene in which a pregnant character (Ruth Negga) decides at the last minute to keep her baby. She's waiting at the abortion clinic, prepared to go through with the procedure, when her friend (Murphy) makes an offhand comment that has a profound affect on her, and precipitates a change of heart. When the attendant comes over to talk to her, Negga's character says with mock surprise, "This is an abortion clinic? Oh, I thought it was a fertility clinic!" then jumps up and hightails it out of there. It was funny, smart, logical, and took just a few minutes to move the story along (the baby becomes a key plot point). There's no reason "Knocked Up" couldn't have included a scene like that.

I think Judd Apatow is a comedic genius, so it really bums me out that "Knocked Up" is so good, yet flawed in such an important way. But I'm not going to shed any more tears over the weird abortion dodge in this film. After all, it's supposed to be a comedy.

Update:
Dana Stevens (a feminist with a great sense of humor) has an excellent, balanced review of "Knocked Up" in Slate, and a follow-up piece that talks about the "politics of shmashmortion" in this film and others.