We’re not talking minor infractions here say a couple of Hail Hillarys and go on we’re talking cardinal sins.

I sent money to a pro-life organization. I read an essay by the University of the Arts’ infamous anti-feminist professor Camille Paglia. I watched a James Bond film festival on cable.

And I’m not sorry.

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But before you excommunicate me from feminism altogether, hear me out. I have reasons for behaving as I do.

Modern woman is having an identity crisis.

Despite all the activism of the past 25 years, women have no idea what it is to be a feminist.

It’s no wonder many of us resist using the political f-word to describe ourselves.

As the women’s movement has become increasingly politicized, its scope has narrowed to include only those who fit its leaders’ definition of feminism. There are unwritten rules governing those who carry the feminist banner:Rush Limbaugh is the anti-Christ. The only good conservative is an unemployed conservative. Pro-lifers are heretics. Men and heterosexual women may join the movement, but they can never be fully trusted.

The organized feminist movement has forgotten its original idea equality between the sexes and degenerated into a clique of elitist left-wing radicals who shun everyone who fails to embrace their entire agenda in all its political and rhetorical splendor.

Before all you red-blooded Ms. magazine-thumpers rise up in protest, say it to yourself:Pro-life feminist. Leaves a nasty taste in your mouth, doesn’t it? Yet thousands of women who believe vehemently in gender equity also embrace the idea that abortion is wrong.

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The battle for the Equal Rights Amendment in the early 1980s, though ultimately unsuccessful, yielded a small victory as feminists united to achieve a common goal. ERA helped us over that ridiculous can liberated women shave their legs? hurdle. However, many women go through a lot of soul-searching when their personal views conflict with society’s definition of feminism.

As a feminist, must I sneak Professor Paglia’s books under the covers with a flashlight to avoid being ostracized? And what about that 007 addiction? Granted, the name Pussy Galore does not exactly conjure up visions of Suffragettes and bra-burners, but darn it, Goldfinger was a fun movie and Ms. Galore was pretty liberated in the cockpit of her airplane.

If what I’ve said constitutes heresy, please try to forgive me it’s so hard to be a good, upstanding feminist these days.

Please, Gloria. Please forgive me. In the name of Susan B. Anthony, Anita Hill and the National Organization for Women, amen.