About 2 months ago, I wrote Teenage Dream. Within a week, it became the most read post I’d ever written. I was complaining about something very close to my heart and over two thousand people read it, shared it, commented on it and even told their friends about it.
So now I’m going to talk about the same thing but hopefully with a little bit more positivity. Let’s all tell our friends, get them to read it and get them to talk about it. I think this is vitally important and everyone, both those with vaginas and those without, should stand up, look lively and start shaking their dimply thighs in the name of change.
I don’t see my life as harder than every single other earthling’s, far from it; I have some sort of financial security, I have 2 arms and 2 legs and the insides are holding together despite years and years of marination and fumigation. But there is one thing about me that makes my life just a little bit more difficult than some of yours. It isn’t something I did, something I said or something I thought, in fact I have absolutely no control over it. It is the undeniable truth that I am a woman and being a woman is just a little bit more difficult, just a little bit messier, just a little bit more of an uphill battle than it often is for a man.
Harder still, as I arm myself for battle, I am bereft of positive female role models who do stuff and say stuff and think stuff and put stuff out there into the public arena that make me proud of being blessed with a pair of (slightly uneven and again, dimply) boobs.
I am some sort of a feminist. It is hard to admit that out loud after having spent last weekend trundling across the United Kingdom to see Mr Darcy, not the most obvious of feminist icons and bonnet dramas are smugly viewed as the realm of the weak and submissive. But I really am; I think that women should be given the same rights to creative expression and freedom of speech as their men folk. We should have the same opportunities, the same pay and the same expectations. I am not talking about the heinous violent crimes against women that occur in countries far and wide or that fact that in some places, women are bought and sold as possessions; I can’t solve all the problems of the world in 1000 words and I don’t yet know enough about it all to try (but give me a month and I’ll have a go). I am talking about the fact that women just aren’t allowed to do the same stuff as men without copping a mouthful of abuse and judgement for being unladylike, for being premenstrual, or my personal favourite, for being (patronising hand on the shoulder and sad eyes) emotional.
When men slap each other about and jump in the air and cheer after playing a particularly robust game of rugby do the women of the world fold their arms, shake their head and stare collectively upon the semen carriers and sigh…you are all such boofheads? We don’t, and we don’t because we celebrate that the men are strong, that they just spent 80 minutes running into each other without snapping their spinal column and we admire them for it. We jump and cheer and shout and scream and our boobs might even wobble a bit as we do.
When men (read, most men in England), dress up in their mothers’ dresses, raid her make up case and make fun in pantomimes and Comic Relief TV specials or even make a very lucrative living out of it (Eddie Izzard, Barry Humphries), some might make a few sly remarks, some might even disapprove, but largely, they are afforded the freedom to express themselves as they wish and make a tonne of money in the process.
I’ve been having a bit of a rough trot of it lately, so to calm my nerves, I’ve been seeking refuge in the working person’s crèche that is YouTube. I’ve been watching this…about eight times a day…every day for two weeks...it soothes me. This video has gone viral, everyone’s talking about it, everyone’s writing about it and I wondered why. After wiping the drool off our chins, I chatted to some colleagues about Tom’s spectacular moves; we agreed that it is too rare to see a man really let go like this and have a proper, joyful, lips pushed out, dance. Tom Hiddleston, serious act-OR of stage and screen, idol to boys everywhere as the baddest brother of Asgard, is an out and proud dancer...and no one cares.
David Beckham, serious athlete, ten-foot tall in his undies, normal. Jay Z, serious musician, singing about a homosexual fashion designer, yawn. Jennifer Aniston and Jennifer Lawrence cut off their hair, front-page news on the Guardian. Lily Allen sings about wobbly boobs and cellulite, the Internet is broken hashtag WTF!
Women are primed from birth to be attractive and make babies. Little girls play with dolls, dressing them up or putting them to bed while pretending to be tiny mothers. A woman’s clothing is designed to render her physically powerless (heels), accentuate our assets (bras) or serve no functional purpose at all (most items sold at Topshop). Men sing about us in songs as though we might be colourful objects to play with, to consume or to discard. If we are really lucky, one fine day, a man will get down on one knee and promise to love and protect us. He will ensure he earns enough money to buy us a roof and to feed our offspring. He’ll have nights out the boys and refer to us as “The Missus”. Before we get married, he’ll organise a Stag Do (strong, pointy, hard) while we’ll get a Hen Do (feeble, caged, pecky, ruled over by a Cock). We’ll feel wanted and special. He might get a bit on the side, we won’t necessarily mind because we are safe and warm and the welfare of our children is more important.
After all, if we choose to be something else, we’ll be marked as a Bitch.
I’ve been called a Bitch more times than I can count. I’ve been called odd, different, out of the box, aggressive, shouty, eccentric, maverick. I’ve even stared into the mirror and called myself most of these names through a veil of emotional tears.
This week, I finally felt as though someone had read my mind, had said what I wanted to say, had given me a voice. Importantly, she is married, she has two babies and she is mates with Karl Lagerfield, who famously doesn’t like rounded ladies. She has a brain and she and her song have made my life a little less shit...her and off course Loki thrusting his hips.
Women today need more Lily’s, more positivity, more variety, more intelligence, more boobs and fewer tits. We need more women celebrating women being whatever we want to be, however we want to be it. We need more discourse about Lily and her ilk and a little less time spent ogling or debating the cultural merits of anything that Terry Richardson has ejaculated onto the ether. We need to be each other’s strongest supporters rather than giving two flying f**ks in hell about the length of a Jennifer’s hair.
We need to be each other’s own role models because it is Hard Out Here for a Bitch.
Lily's new video has come in for strong condemnation apparently it is racist because all the dancers are non white. However agree wholeheartedly with you sentiments.
Posted by: Motherbear | 11/17/2013 at 07:46 AM