I heard a fascinating conversation the other day on the train. Two girls, both about 15 or 16, discussing their love lives. Naturally, I listened in.
One of them hadn't spoken to her boyfriend for days, and was concerned that he had not been in touch. "He just doesn't seem bothered," she lamented. Hmmm.
The other had text hers and he hadn't responded. So they were discussing how and when they would next be in touch with their chaps.
One said: "Text him, and if he doesn't text you back by 11, ring him."
The other responded: "OK. Text (whatever his name was) again and see if he replies."
Sitting behind them, craning to hear every word, I felt very old fashioned. For my first thoughts were: "If you have to work that hard to get in touch with him and he's not willingly calling or texting you back, then surely he can't be that arsed about you or the relationship." Anyone disagree?
It's all very well, this "women are the same as men when it comes to relationships" malarkey. NOT to be confused with feminism, which involves entirely different concerns. The thing is, I don't think we are the same.
Women text and ring not just because they want to, but because they are generally better than men at communicating and keeping up with texts. They make and return phonecalls out of courtesy, manners and being good proactive communicators - as well as wanting to. Men, on the other hand? My opinion is that they only call and text people - indeed, they only speak - when they have something they feel is worth saying, and to someone they genuinely want to speak to.
Men don't tend to ring their mates for a chat. Phonecalls and texts are on a strictly 'only-what's-necessary' basis. So when they have a girlfriend they're only half-arsed about, why would he text or ring? He isn't that bothered.
On the other hand, it's quite obvious when a guy likes you because he does text and call - matching and exceeding your efforts. They're quite simple creatures, really. If he likes you, he shows it. If he isn't fussed, it's also quite obvious: you won't hear from him.
I've done all the cryptic philosophy: "Maybe he's shy," "He's doing this so he feels in control," and "He can't bring himself to show that he likes me." After 23 years, I now embrace the lessons I have learnt: if he doesn't call or text, it's because he does not particularly want to speak to you. For whatever reason. It doesn't matter. Move on!
The girls on the train would have done well to realise this. From listening to their conversation for a mere 10 minutes, it was quite obvious that they did all the chasing in their relationships, not cottoning on to the fact that they were being ignored and basically treated quite badly. I'm not blaming the guys. The girls let them do it!
This has nothing to do with mind games or being a scary control freak. This is about being with someone who likes you and values your presence in their life enough to MAKE AN EFFORT. If they don't, it's one of two things. 1). They don't like you enough to make the effort. 2). They are lazy.
Would you really want someone with either of these problems in your life? You'd end up running around after them, arranging dates, calling them, initiating sex, looking for a house, arranging the wedding....need I go on? How someone acts in the early days is often indicative of how they'll be long term (in fact, whatever their faults are will probably get worse with time).
So if you're with someone with no gumption and you feel like being in your relationship is like having another job (he never texts, he never calls, he never arranges anything, he never makes the first move)...you're flogging a dead horse. Get out while you still can and don't settle until you've found someone who is willing to make the effort.
We're not in an age where we have to 'make do' with our life partners anymore. So don't settle for someone who isn't bothered about you. It's pointless, and you'll only come out of it feeling worse.
I feel a 'Single life is great' hymn coming on! I'll save that for next week.
Ciao x
Monday 27 April 2009
Monday 20 April 2009
She's got it bad: How I got over being turned down by the Daily Mail, and why I'm not giving up on newspapers.
Evening folks. If you're feeling suicidal, it's probably a good idea to stop reading right now. Because I am counting my blessings and being annoyingly chirply.
It's been one hell of a four weeks. While on the Lancashire Evening Post on a work placement (which I really enjoyed - what a warm, fun bunch of people - damn the recruitment freeze, I would love to work there), I was invited to an interview at the Daily Mail for a traineeship. My first proper job interview, let alone on a newspaper.
Exciting times. I tried to prepare the best I could, reading the publication from cover to cover and making notes on major themes, concerns and campaigns. But working all day, living away from home (which I'm not used to - yes, I am cossetted), and then trying to prepare for such a big interview wasn't easy. I think I could have prepared more effectively had I had a little more time.
For example, although I read the paper diligently, I failed to research in any great depth the history of the publication, or make a comprehensive list of 'Who's who' in the world of the Mail. These things seem so obvious now, but at the time everything seemed like such a whirlwind and before I knew it, it was the day of my interview.
This in itself was an insane 24 hours. By this time, I was on placement at the Liverpool Daily Post and Echo. So I had one day there, (I stayed at my cousin's just outside Liverpool), had to travel to London and back in one day, and during this time experienced every emotion from sheer panic to giddy excitement. It was surreal, and to be honest I didn't really know what had hit me.
The interview? Well, I didn't get the job, I may as well tell you that now. But I don't think it's because I interviewed particularly badly. They seemed (fairly) impressed with the answers I gave. But I also had to do a general knowledge test, in which I got some pretty fundamental questions wrong. For example, 'Who is the editor of the Mail on Sunday?'
Ladies and gentleman, it just hadn't crossed my mind to look this up. This shows my inexperience, and I definitely now feel more equipped in preparing for a newspaper interview. KNOW YOUR PRODUCT! Don't just read it, but read ABOUT it. The history, past players and so on. Absorb yourself in it. I was only half immersed.
In my haste and chaotic lifestyle in the weeks leading up to my interview, I should have made a simple list of who writes what on what day of the paper, and learnt it. But I didn't - I just expected that reading the paper every day would be sufficient, and that cramming information into my brain would work.
Anyway, friends were very kind and assured me that if I didn't get the job, it wouldn't be because of my poor score on the general knowledge test. Well, I don't know if it was because of that or not. I probably should ask for feedback but I'm not ready to do that just yet. The point is, I'm quite relieved the whole thing's over because it gave me a valuable learning curve (yet another one - boy, they're character building, I'll be down the mines next) and made me reflect on the direction my professional life is taking.
Is this really what I want, I thought to myself as tears streamed down my face while I was trying to find my way back to Euston. I'm obviously so stupid, I'll never be good enough for the nationals...blah blah blah. I realised, once out of the cosy confines of my Preston classroom, that the world of newspapers really is tough. To know that is one thing. But it's another thing being in an interview, and the interviewers asking you why you don't know the answer to something simple - and having nothing to say for yourself.
For a few days I was a bit deflated. It's easy when you've secured an interview for something massive like that to be a bit complacent in your research. I was stupid to be like that, but I won't do it again.
Now I'm applying for other jobs. It's tough. There's nothing out there. No newspaper groups are recruiting as far as I can see, and training schemes are even being cancelled in some cases. It's so easy to throw the towel in. Glossy PR jobs beckon seductively, and people keep asking me what my 'Plan B' is.
The answer is: I haven't got one.
I love newspapers: nationals, regionals, dailies or weeklies. They are my Plans A, B and C. It's sad but true: they are my personal life, and I eat, sleep and breathe them. They take up a substantial portion of my life - reading them, thinking about them, talking about them with my dad (an ex hack) and my mum, for that matter (she met my dad when she worked in advertising on the same paper).
So you see, it's a big part of our household and family life, and although I am as scared as anyone else about what the future holds (or doesn't, it would seem), I am not giving up. This is a love affair we're talking about, and I ain't walking out just yet.
It drives me mad, and on paper (no pun intended) there's a lot to moan about as a trainee reporter. The hours, the pay, the stress, the general madness of it all. It's fiercely competitive, and if you're not good enough then you know about it pretty quickly.
Except - there is nothing else I was put on this earth to do. Yes, that is an extremely wanky thing to say, but it's the truth. I love the back ache I get from being hunched over a computer pinning a complicated event down to a snappy, 20-word intro. I love searching for stories - it's terrifying when you can't find one, but when you dig a little deeper and find something good, it's a high second to none.
I love finding out how far I can push my sleep deprived body using caffeine, Red Bull and pure adrenaline to get the next twist on the story, the killer quote, the picture that says a thousand words. I don't care what hours I do - if I'm onto a story, I stay until it gets done. I can quite easily understand why they say reporters shouldn't marry.
I cherish my finger bunions from scribbling shorthand. I have pieces of paper pinned up all over the house written in Teeline, a non verbal 'tee hee' to anyone who looks at them because it's the language of newspapers, and they can't read it.
I feel strangely at home in a newsroom. The more shouting, hair tearing and demands for stories 'NOW' there are, the more I realise: I have the bug. I want to be the one who unfurls the editor's brow, I want to be the kid who gets the scoop because I was that bit more persistent - I want to get there, and I believe that I will one day. Recession or not.
I refuse to stop believing. For my next interview, whenever and wherever that may be, I know what I've got to do.
I realise that after my Mail interview, I was whining and making excuses about why it didn't go as well as I'd hoped. I've since given myself a good talking to. There's no room for whingers in this job. You accept responsibility for your actions, pick yourself up, dust yourself down and go for the next challenge. No time for feeling sorry for myself.
It was hard to embrace this philosophy a couple of weeks ago, but ironically, it's that no-nonsense part of the job that I love so much: it's tough, and you need the hide of a rhino to survive. I'm proud of myself for bouncing back from rejection. I will learn from it, and be even stronger for the next obstacle.
Bring it on, says I.
It's been one hell of a four weeks. While on the Lancashire Evening Post on a work placement (which I really enjoyed - what a warm, fun bunch of people - damn the recruitment freeze, I would love to work there), I was invited to an interview at the Daily Mail for a traineeship. My first proper job interview, let alone on a newspaper.
Exciting times. I tried to prepare the best I could, reading the publication from cover to cover and making notes on major themes, concerns and campaigns. But working all day, living away from home (which I'm not used to - yes, I am cossetted), and then trying to prepare for such a big interview wasn't easy. I think I could have prepared more effectively had I had a little more time.
For example, although I read the paper diligently, I failed to research in any great depth the history of the publication, or make a comprehensive list of 'Who's who' in the world of the Mail. These things seem so obvious now, but at the time everything seemed like such a whirlwind and before I knew it, it was the day of my interview.
This in itself was an insane 24 hours. By this time, I was on placement at the Liverpool Daily Post and Echo. So I had one day there, (I stayed at my cousin's just outside Liverpool), had to travel to London and back in one day, and during this time experienced every emotion from sheer panic to giddy excitement. It was surreal, and to be honest I didn't really know what had hit me.
The interview? Well, I didn't get the job, I may as well tell you that now. But I don't think it's because I interviewed particularly badly. They seemed (fairly) impressed with the answers I gave. But I also had to do a general knowledge test, in which I got some pretty fundamental questions wrong. For example, 'Who is the editor of the Mail on Sunday?'
Ladies and gentleman, it just hadn't crossed my mind to look this up. This shows my inexperience, and I definitely now feel more equipped in preparing for a newspaper interview. KNOW YOUR PRODUCT! Don't just read it, but read ABOUT it. The history, past players and so on. Absorb yourself in it. I was only half immersed.
In my haste and chaotic lifestyle in the weeks leading up to my interview, I should have made a simple list of who writes what on what day of the paper, and learnt it. But I didn't - I just expected that reading the paper every day would be sufficient, and that cramming information into my brain would work.
Anyway, friends were very kind and assured me that if I didn't get the job, it wouldn't be because of my poor score on the general knowledge test. Well, I don't know if it was because of that or not. I probably should ask for feedback but I'm not ready to do that just yet. The point is, I'm quite relieved the whole thing's over because it gave me a valuable learning curve (yet another one - boy, they're character building, I'll be down the mines next) and made me reflect on the direction my professional life is taking.
Is this really what I want, I thought to myself as tears streamed down my face while I was trying to find my way back to Euston. I'm obviously so stupid, I'll never be good enough for the nationals...blah blah blah. I realised, once out of the cosy confines of my Preston classroom, that the world of newspapers really is tough. To know that is one thing. But it's another thing being in an interview, and the interviewers asking you why you don't know the answer to something simple - and having nothing to say for yourself.
For a few days I was a bit deflated. It's easy when you've secured an interview for something massive like that to be a bit complacent in your research. I was stupid to be like that, but I won't do it again.
Now I'm applying for other jobs. It's tough. There's nothing out there. No newspaper groups are recruiting as far as I can see, and training schemes are even being cancelled in some cases. It's so easy to throw the towel in. Glossy PR jobs beckon seductively, and people keep asking me what my 'Plan B' is.
The answer is: I haven't got one.
I love newspapers: nationals, regionals, dailies or weeklies. They are my Plans A, B and C. It's sad but true: they are my personal life, and I eat, sleep and breathe them. They take up a substantial portion of my life - reading them, thinking about them, talking about them with my dad (an ex hack) and my mum, for that matter (she met my dad when she worked in advertising on the same paper).
So you see, it's a big part of our household and family life, and although I am as scared as anyone else about what the future holds (or doesn't, it would seem), I am not giving up. This is a love affair we're talking about, and I ain't walking out just yet.
It drives me mad, and on paper (no pun intended) there's a lot to moan about as a trainee reporter. The hours, the pay, the stress, the general madness of it all. It's fiercely competitive, and if you're not good enough then you know about it pretty quickly.
Except - there is nothing else I was put on this earth to do. Yes, that is an extremely wanky thing to say, but it's the truth. I love the back ache I get from being hunched over a computer pinning a complicated event down to a snappy, 20-word intro. I love searching for stories - it's terrifying when you can't find one, but when you dig a little deeper and find something good, it's a high second to none.
I love finding out how far I can push my sleep deprived body using caffeine, Red Bull and pure adrenaline to get the next twist on the story, the killer quote, the picture that says a thousand words. I don't care what hours I do - if I'm onto a story, I stay until it gets done. I can quite easily understand why they say reporters shouldn't marry.
I cherish my finger bunions from scribbling shorthand. I have pieces of paper pinned up all over the house written in Teeline, a non verbal 'tee hee' to anyone who looks at them because it's the language of newspapers, and they can't read it.
I feel strangely at home in a newsroom. The more shouting, hair tearing and demands for stories 'NOW' there are, the more I realise: I have the bug. I want to be the one who unfurls the editor's brow, I want to be the kid who gets the scoop because I was that bit more persistent - I want to get there, and I believe that I will one day. Recession or not.
I refuse to stop believing. For my next interview, whenever and wherever that may be, I know what I've got to do.
I realise that after my Mail interview, I was whining and making excuses about why it didn't go as well as I'd hoped. I've since given myself a good talking to. There's no room for whingers in this job. You accept responsibility for your actions, pick yourself up, dust yourself down and go for the next challenge. No time for feeling sorry for myself.
It was hard to embrace this philosophy a couple of weeks ago, but ironically, it's that no-nonsense part of the job that I love so much: it's tough, and you need the hide of a rhino to survive. I'm proud of myself for bouncing back from rejection. I will learn from it, and be even stronger for the next obstacle.
Bring it on, says I.
Monday 13 April 2009
Fearne Cotton, anorexics and a TV car crash
I caught the beginning of 'The Truth About Online Anorexia' on ITV1 the other night as I was getting ready to go out. Much as I think there should be far more investigative, hard-hitting documentaries such as this, it made me cringe.
I didn't really have an opinion of Fearne Cotton before I saw her on this, and still don't really because I don't listen to her Radio 1 show. But I found her treatment of the subject very insensitive, portraying her to be a bit of an airhead.
From the start of the documentary when she was looking at the online anorexia sites, the approach was all wrong. She was very 'shock horror' about the whole thing, but either she's insincere or genuinely didn't know much about the illness.
What on earth was to be gained from wide eyed 'oohs' and 'ahs' about how young the people visiting these sites were, or what some of the side effects of anorexia are?
At one point she read some of these effects out, which included body hair and pooing pus. She looked disgusted and freaked out, and kept saying "I just can't believe it" and other pointless, neither-here-nor-there statements.
No, the effects of anorexia aren't pleasant, but surely it would have been more useful and effective to try and understand why anyone could feel so low they felt the need to starve themselves, rather than just dwelling on how foreign the concept was to Fearne.
I admit, I didn't watch the whole thing. Maybe the 'psychology bit' came later. But I saw a good half hour of Fearne in various 'oh-my-god-I'd-never-do-that-how-come-everyone-doesn't-wolf-down-their-food-like-me?' stages of polemic. The result? A fairly gratuitous piece of television that offered little insight into the disorder.
I'm no doctor or psychologist, but I know that anorexia is connected to deep-seated emotional issues of control and self-loathing. Sufferers don't need to be told that 'it's weird' or that Fearne (hardly curvaceous herself; ironically the show was a springboard for anorexics posting her image on the very websites she sought to condemn) just can't understand anyone who doesn't love their food.
I'm very happy for Fearne - her life is clearly so peachy that she finds it difficult to identify with anyone who is suffering from the mental anguish that causes and and is a result of anorexia. But watching her raised eyebrows and constant head shaking did not shed any new light on the subject.
Finally - it annoyed me that she was up in arms about the fact the young girls she spoke to from a school think about their body shapes. Yes, the issues that lead to anorexia can start as young as 10, but at the same time, let's not freak out every time a schoolgirl says she thinks she is fat.
When you are a little girl, your body starts changing from the age of about 9. It is gradually cranking up to starting puberty and periods, and there are some pretty drastic alterations that have to take place.
I remember being aghast at lumps and bumps appearing that weren't sexy or womanly at the time - just lumpy and bumpy. I remember going through a stage thinking I was fat, but it was just getting to grips with my changing body. I got over it, and realised I was not fat, just changing.
A lot of girls thankfully also reach the same conclusion, through being guided by their mums/sisters/friends, or just growing up. Fearne went completely OTT about the fact that some of the girls said they were concerned about their body image (she pretty much talked them into saying this!)
Every girl has an evaluative, sometimes critical relationship with her body, but it does not necessarily mean we have to start crying 'anorexia' or 'bulimia' in every single case. We are wrapping today's kids in cotton wool.
It's a shame, because Fearne could have shown herself in a positive light, trying to empathise with the anorexia sufferers rather than making it the 'I don't starve myself, therefore why would anyone else?' show.
At one point she read out in a horrified-verging-on-mocking tone that someone on the website was urging fellow sufferers to do 90 sit-ups after eating a cucumber. Yes, this is alien to anyone without anorexia. But wringing hands and screwing up noses was surely a wholly unhelpful approach to take.
Fearne goes running for miles several times a week. So are we to conclude that she has a body problem? Surely she's skinny enough without doing that? The whole thing just didn't come together and I didn't really see what the crux of the matter was - to offer valuable insight into the dangers of online support groups for anorexics? Or to show Fearne as a golden girl who would never dream of entertaining such a silly eating fad?
A golden investigative journalism opportunity missed.
I didn't really have an opinion of Fearne Cotton before I saw her on this, and still don't really because I don't listen to her Radio 1 show. But I found her treatment of the subject very insensitive, portraying her to be a bit of an airhead.
From the start of the documentary when she was looking at the online anorexia sites, the approach was all wrong. She was very 'shock horror' about the whole thing, but either she's insincere or genuinely didn't know much about the illness.
What on earth was to be gained from wide eyed 'oohs' and 'ahs' about how young the people visiting these sites were, or what some of the side effects of anorexia are?
At one point she read some of these effects out, which included body hair and pooing pus. She looked disgusted and freaked out, and kept saying "I just can't believe it" and other pointless, neither-here-nor-there statements.
No, the effects of anorexia aren't pleasant, but surely it would have been more useful and effective to try and understand why anyone could feel so low they felt the need to starve themselves, rather than just dwelling on how foreign the concept was to Fearne.
I admit, I didn't watch the whole thing. Maybe the 'psychology bit' came later. But I saw a good half hour of Fearne in various 'oh-my-god-I'd-never-do-that-how-come-everyone-doesn't-wolf-down-their-food-like-me?' stages of polemic. The result? A fairly gratuitous piece of television that offered little insight into the disorder.
I'm no doctor or psychologist, but I know that anorexia is connected to deep-seated emotional issues of control and self-loathing. Sufferers don't need to be told that 'it's weird' or that Fearne (hardly curvaceous herself; ironically the show was a springboard for anorexics posting her image on the very websites she sought to condemn) just can't understand anyone who doesn't love their food.
I'm very happy for Fearne - her life is clearly so peachy that she finds it difficult to identify with anyone who is suffering from the mental anguish that causes and and is a result of anorexia. But watching her raised eyebrows and constant head shaking did not shed any new light on the subject.
Finally - it annoyed me that she was up in arms about the fact the young girls she spoke to from a school think about their body shapes. Yes, the issues that lead to anorexia can start as young as 10, but at the same time, let's not freak out every time a schoolgirl says she thinks she is fat.
When you are a little girl, your body starts changing from the age of about 9. It is gradually cranking up to starting puberty and periods, and there are some pretty drastic alterations that have to take place.
I remember being aghast at lumps and bumps appearing that weren't sexy or womanly at the time - just lumpy and bumpy. I remember going through a stage thinking I was fat, but it was just getting to grips with my changing body. I got over it, and realised I was not fat, just changing.
A lot of girls thankfully also reach the same conclusion, through being guided by their mums/sisters/friends, or just growing up. Fearne went completely OTT about the fact that some of the girls said they were concerned about their body image (she pretty much talked them into saying this!)
Every girl has an evaluative, sometimes critical relationship with her body, but it does not necessarily mean we have to start crying 'anorexia' or 'bulimia' in every single case. We are wrapping today's kids in cotton wool.
It's a shame, because Fearne could have shown herself in a positive light, trying to empathise with the anorexia sufferers rather than making it the 'I don't starve myself, therefore why would anyone else?' show.
At one point she read out in a horrified-verging-on-mocking tone that someone on the website was urging fellow sufferers to do 90 sit-ups after eating a cucumber. Yes, this is alien to anyone without anorexia. But wringing hands and screwing up noses was surely a wholly unhelpful approach to take.
Fearne goes running for miles several times a week. So are we to conclude that she has a body problem? Surely she's skinny enough without doing that? The whole thing just didn't come together and I didn't really see what the crux of the matter was - to offer valuable insight into the dangers of online support groups for anorexics? Or to show Fearne as a golden girl who would never dream of entertaining such a silly eating fad?
A golden investigative journalism opportunity missed.
Monday 6 April 2009
Why I'm giving up crack cocaine
I went to uni and discovered feminism. And now I've got a dilemma.
Simone de Beauvoir, Helene Cixous, Luce Irigaray and countless others taught me that women could play any man's game - in fact, they could play it better than him. Previously, it was a man's world, written about by men, painted by men, run by men, reported by men. We were at home breeding (because biology stated that that was our purpose, remember?)
I absorbed this stuff like a sponge. Suddenly everything became clear - and very frustrating. Why was it OK for men to have one night stands but women were 'slags'? Why was a man slapped encouragingly if he had a string of conquests, while the woman was avoided in the street or left holding the baby?
Biology dealt us a lousy hand, and society was following suit. Men followed one rule (which they created), while women were under pressure to be the obedient little wives and mothers they needed us to be.
Young and idealistic, I internalised all these philosophies (which, you understand, are only summarised very briefly above). The more I learnt, the more I saw women were treated differently. Generally, men liked women who didn't threaten their egos, make them feel emasculated by knowing more than they did or being funnier than they were (have you noticed men often shy away from women who are surrounded by people laughing at her jokes as opposed to her bloke's?). Women who had the most success with men
1) didn't answer back.
2) didn't challenge their blokes.
3) basically looked nice and shut up.
Take my own love life. I have been the most attractive to members of the opposite sex when I've sat there looking pretty and laughed louder than anyone at his jokes.
But if you say what you really think, like 'that was a stupid thing to say,' or make a joke that's funnier than his, or outsmart him, you're breaking the 'women should be seen and not heard' rule that dates back to the Bible and is still deeply ingrained in our culture. And very quietly the admirers slip away. "She's hard work,' they think. And it's true, a lot of them would rather have a yes woman. Which I can't be.
So I did what every 21st century liberated woman would do. I opted for the fuck buddy. We've all done it. And sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn't. But it just seemed like an easy answer to sex without the problem of a relationship - where the fact that you say 'Oy, mate. Don't speak to me like that. A bit of respect wouldn't go amiss. Neither would a haircut...' and generally challenge his behaviour scares him, threatens his ego and sends him running into the arms of a petite blonde (or the opposite of whatever you are).
Friends, for a while I was addicted. Fuck buddies were the new crack cocaine. Anticipation, fun, instant high, but with none of the come down or work involved in a relationship. Except now I've come down.
Us 21st century tough cookies had to be just that - really tough. It was like wearing an iron mask of liberation. It doesn't matter if he doesn't call. Who cares if he's using you, you're using him!
But I'm tired of being tough. I'm going to admit my vulnerability and say that it does matter. It would be nice to have someone who cared. It would be nice to meet my softer side again and care about someone else's feelings. I'm tired of being so strong all the time, because underneath it all, I'm no Women's Lib radical. And I'm not sure it is even being 'strong'. It's merely avoiding the compromises you need to make for a relationship to work.
Single, yes. Single and happy? Yes. But virulently against the idea of a relationship? No. In fact, quite looking forward to meeting someone appropriate to break down my oh-so-liberated walls.
He'd better not expect me to do the washing up...
Simone de Beauvoir, Helene Cixous, Luce Irigaray and countless others taught me that women could play any man's game - in fact, they could play it better than him. Previously, it was a man's world, written about by men, painted by men, run by men, reported by men. We were at home breeding (because biology stated that that was our purpose, remember?)
I absorbed this stuff like a sponge. Suddenly everything became clear - and very frustrating. Why was it OK for men to have one night stands but women were 'slags'? Why was a man slapped encouragingly if he had a string of conquests, while the woman was avoided in the street or left holding the baby?
Biology dealt us a lousy hand, and society was following suit. Men followed one rule (which they created), while women were under pressure to be the obedient little wives and mothers they needed us to be.
Young and idealistic, I internalised all these philosophies (which, you understand, are only summarised very briefly above). The more I learnt, the more I saw women were treated differently. Generally, men liked women who didn't threaten their egos, make them feel emasculated by knowing more than they did or being funnier than they were (have you noticed men often shy away from women who are surrounded by people laughing at her jokes as opposed to her bloke's?). Women who had the most success with men
1) didn't answer back.
2) didn't challenge their blokes.
3) basically looked nice and shut up.
Take my own love life. I have been the most attractive to members of the opposite sex when I've sat there looking pretty and laughed louder than anyone at his jokes.
But if you say what you really think, like 'that was a stupid thing to say,' or make a joke that's funnier than his, or outsmart him, you're breaking the 'women should be seen and not heard' rule that dates back to the Bible and is still deeply ingrained in our culture. And very quietly the admirers slip away. "She's hard work,' they think. And it's true, a lot of them would rather have a yes woman. Which I can't be.
So I did what every 21st century liberated woman would do. I opted for the fuck buddy. We've all done it. And sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn't. But it just seemed like an easy answer to sex without the problem of a relationship - where the fact that you say 'Oy, mate. Don't speak to me like that. A bit of respect wouldn't go amiss. Neither would a haircut...' and generally challenge his behaviour scares him, threatens his ego and sends him running into the arms of a petite blonde (or the opposite of whatever you are).
Friends, for a while I was addicted. Fuck buddies were the new crack cocaine. Anticipation, fun, instant high, but with none of the come down or work involved in a relationship. Except now I've come down.
Us 21st century tough cookies had to be just that - really tough. It was like wearing an iron mask of liberation. It doesn't matter if he doesn't call. Who cares if he's using you, you're using him!
But I'm tired of being tough. I'm going to admit my vulnerability and say that it does matter. It would be nice to have someone who cared. It would be nice to meet my softer side again and care about someone else's feelings. I'm tired of being so strong all the time, because underneath it all, I'm no Women's Lib radical. And I'm not sure it is even being 'strong'. It's merely avoiding the compromises you need to make for a relationship to work.
Single, yes. Single and happy? Yes. But virulently against the idea of a relationship? No. In fact, quite looking forward to meeting someone appropriate to break down my oh-so-liberated walls.
He'd better not expect me to do the washing up...
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