I know, I know...two blog posts in as many hours, bad me!
Anyway, I have a confession to make. My name is Claire, and I have an addiction to glossy magazines. Company, Elle, Glamour...but especially Cosmopolitan. This is the one magazine that is universally hated by men, and I can be oh-so-cynical about the women who read these magazines, but to my shame, I am one of them. I just love the mindless laziness of curling up with a cup of tea and 304 pages of girlyness.
However. I just laughed myself silly at an article in the December edition. Sadly it's not online so I shall have to type up bits from it...
All I want for Christmas...
...isn't a boyfriend, thank you very much, says Tracy Ramsden.
Okay, fair play. Christmas is a time of couples and love, and sometimes it's bloody depressing to be single.
...But the more I thought about it, the angrier I felt about the negative messages dropped on us during December. There'll be the obligatory EastEnders scenes where the latest Albert Square dumpee drowns their sorrows in a whisky glass, and newspaper articles banging on about how to 'survive' the loneliest time of year, all because there's this myth that single equals miserable. But the truth it, it's not 2001 anymore and Bridget Jones is long gone. Single girls won't be spending Christmas day alone in their PJs and a crumped up paper hat watching The Vicar of Dibley with a bottle of wine and a family pack of mince pies.
At this point, I was thinking "yeah! Girl power!" and other 90s catchphrases...
...And Christmas is the season of hope. While your coupled-up friends have Christmas all planned out, we have no idea where we'll be or even who we'll be waking up with. And that's got to be more exciting than arguing with your boyfriend over who's going to stuff the turkey.
Er, right, because all couples argue over such things...but never mind, she's still being positive and advocating being happily single...
If you can rise above the niggles, you'll see Christmas really is a time for giving and recieving (phone numbers, hopefully!).
Wait, what? Suddenly she is planning to hook up with a man for Christmas? I thought she didn't
want a man...and so the backtracking and confusion begins...
I once met a cute guy (who I later dated) after he let me wear his jacket in a freezing-cold taxi queue. You see, you never know who might pop out of your cracker!
...Aaaaand it's all over. She has predictably slipped straight back into "never mind dear, you'll find someone soon. He'll probably be a drunk twat who will eventually break your heart, but hey, it's better than being alone at Christmas!" mindset that characterises Cosmopolitan writers. And then, the article ends with an absolute gem:
Next month: Tracy goes in search of Mr January!
Ugh. Clearly this woman is distinctly unhappy being single, but for the sake of pop-feminism, has tried (and failed) to make it seem like not having a boyfriend is great!
Newsflash, people. Being single can be great. Being in a relationship can be great. Being single can be shit. Being in a relationship can be shit. And now I'm off to read my christmas horoscope with extra added lovescope!!!111!!1!1!oneone111!!
Friday 28 November 2008
I feel...
...Utterly detached from the majority of the student population.
Today, I would quite liked to have put up a massive sign, informing (admittedly, a minority of) the female population up on campus that university is not, in fact, the fashion parade they seem to think it is.
Yes, I'm sure that boy in your seminar is absolutely drop-dead gorgeous and you would do anything to catch his eye, but it is raining. It is also bloody cold. Tiny shorts and goosebumps are not a good look. Nor is your best party frock that barely covers your bum, and stiletto heels that you cannot walk in without looking like a pregnant duck. In front of me. Very slowly. When I am trying to get to a seminar.
Newsflash, ladies: a coat keeps you warm, and dry! Miracles will never cease. Add a hood or an umbrella, and some kind of footwear that does not comprise of a scrap of cream coloured satin, formed into a ballet-pump shape to this, and perhaps you will not find it neccessary to totter around with your girlfriends, holding a Media Studies textbook over your head, squealing that your hair is getting wet, and your beautiful cream shoes with diamante hearts are turning grey, muddy, and very wet.
Also...in a seminar on the politics of ingestion of tobacco and alcohol, I felt embarrassed, twice, and I don't think I should have done. The line "I mean, who in this room can honestly say they've never tried a cigarette in their life?" was voiced by a girl much like the ones I described above. Er, that'd be me then. "SERIOUSLY?!" Yes, seriously. No, my friends didn't try with any real effort to pressure me into it when I was younger. No, I wasn't intrigued. No, I didn't think it seemed cool and grown up. Luckily I was not alone on this, there was one other girl (from Zimbabwe, with a very Christian upbringing) who hadn't smoked, either.
The seminar continued and the aforementioned girl came out with a very similar line; "Who in this room would honestly rather have one expensive glass of wine than a load of vodka and red bull?!" It was meant to be a rhetorical question...everyone laughed, smiled, and nodded. Apart from me. I would rather have one nice bottle of wine than three of Lambrini. I would rather drink gin and tonic than vodka and red bull. I would rather end the evening mildly tipsy and happy having had an evening of enjoyable conversation with people I like, than being put to bed coated in my own vomit, various men's saliva and beer, and god knows what else.
I realise I sound incredibly holier-than-thou, which is probably unfair of me. I spent a large proportion of my first year very very drunk. On vodka and snakebite and turboshandy and alcopops and Corky's and Sourz and all manner of revolting things. I did the evenings and nights of downing a shot of something bright purple or blue or green, pulling a face of utter revulsion and screaming "wooooo, another!" I'll probably do it again, on occasion. But I swear the people in my seminar would have been less surprised if I'd said that on weekends I like to dress up as a bumble bee and skip around town.
Oh, I'm probably just getting old. According to my 14 year old cousin yesterday, you become no longer young at the grand age of 21. Live with it, folks...
Today, I would quite liked to have put up a massive sign, informing (admittedly, a minority of) the female population up on campus that university is not, in fact, the fashion parade they seem to think it is.
Yes, I'm sure that boy in your seminar is absolutely drop-dead gorgeous and you would do anything to catch his eye, but it is raining. It is also bloody cold. Tiny shorts and goosebumps are not a good look. Nor is your best party frock that barely covers your bum, and stiletto heels that you cannot walk in without looking like a pregnant duck. In front of me. Very slowly. When I am trying to get to a seminar.
Newsflash, ladies: a coat keeps you warm, and dry! Miracles will never cease. Add a hood or an umbrella, and some kind of footwear that does not comprise of a scrap of cream coloured satin, formed into a ballet-pump shape to this, and perhaps you will not find it neccessary to totter around with your girlfriends, holding a Media Studies textbook over your head, squealing that your hair is getting wet, and your beautiful cream shoes with diamante hearts are turning grey, muddy, and very wet.
Also...in a seminar on the politics of ingestion of tobacco and alcohol, I felt embarrassed, twice, and I don't think I should have done. The line "I mean, who in this room can honestly say they've never tried a cigarette in their life?" was voiced by a girl much like the ones I described above. Er, that'd be me then. "SERIOUSLY?!" Yes, seriously. No, my friends didn't try with any real effort to pressure me into it when I was younger. No, I wasn't intrigued. No, I didn't think it seemed cool and grown up. Luckily I was not alone on this, there was one other girl (from Zimbabwe, with a very Christian upbringing) who hadn't smoked, either.
The seminar continued and the aforementioned girl came out with a very similar line; "Who in this room would honestly rather have one expensive glass of wine than a load of vodka and red bull?!" It was meant to be a rhetorical question...everyone laughed, smiled, and nodded. Apart from me. I would rather have one nice bottle of wine than three of Lambrini. I would rather drink gin and tonic than vodka and red bull. I would rather end the evening mildly tipsy and happy having had an evening of enjoyable conversation with people I like, than being put to bed coated in my own vomit, various men's saliva and beer, and god knows what else.
I realise I sound incredibly holier-than-thou, which is probably unfair of me. I spent a large proportion of my first year very very drunk. On vodka and snakebite and turboshandy and alcopops and Corky's and Sourz and all manner of revolting things. I did the evenings and nights of downing a shot of something bright purple or blue or green, pulling a face of utter revulsion and screaming "wooooo, another!" I'll probably do it again, on occasion. But I swear the people in my seminar would have been less surprised if I'd said that on weekends I like to dress up as a bumble bee and skip around town.
Oh, I'm probably just getting old. According to my 14 year old cousin yesterday, you become no longer young at the grand age of 21. Live with it, folks...
Saturday 22 November 2008
Third year musings
Do you realise that everyone you know someday will die
And instead of saying all of your goodbyes - let them know
You realise that life goes fast
It's hard to make the good things last
You realise the sun doesn't go down
It's just an illusion caused by the world spinning round
And instead of saying all of your goodbyes - let them know
You realise that life goes fast
It's hard to make the good things last
You realise the sun doesn't go down
It's just an illusion caused by the world spinning round
This morning, I was sent this link. The person who sent me it quite often sends me links to posts by this guy, and I quite like him. He's down to earth, and funny. But reading the blog post above today, I smiled ruefully and sighed and thought "if only it were that easy...he has no idea how much work I have to do!". Over the last couple of weeks, I have found myself turning to people and saying "it is harder this year, isn't it? I'm not just imagining it?" and they all agree. However. There is no real reason why my third year should be harder than second year; all but one of my modules are mixed 2nd and 3rd year. The only explanation for this percieved rise in difficulty of the work in both my and my friends' minds, is that we are working harder. That we are putting more and more pressure upon ourselves to perform.
The air is full of panic. Occasionally talk turns from essays to exams and inevitably to post-graduation plans. We talk, briefly, and then there is a pause in which we all consider ourselves doomed to a life working in McDonalds, and then one person will say "anyway, let's not talk about that!" and we giggle in a terrified way and smoothly glide into safer waters.
Simon Stevens, the author of the aforementioned blog, wants us to take a deep breath and stop for a moment. To take the time to enjoy life. To slow down and stop racing towards the finishing line at breakneck speed and to appreciate all that is here and now.
What do you think? Is it that simple?
What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.
No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.
No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars like skies at night.
No time to turn at Beauty’s glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.
No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.
A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
Wednesday 12 November 2008
The Social Politics of Food
The above is the title of my wild module this year, and I am taking a break from essay-writing ("'Eating disorders need to be understood in the context of the meaning of the body in high- or post-modernity'. Discuss.") to write this blog post (hey, it's better than Facebook!)
Many women who would not describe themselves as having particular problems with food share the same feelings about eating and femininity. "I have quite a good appetite really, but if I'm out with a new boyfriend, I always pick at my food - you know, as if I wasn't really interested in food. I mean, it's not very romantic really to eat like a pig, is it?'"
This intrigues me. Because I have always thought that men prefer someone who eats like she's loving it (ironic that that's almost the McDonalds jingle). Within reason, obviously...grabbing handfuls of chips and forcing them into your mouth isn't particularly attractive in anyone...but I have ALWAYS thought a man would prefer a girl who likes food, who eats heartily, who enjoys the taste and the act of making and consuming food.
Obviously the above quote was spoken by a woman with anorexia, who was (I think we can safely say) clearly not in the most logical frame of mind. But there are a lot of people who feel like her.
I sort of liken this to the same mindset that some women have with relation to sex: lights off, or at most, flattering candlelight, holding your tummy in, hiding your bum, hoping to hell that the guy you're with won't notice your cellulite/stretchmarks/that mole you've always hated/the fact that you haven't shaved your legs. To (totally mis-) quote Belle de Jour (my absolute favourite woman of the last few months); "Holding in your tummy is not sexy. Slapping your ample behind and inviting him to ride the wobble, is."
This is all potentially a result of thinking I am too skinny, of having always believed this. Some photos recently appeared on Facebook of a school trip when I was 14. General reaction from the people around me (none of whom knew me back then) was shock, and comments like "god, you were really skinny" and "I wouldn't have fancied you back then". What's interesting is that I still believe I look like that, despite logically knowing that I am perfectly capable of inviting an abstract gentleman to ride the wobble.
Perhaps if I had always been the opposite; had always struggled with losing weight, as opposed to putting it on, I too would feel like the aforequoted anorexic woman: that men like self-restraint; that women should be contractive. Having read around the subject for this essay, I know that 21st century post/high-modern Western society dictates the above. Women should be contractive. There is (one could claim) an epidemic of corporeal disenfranchisement. We should all be aiming to master our selves.
And so, I find myself once again wondering if my mindset is absolutely, completely, totally, truly-madly-deeply, 100% off-kilter with the rest of the population. And if so, why?
Many women who would not describe themselves as having particular problems with food share the same feelings about eating and femininity. "I have quite a good appetite really, but if I'm out with a new boyfriend, I always pick at my food - you know, as if I wasn't really interested in food. I mean, it's not very romantic really to eat like a pig, is it?'"
This intrigues me. Because I have always thought that men prefer someone who eats like she's loving it (ironic that that's almost the McDonalds jingle). Within reason, obviously...grabbing handfuls of chips and forcing them into your mouth isn't particularly attractive in anyone...but I have ALWAYS thought a man would prefer a girl who likes food, who eats heartily, who enjoys the taste and the act of making and consuming food.
Obviously the above quote was spoken by a woman with anorexia, who was (I think we can safely say) clearly not in the most logical frame of mind. But there are a lot of people who feel like her.
I sort of liken this to the same mindset that some women have with relation to sex: lights off, or at most, flattering candlelight, holding your tummy in, hiding your bum, hoping to hell that the guy you're with won't notice your cellulite/stretchmarks/that mole you've always hated/the fact that you haven't shaved your legs. To (totally mis-) quote Belle de Jour (my absolute favourite woman of the last few months); "Holding in your tummy is not sexy. Slapping your ample behind and inviting him to ride the wobble, is."
This is all potentially a result of thinking I am too skinny, of having always believed this. Some photos recently appeared on Facebook of a school trip when I was 14. General reaction from the people around me (none of whom knew me back then) was shock, and comments like "god, you were really skinny" and "I wouldn't have fancied you back then". What's interesting is that I still believe I look like that, despite logically knowing that I am perfectly capable of inviting an abstract gentleman to ride the wobble.
Perhaps if I had always been the opposite; had always struggled with losing weight, as opposed to putting it on, I too would feel like the aforequoted anorexic woman: that men like self-restraint; that women should be contractive. Having read around the subject for this essay, I know that 21st century post/high-modern Western society dictates the above. Women should be contractive. There is (one could claim) an epidemic of corporeal disenfranchisement. We should all be aiming to master our selves.
And so, I find myself once again wondering if my mindset is absolutely, completely, totally, truly-madly-deeply, 100% off-kilter with the rest of the population. And if so, why?
Tuesday 11 November 2008
Chivalry and feminism
Today I got thinking about chivalry. This was prompted by a few events: a man let me onto the bus before him, and then a different man let me off the bus before him. A bit later, my (male) friend opened a door for me to walk through first. I said thank you to all of them, but then I pondered the fact that I'm sure some women would be massively offended by these acts; inferring that the men were implying I am incapable of standing in a queue, or opening a door by myself.
It doesn't cross my mind that these men, or indeed any others, would be thinking that I'm feeble and as such need help from big strong men. If a man carried my shopping for me, I'd be grateful, because it would save me from hurting my hands and arms, but I wouldn't expect it. Equally, I wouldn't expect a man to always open doors for me; if I am faced with a closed door that I need to get through, I will open it.
It bothers me that there are women who think that feminism means hating all men. That it means fighting against men and putting them down and considering ourselves (as women) to be better and stronger and more intelligent and...well, generally better than men. It bothers me that it is frowned upon to enjoy being treated in a gentlemanly way occasionally, and to not see it as a huge insult.
I'm waffling, as always. But am I really wrong for enjoying having doors opened for me? For being flattered by it? Maybe I'm being presumptuous in believing that men are less likely to do these things for other men...but I don't think so. Thoughts?
In other news, I am officially getting old. Over the last few weeks I have been heard to say such things as "What isn't she wearing?!", "That's not a skirt, it's a belt", and most recently; "Well maybe if his hair wasn't infront of his eyes he'd be able to see where he was going!" (after an emo youth ("youth"? God, I really am old...) with perfectly 'messily' coiffed hair over one eye and half the other walked straight into me). I am also considering buying thermal underwear. No shit.
It doesn't cross my mind that these men, or indeed any others, would be thinking that I'm feeble and as such need help from big strong men. If a man carried my shopping for me, I'd be grateful, because it would save me from hurting my hands and arms, but I wouldn't expect it. Equally, I wouldn't expect a man to always open doors for me; if I am faced with a closed door that I need to get through, I will open it.
It bothers me that there are women who think that feminism means hating all men. That it means fighting against men and putting them down and considering ourselves (as women) to be better and stronger and more intelligent and...well, generally better than men. It bothers me that it is frowned upon to enjoy being treated in a gentlemanly way occasionally, and to not see it as a huge insult.
I'm waffling, as always. But am I really wrong for enjoying having doors opened for me? For being flattered by it? Maybe I'm being presumptuous in believing that men are less likely to do these things for other men...but I don't think so. Thoughts?
In other news, I am officially getting old. Over the last few weeks I have been heard to say such things as "What isn't she wearing?!", "That's not a skirt, it's a belt", and most recently; "Well maybe if his hair wasn't infront of his eyes he'd be able to see where he was going!" (after an emo youth ("youth"? God, I really am old...) with perfectly 'messily' coiffed hair over one eye and half the other walked straight into me). I am also considering buying thermal underwear. No shit.
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