I have a confession. I am a bit of a rubbish feminist. But it is not for lack of trying, I can tell you.
The thing is, I really admire feminists and what they stand for. I even have a ‘Votes for Women’ postcard on my wall, a replica advert from the Suffragette movement. But that is about as far as it goes.
I used to be really into the whole feminist thing when I was younger. I declared on a regular basis that life was too short to stand in a kitchen and cook and that any man that expected me to become a housewife could go whistle, because I was going to be a Doctor or at the very least, an MP. I would even consider the role of Prime Minister, depending on my schedule.
But then of course, like everyone else, I grew up, left school and realised pretty quickly that I would be lucky to a job, any job, let alone one involving power and authority. In fact, having graduated into a recession, I would have considered myself lucky if I got a job before it was time to draw my pension.
When I was a bright young thing, or, as it was in reality, a mediocre, somber thing, I really made no effort at all with my appearance. It was part of my ‘if men don’t like me the way I am, then they are not worth my time’ phase. My poor mother has spent the best part of thirty years trying to get me to wear even a scrap of makeup, explaining I didn’t have to do it for anyone else but me and that sometimes it was nice to make the effort.
But then, I discovered love. Or, more accurately, the idea of love. For I had read Jane Eyre and after that, went around wishing I was out on the moors in flowing dresses about to meet Mr Rochester. Now there was a hot man! And he liked plain Jane. Yes! I was in with a shot at this romantic lark after all!
Alas, we do not live in a novel. Jane Eyre got to live in a sweeping mansion and enjoy declarations of love from a brooding man who only had eyes for her (well, to a point).
What did I get in this modern world? People in trainers and tracksuits, nightclubs and men who would have got off with a paper bag if they could have, because they were too drunk to notice that, you know, it was not an actual human being. I despaired. Surely I had been born in the wrong era?
Thus, I had encountered a problem. I had once vowed not to have a boyfriend until I finished university, because I desired a good education and wanted no distractions (yeah, because men were throwing themselves at my feet!)
I once even signed a declaration saying I would never get married, such were my feminine convictions. (Fast forward fifteen years and frankly, that has not been a problem!)
But as I got into my early twenties, I yearned for love. And then I fell into it, very deeply. You know how it is when you fall head over heels: It feels like you are the first person ever to have felt that mystical sensation and you feel sorry for anyone who isn't in love because they do not know how amazing it feels!
And then your heart gets broken and suddenly you are the only one in the world who has ever felt that way. It hurts so much and nobody can ever empathise with you or heal your heart. It is broken into a million tiny pieces! Etc. Etc.
After that, if you are lucky, a very good friend will realise you have gone AWOL, drive to your house and tell you to get your head out of your a*** and get a life. Then you put on your best dress, run a brush through your hair (which is a treat for it, having gone several week without so much as a glimpse of a comb) go out with your pals and move on with your life.
You smile and say things like ‘plenty more fish in the sea’ and go and get yourself the biggest net ever and hope there is a tidal surge soon which will bring you a big fish soon. One with good prospects and a huge...personality. You paper over the cracks and carry on, hoping that, one day, you will find the one.
Nowadays I am more of a closet feminist. And I do not mean that I have a secret stash of pretty high heels and party dresses in my wardrobe which I only wear on my own in my bedroom. That would be weird. I wear them on a daily basis while out shopping instead. I have finally discovered to dress nicely for my own benefit.
No, the thing is, I rather enjoy looking after the man in my life. I like the idea of caring for someone, making dinner (though I am a hopeless cook) and making sure the house it tidy when they come round (although I detest housework) and the thought of doing craft brings me out in hives.
How can I be a feminist while adhering to the traditional female role? The feminist side of my personality steps in to remind me that I actually do have a career, while the traditional side is smiling sweetly, cracking open a fresh pair of oven gloves and putting on a pinny.
But then she suddenly remembers all of the above, puts down the oven gloves, orders a pizza and sits on the sofa to watch TV instead. The feminist side, realising that this looks like a happy compromise, cracks open a bottle of something nice and joins her. They merge into one, and form me.
I am finally realising that life is not all about extremes and all or nothings. There can be a balance. You can be kind and caring and sort of house proud and go to work and do your own thing. It doesn’t mean you have to sacrifice your beliefs or try and do things you are not cut out for. The right person will love you for who you are, not how well you can bake a cake ( which is good because my cakes are shocking).
Yes, I am a woman of many parts to my personality and some pretty conflicting views. But I am proud to be me, so there. Sort that one out, Sherlock.
