Following on from Polly Vernon’s misunderstood non-fiction book, Hot Feminist, I think I might have to write a book called “Shit Feminist”.
I’ve been thinking about it for a while, what a shit feminist I am. It all started with Miuccia Prada going on about how she hadn’t a thing to say to any woman who didn’t have a job – no wait… not a job, a career. An amazing career. “If you depend on a man for your bread,” said Mrs Prada, “how can you be happy? If you are one of those women [who doesn’t work] then I really have no conversation.”
I didn’t even have to look that quote up, it’s burned on my soul.
And first I thought oh FUCK YOU Mrs Prada you horrible dinosaur. Horrible lucky dinosaur, by the way. Your functional minimalist “geek”clothing and accessories may well be super fashionable, but you could have been a flop you know!!! 90% perspiration, 10% just being fucking lucky, mate.
And p.s. let’s not forget that all your fortunes are basically built on bulk sales of nylon shoppers that Little Sam could probably run up with the hand-crank sewing machine on the craft table at nursery.
Anyway it went on in my head like that for a while and it continued to bother me for a bit. And then feminism went mad. Like crazy. The whole of Twitter was just all about feminism and Everyday Sexism and FGM. And I stood by, just flummoxed.
Anyone who survived the 90s as a teenager – God almighty that decade has a lot to answer for -these days is so delighted and relieved that baggy clothes are back in fashion and we are no longer expected to go out for dinner wearing a pink vinyl mini skirt and a tight white t-shirt with “So Porno” written in rhinestones on the front that we feel just in that, just in the fact that it’s okay to wear trainers, like, all the time – that we have won.
But it’s not enough! We’ve got to have a girl gang and be very girl-gangy publicly and point at men who steal our jokes or talk over us or man spread and shout SEXIST SEXIST YOU ARE A SEXIST. And what about those girls protesting outside parliament about FGM with the red paint on their pants! Jesus Christ! Am I supposed to be doing that?
I can’t do it! I told you, I’m a shit feminist! Pretty much any question anyone asks me, I say “I’m sorry, I’ll have to ask my husband.” If we are in mixed company and someone throws a question out there that is not about childcare or Uniqlo cashmere sweaters I put on my “Hmmm interesting” face, and then turn to Giles and say “What do you think?”
I am fine with Kitty’s career choice at the moment being “Ninja Rock-Climber” but I also forcibly pin her down to put bows in her hair and say “don’t pick your nose it’s not nice” and sometimes say “OMG you look so pretty today,” which I know you’re not supposed to.
And I let Little Sam mansplain things to me and talk over me, partly just in, like, awe of how early all that stuff starts but also because I think it’s cute. And, and, and – I’m just a shit feminist, basically.
But mostly because through all of this, what I am mostly thinking, all the time is: how can I get my husband to buy me this Celine bag? Because I sure as hell don’t earn enough to buy it for myself.