Girliness, con’t
Tonight’s Night Waves—which is a talk programme about the arts* on Radio Three—was dedicated to The Avengers.** Hands up those of you whose lives were indelibly marked by Emma Peel in a cat suit?*** And for those of you answering yes, did you see it when it first came out, or later? I was going to say ‘did you see it when it first came out and there was nothing else like it’, but then there never was anything like it, then or ever.† In hindsight—and I’m really only thinking about this now—I think it was the image of Emma Peel, who by golly had agency, authority, autonomy, whatever the buzzword of the era is, that was partly responsible for my stubborn failure to realize that the so-called sexual revolution hadn’t changed all that frelling much for the rank and file: the birth-control pill chiefly meant that we were now supposed to be, ahem, available. It didn’t do anything toward making it easier to pursue that career that no longer might be derailed by an accidental pregnancy, nor about being taken more seriously as anything but support and second-best. Insert Standard Rant Here.†† How the hell did the 60s manage to produce Emma Peel?
And those of you who loved her later than the sixties, what did you love her for? Total, absolute, drop-dead coolness, including being the ultimate Girl Who Did Things? Or were there other shadows that the passing years cast?
Anyway. I was reminded that I was going to have another troll through the forum thread about girliness.
claning wrote:
I too have always belonged to the no-makeup school of thought, and I also wear my hair long, braid it and twist it into a bun, so no hairdressers either. But while I’m always happy in jeans, I think I’m going to enjoy dressing a bit more “girly.”
Enjoy is the operative word here, or should be. Even back in my office job days††† I wasn’t willing to suffer to look . . . however it was I was supposed to look. This is one of the things that put me off expressing my inner girlie for years: that so much of the clobber was frankly uncomfortable or wildly impractical: pencil skirts, give me a break. Pencil skirts with a slash to mid thigh, fine, but mincing makes me nuts.‡ I want to be able to run for the train, the galloping horse, or the dragon if necessary. I also don’t want anything I can’t wash. If I meet a friendly hellhound or other eager, bright-eyed excitement, I want to greet it, whoever or whatever it belongs to, and under whatever circumstances.
I do still possess my One Power Suit. The one I bought for the SUNSHINE tour because I wanted to get as far from vampire chic as possible—and that was before vampire chic got really . . . you know, deadly. It needed dry cleaning by about halfway through, and I was never anywhere long enough to get it done. (‘Twenty four hours’ is a mutable concept with drycleaners.) So I brought it home and had it drycleaned . . . and the jacket has never fit since.‡‡
Sigh. There’s another reason for jeans and All-Stars: the stress level is much lower.
guardcat
Just found this blog today and thought I’d share: http://tomboystyle.blogspot.com/
Um. I’m willing to put up with the term ‘tomboy’ as having a certain limited usefulness—usually something about girl-children climbing trees and not playing with dolls—but I’m not so willing to put up with it as an ideal to aspire to as an adult. Why does something specifically for and about women have its entire reference something about men? And it’s not even men, it’s boys. Tomboy. It’s still about something leggy and flat-chested and sexless or at least androgynous—and young. I’m sorry. I am, as I frequently say, a cow. But this gets up my nose: ‘although the tomboy is often identified by clothing, what makes her wholly so is an inherent sense of confidence, rebelliousness, and adventure.’ You do not have to be a tomboy to have an inherent sense of confidence, rebelliousness, or adventure. You can come to and embody those things in your own entirely feminine self, and you can do these things even if you are short and fat and wear frilly skirts and have even frillier hair and enormous boobs too—and are past forty. Or even past fifty.
HeiQ
I am incredibly grateful, by the way, that it has gotten to the point that I CAN make the CHOICE to stay at home…
Yes. This is one of those points I don’t want to get lost in the uproar about women’s agency in the world. Feminism, that embattled word, is all about choice. And this includes, or sodding well should include, any parent’s choice—and this includes the dads—to stay home with their offspring.
I appreciate, sort of, the fact that a lot of jobs need consistency and regularity. But a lot of them don’t, or at least don’t need it every day, five or six days a week. There could be a lot more done about half-time work so that dads and mums could have stay-at-home time and out-in-the-world having grown-up conversations time. But That’s Not The Way We’ve Ever Done It, so the current system of one parent, probably the mum, staying at home and falling off the career ladder, very likely forever if she stays out more than a year or two, grinds on, wasting a lot of energy and talent and giving everyone involved a greater or lesser sense of frustration and wrongness. Which then becomes part of what the next generation grows up with.
Diane in MN
My sister-in-law, who was a math teacher and is now a sort of math curriculum consultant, would . . . add that you must not have had good classroom experiences in these [math and science].
Ha. My eighth-grade algebra teacher told me that I was the stupidest child she’d ever had the misfortune to teach and that I’d never learn it and should . . . I forget, get put into remedial tote that barge/ lift that bale class, or something. My algebra II teacher came to class drunk most days—it being first period after lunch. And my chemistry teacher didn’t teach on the days that the Red Sox (I think it was the Red Sox) had games, and we all watched the games. Well, some of all of us watched the games. Not me.‡‡‡ In hindsight I wonder why the school let him get away with this. And why no one noticed that Mr Merritt frequently came back from lunch drunk on his ass. I could go on . . . it’s pretty frightening how many of us have awful teacher stories. . . .
And on that happy note I think I’ll save the rest of the forum comments about girliness and go to bed. I have to try to ring that thrice-blasted second lead of Cambridge minor tomorrow.
* * *
* And fancies itself a lot more complex and cutting-edge than I think it is, but then I’m a fantasy-writing grouch.
** I’m getting tired of the BBC’s much quacked and re-quacked declaration that most of their programmes are available for ‘listen again’ for seven days after they’ve been aired. No. Wrong. Well, define ‘most’. Or maybe I am just drawn irresistibly to the ones that aren’t. Anyway, this one isn’t, although I suppose it’s just worth checking back, if you’re interested, since on their main page they say it’s going to be. http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b010749m#synopsis
*** Even if there is no way to have a pee gracefully or efficiently from one. If you’re chasing a villain and you need a pee . . . you’re frelled.
† And they completely lost the plot in The New Avengers, where Joanna Lumley was ungleblarging feisty. Can you conceive of Emma Peel stooping to feisty?
†† Including that corporate human resources divisions continue to view women with suspicion because they might want to get pregnant.
††† And you know, one of the few things I miss about an office job is the excuse to dress up. I love my jeans, and I’m way too lazy to put a skirt on if I don’t have a reason, but . . . I miss having the reason.^
^ And no, I don’t seem able to force myself to dress up to go to the opera at the cinema. Although I like the idea of wearing silk and rhinestones and . . . knitting.
‡ I have an ankle-length skirt that turns out to be smaller around that the length of my stride. This is not something I had noticed in the shop where I bought it. So when I wear it I hoick it up, like a Victorian lady her train. This is not graceful. I keep thinking I should take it in to the tailor and get a slash put in, but I don’t wear it all that often and I sort of don’t get around to it. . . .
‡‡ I could take it to the tailor with the skirt.
‡‡‡ What a pity I didn’t knit yet.
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