I am 16, going on 17...

Growing up iz ‘ard. Rah-lly, rah-lly hard. I can’t say I’ve met anyone who doesn’t feel like they weren’t bullied at school. Bloomin’ kids. When I look back on my yoof (I am, so…very…old), I feel achingly sad for myself. I wanted to be a swishy, shiny girl with perfect grades and a gulp, boyfriend. God knows what for. Thankfully, one of the Year Seven’s from the Boy’s School laid it on the line for me early on, ‘Chloe’s never going to get a boyfriend’. Not that I’m one to dwell…  

I was the parody of an ugly duckling, totally afflicted, utterly mingling! What with the specs, the braces and the dermatological acne (not pimples, my friends, the good stuff) and fortunately I really plumped out of my uniform – bought for my age 11 frame. I felt apologetic. Let friends move onwards and upwards. I didn’t want to inflict myself on anyone. Just kept my head (read: ugly face) down and got on with my work. Which is clearly not what school is there for. Alas, teachers confused this with real intelligence and look at the pickle I’m in now. Uhhh… Oh yeah, so you see, sob, sob, woes me. Such a drag. But thank god for school. Imagine if I had gone through me whole life not knowing I wasn’t the hockey stick stunning Oxbridge rah type. With a Mulberry tote, glowing skin (you know you rah-lly need to see Dascha – she does my Oxygen Facials – she’s, like, aaahhmazing), Daddy’s credit card and a ski chalet in Verbier. Is Verbier cool? I don’t know, I’ve NEVER even BEEN skiing. Oh the shame. Maybe I feel a tad resentful that I didn’t fit in that world then and I still don’t now. I don’t have a (big) chip on my shoulder. I’m certainly not ashamed of my background. But those 5 years at secondary school, for better or worse (pah worse) made me the girl I am today. What am I saying? Something nouveau and groundbreaking, sure. 

One day, I’ll do whatever I can for my wee ones. I’ll pack them off to the local primary in their mini grown up clothes, with their sandwiches and their textbooks – CUTE! And I’ll hope and pray that they’re A OK. And I’ll tell them ‘look here honey, don’t you pay no one no mind; you do what you like darling, you work hard, be watcha wanna be’. I’ll probably sing it. I’m sure they’ll come home crying someday, and I’ll say ‘life ain’t easy’, pick yourself up, rise from the ashes, bird. It’s definitely ok to call your kids ‘bird’. If you’re unlucky, really, really unlucky, it’s five (honestly, short) years for you to learn good useful stuff about yourself. Get some qualifications. Plus you’ll learn how to cope with what life throws at you for the rest of forever. These coping strategies will stand you in good stead. That’s my legacy to my darlings. Do what they told you you couldn’t do, then do what you like, you know, when you’ve proved your point. Growing up ain’t easy. But it’s all there for you, it’s all for the taking, you know I’ll only be mad if you don’t give it all you got. 

What it feels like, for a girl

I often tell him indoors (ha ha, he hates being called him indoors...well I imagine he would, I haven’t tried it out yet...) that I am a 21st century woman. I say often, but in truth it's probably daily, usually in response to any request. Oh don't look at me like that, not the reasonable ones, I'm talking about those of the 'can you buy me some more pants' or 'why haven't you ironed my work shirts' variety. It's usually a question to which the answer is - 'because you can do it yourself...humph'. I think the first time I said it he may have actually emptied a little bladder contents into the aforementioned pants. 'Oh and where did you get that idea from' - his facial expression completing the end of the sentence 'you ludicrous girl?' 'Erm... Beyonce?'. More giggles. From him. 

I don't think I even knew quite what I meant at that time. Now it's become a sort of pre-occupation for me - The Female Condition. I suppose it all started in the Garden of Eden. We've been paying the price for ultimate sin ever since then. And if we go even further back than that (I know! I'm not sure how this works either!), when we (not we...), lived a hunter/gatherer existence us ladies could bring forth in pain as much as we liked but without the male, without their strength and physicality to hunt down err… woolly mammoths, our small tribe would not have made it to the end of the month. We were dependant in many respects. But times are a-changing and a woman's role in society is very different now. I suppose when I lay down the law, what I'm really saying is I am your equal, not your subordinate - don't you dare forget it or next time I have to communicate this to you through the medium of song: 'you must not know bout me, you must not know bout meee... I'll have another man here in a minute...'. He looks pained when I sing. Hold up, I'd hate to think that's what stifles his giggles... The mere thought of me singing. And my Mum always said I could hold a tune. Sigh. 

But what does it really mean? To be a girl? Well in real terms, we grow up, go to school, maybe University, get a job (I really should do that), have sproglets, work mooooore, perspire - all that darn work, retire, expire. How does that really feel with the ol' XX chromosome? Realize we not Barbie (aged 5), get sidelined by boys who would rather be with girls who look more like Barbie, walk home from Uni late at night and be threatened (or worse...) by some, words fail me 'man' who uses his 'physicality' to take advantage of said girl, get paid less for doing our jobs WELL, get discriminated against for doing what is biologically necessary, and err... then we age badly. I know. A strong finish. I am a bit more grown-up now. I think. And I really care about these things. I'm not saying I want to swill beer (always) and vomit in the street (intentionally) - I don't want to be a man. At the same time I don't think men are obsolete or unnecessary, clearly. Nor do I think I could compete with all men on all levels – for example, I don’t think I could outrun Usain Bolt. Or any fella. However, I feel I, and all other women should be accepted and respected on their terms because of our own value. I want to walk down the road without some - ha ha ‘joker’ making a comment about my appearance, even if I’m wearing, gasp, heels. I want people to realise that true equality is freedom - to stay at home and bring up the wee ones, or to be the main breadwinner. And I wish, really wish, I had the confidence to not put on all the make-up and do my hair fancy(ish) because gosh, darnnit, I am who I am and I should not be judged on what I look like – not negatively or positively. Hmm… Barbie really does have a lot to answer for...