I am woman, hear me moan.

I am, in the words of Destinys Child an Independent Woman. I lock my door every morning, and turn the grill off each night – therefore a I’m a responsible, mature, adult. However it has become increasingly apparent that a not-so-select majority of the males feel the need to treat me like a confused sparrow attempting to fly through glass. Then as if they weren’t irritating enough the bloody gender have the audacity to slap the ‘woman constantly complain’ label on me and my fellow sparrows! I think I speak on behalf of my gender, (or at least the suffragettes) when I say that I do not appriciate this treatment, it and I do not accept it. I am woman, you will not only hear me moan, you will bloody sit up and listen.

Last week being the level headed woman that I am, found myself in a heap at the side of a road with black marks all over my face, wailing in dismay from attempting to change a flat tire. Cliche` as it may seem I wanted to prove to myself that I was capable, only to discover that I’m not. So ashamed and mildly discusted by my reflection I solomly called the break down cover I pay £70 a year for. Ashamed at resorting to the male race for aid, I was not exactly pleased with to be greeted with a grunt, and a estimated time of arrival, which rivaled the time it would have taken me to push the 3 wheeled rust bucket home. My entire break down experiance was far from idilic, the calandar image of the sweaty, spannor clutching machanic with his t-shirt discarded to reveal his toned washboard stomach…well its misleading to say the least. My first encounter with the mechanic reminded me vividly of a trip to the pub with my dad when I was 17, a group of hairy middle aged men learing and repulsive. Now I don’t want to make a generalisation…I’m sure there are pleanty of handsome, charming, and honest machanics out there – please feel free to contact me if so – I am mearly describing the men I encountered at Garys Automobile and Petro station – (Petro – as the ‘L’ had swung free of its hinges and was dangling precatiously above a paying customers car).

Numerous things happened on that afternoon, I was called ‘darlin’’ and ‘little miss’ countless times, each time causing an involantary urge to punch the speaker. I have never one refered to a man who I don’t know, let alone a customer in whatever job I’ve had, as ‘darlin’’ or ‘big mr’ because for some bizzar loop hole in society, it has become a norm for a man to talk to a woman like a child or a sexual object yetn ot visa versa. So this brief rant regarding the downfalls of mechanics and men, is (hopefully) the beggining of a revolution, fellow women unite, I urge you to woolfe whistle at builders, leer out of your car windows, beep and yell, treat men how they’ve treated you – and always, always call machanics ‘darlin’’.

Always judge a book by its cover.

Upon occasion you find yourself analysing. They say the unexamined life is not worth living, but what if we get too caught up in the analysing to do the living? I’m finding myself increasingly surrounded with people who insist on constructing themselves, they will see something or someone they aspire too and will mould themselves into that image. It raises the question, is it healthy to want to be someone else?

Now there is a difference between a childhood hero, and a Hollywood star, but can you discriminate between who people have the right to admire?
In my experience, growing up in the celebrity obsessed society that we are, I find myself having to stop myself cutting out images of Kim Kardashians figure and sticking it to the fridge, why? Because its her figure, not mine. And to challenge yourself with another persons image seems like a form of subconscious self-punishment. However it is impossible to claim any one of us is unique, or original, infact those who claim to be are generally the least so. We all grow up, experience things, see things, meet people, but I would dare to say that all in all the majority of individual experiences or similar occur within each of our lives at somepoint, in a different time and place. So through our experiences of those surrounding us, we’re bound to pick up good quality and not so good quality from others. For example your mothers strength raising a family after your parents divorce, or your grandfathers good humour in all situations, even the boy who works at the deli on your route to work and his enthusiasm regarding salami and a smile – little things influence us all (the boy at the deli taught me that a smile to a stranger can make their day brighter, so I began ensuring my face was scowl-free when dealing with people.) Surely adapting all these admirable qualities into one person is nothing if not productive, but what about when fixation on perfection leads to unhealthy results. If you become fixated with your personal idea of perfection and one person who embodies it, are you just screaming out in insecurity regarding yourself? Or pure admiration of another? Its generally agreed that everyone should feel comfortable in their own skin, that they should be proud of who they are, and their own achievements, but in a world of only just a book by its cover – (and throw it away if that’s not too attractive) is the concept of loving yourself relivant anymore? Now, I am neither stunningly beautiful nor stomach turning – much like the majority of the population. And living within a society where looks are arguably just as important as the rest of you – if not more so, its impossible not to notice the girl with legs up to the sky being served first at the bar, or within the group of male friends, the gym membership and dry personality getting more appreciation than the less aesthetically pleasing yet funny, and charming guy in the corner – however you’d know him as the ‘other one’, after all whats the point of learning his name if he’s not on a parr with your beauty and his friends biceps?