Tag: feminist

Who pays?

Here you are, I say, reaching into my bag for my wallet. I’ll pay half.

No no Violet, it’s fine really, dinner is on me.

Are you sure, I don’t mind paying my share, I feel…

Nope, I’ve got this.

Thank you then, that was really lovely, delicious.

That is me, on a good first date. I always offer to pay my share.

I’m usually told no. And I’m usually relieved.

Not just because I don’t have a lot of money, which I don’t, but because – I donno – I grew up in that generation where men are supposed to pay.

They are meant to be strong, dominant, high earning, powerful and in charge.

I know that is all ridiculous.  That we are all strong, equal, etc.

But I still like the idea of it.

I’m old fashioned that way.

So when my son went on a first date the other night and asked for money, I gave him R200.

I don’t need so much Mom, he said, R100 will cut it.

I have a great kid. No other kids would say no to money.

But I insisted.

You should pay for her, I told him.  It’s just how it works.

He looked at me like I was mad.

Why? We’re both students, neither of us have money, it doesn’t make sense that I pay. We’ll split the bill.

I explained it was the gentlemanly thing to do. And I insisted he went off with R200 in his pocket.

When he came home I asked him how it went.

Great, he said. We had a really good time.

Got any change for me?

Not much. Sorry.

Thats okay. I’m glad you paid for her.

I didn’t.  I tried. We discussed it.  There was no way she would let me.  We split the bill. But afterwards we went bowling and I paid for that and bought us both ice-cream.

I love my son! And I like this girl already.

Good her for, for being strong and understanding equality and her own power.

But still – where did this leave me?

A very confused feminist.

Should I be paying for my dinner?

Yes. Apparently yes. In the name of feminism and womanhood and sisterhood and all that stuff, yes.

Oh dear. Really?

Fine.

Fine. I’ll try. I will.

But not with anyone who insists on sharing my dessert.

pay

 

Dating at a certain age can be very bloody difficult.

Dating at a certain age is very  difficult.  There are loads of whackos out there and huge amounts of excess baggage being carried around. 

I have my fair share I suppose, but mine is small and interesting and ha ha, who am I kidding. Anyway, when you do eventually meet a man who is not a stalker, mentally insane, broken, bitter, fragile, insecure, shaky or ill, and is also good looking, sexy,  and bright, you want to shout out from the rooftops “Hey, I met this guy, he’s perfect, he’s perfect.”

But because you’re of a certain age, it isn’t so easy to climb up the stairs to reach the rooftop – sore knees, sore back, fear of heights – so instead you giggle with your girlfriends over coffee, send your new beau tons of Whats-Apps, and try very hard to arrange the next knee- knocking date.

It is not that easy.

Children-  I have mine every second week, every third Friday night, on alternate weekends and really whenever they want to be with me.  

The man I’ve started dating has his every third day, alternate Tuesdays, on public holidays, birthdays and really whenever his fourteen kids want to be with him.

Food – I’m easy. I eat everything except chicken.  I often have cake for breakfast, love cheese burgers, hate spinach and most vegetables, and have this romantic idea of lazing in front of a fire with Chinese take outs.

He is not easy.  He’s a god-awful vegetarian, allergic to wheat, dairy and MSG, very precious about his caloric intake and really, a pain in the arse when it comes to food.

Alcohol – I drink whisky.  Single malt. And I’ve been known to down a bottle of champagne.  Good taste. Expensive taste.

He sips wine.  It has to be red.  Sulphur free.  And organic.  

He thinks my drinking habits are extreme.  I think his are odd.

But most importantly, and certainly the biggest negotiation, at this certain age – Sleeping!

I’ve been on my own for a couple of years.  And in those years, have still not ever, not once, never ever, rolled over on to my ex-husbands side.  Apparently this is not unusual; some women never roll over on to that side of the bed.

But, we had a great fourth date, and in the back of my mind I knew I was going to have sex with this guy, so I’d waxed and bathed,  primped and preened, changed the sheets, tidied the bedroom, lit candles, and I was right, we had great sex.

 And then he clearly had that fabulous content, snuggle for a bit then roll over gently and go to sleep feeling. 
Because he went to sleep.

On my side of the bed.

I did not have that same fabulous feel good feeling.  I lay there, wide awake, heart beating wildly, on the wrong side of the bed, staring at the wrong side of the ceiling.  

I shook him gently.  Nothing. 

I tried to push him over to the other side.  Not strong enough.

A gentle kick.  Nope, it hurt my knees. 

I thought about climbing over him, elegantly, but that hurt my back, and it was dark and the one dog was in my way, and the other dog started growling, and so instead I lay there, shifting, tossing and turning, in a state of panic.

I dozed off only when I heard the birds chirping.  And that was when he woke up.

“Morning Violet, what a fantastic night, let’s make tea, herbal, and I really like you and God I haven’t slept so well in years, and come here, snuggle a bit, and oh oh, you’re still not wearing anything, delicious…”

He eventually got up to put the kettle on.

 I’ve never moved so quickly, over to my side of the bed.  Bliss.  I was asleep within seconds.  

And he woke me up, this new lover of mine,  calling me a layabout and a lazybones and I don’t know why I just smiled and I never said a word.

Tonight is our fifth date, and I’m pretty sure he’s going to sleep over again. If I can sort out my children, the dogs, the food and the wine.

And I’m not going to primp or preen or do anything like that this time.

 But I am going to buy a new bed.  King size.  Fresh.  With no memories.  And no baggage.

Dating.  At a certain age. 

 Not just difficult.  Very expensive too.

bed

A Brazilian Wax

I recently had my vagina waxed. A full-on Brazilian. It was a spur of the vagina decision. I went for a simple bikini wax but the therapist started telling me how excessively hairy I was.

“Oh darling you do have a rather wild bush”, she’d said.

So I thought, ‘What the hell, its summer, take it all off’.

Bejesus!  It’s not so much the agony of the Brazilian – it’s the intimacy of the Brazilian. A strange woman’s fingers on your most private and sensitive parts, waxing off or plucking out every last hair. It’s a little undignified…even a little humiliating.

But I let her wax and pluck and pull and I yelled out loud and I yelled at her and I cried a little and she mopped my tears, and then suddenly  – there was my vagina!

A little pink, a little swollen, a little thing that was quite pretty actually.  

I thanked her, handed over a ridiculous sum of money and called my girlfriends to meet me for champagne and cake. I thought I would surprise them with my new-found vagina but before we could start talking about smooth pink lips – a crisis- men.

As my gorgeous, but strictly feminist girlfriends spooned red velvet cupcakes into their small but slightly moustache covered lips, they also started bitching about men.  

Men who wolf -whistled, who opened car doors for women, who automatically signal for the bill and refuse to go dutch. Men who insist on changing tyres, who like women to dress in a sexy fashion and men who love women who don’t wear underwear .

I like men and I quite like all these things that men do. I can laugh at them, appreciate them, make use of them and even get turned on by them.

Apparently I shouldn’t like these things. They are “demeaning to women”. They are done to make women feel inadequate and weak. They turn women into the lesser sex.

 And it seems that waxing your vagina, is the worst thing in the world because it makes women’s vaginas look child-like and it turns all men into paedophiles.

Panic!

I immediately signalled to the waiter to cancel the champagne, and sent him a note that said “Do not tell these women we are celebrating my hair free vagina.” 

I squeezed my legs together to make sure my lovely pink lips couldn’t burst through my undies. 

I never mentioned the bits of wax that were still stuck to my bottom and needed to be pulled off. I never mentioned how good it felt, and how much I knew I was going to love it but I did start feeling a little concerned.

I’d waxed my vagina (pudendum to be accurate) on the spur of the moment because the therapist convinced me to, and I’d thought “summer”.  Easy to wear a bikini. Cool. Sexy. Pretty.

I also wax my legs and underarms, I have facials, enjoy manicures and pedicures and I’ve even been known to have a bit of a collagen filler. 

I do these things because they make me look and feel good. I don’t over-think them. I need them, I do them, I love them and I pay through my very white teeth for them.

Honestly – I don’t only do them for me. I do them for men too. And for women. I want to look attractive when people look at me. Of course I do. We all do. 

I don’t go for that whole mumbo jumbo thing of men and women being equal. I think we are equal but different, and I love embracing the differences. It’s what makes being a woman so much fun.

So why, as per my girlfriends, is waxing a vagina such a terrible thing?   

Is it because all men fantasize about having sex with pre-pubescent girls? Is it because when they take Violet out for a night on the town, they don’t really want to be out with a fifty year old woman, but with a 15-year-old girl?

I don’t know. It’s a fine hair free line and one that needs thinking about. 

I’d love to carry on thinking about it, but I just found one rogue hair and I have a date tonight and I better get rid of it really quickly.

brazilian wax