As a child, I remember one of the many things that occupied my thoughts being about (what seemed to be) the distant future. I’d sit atop my bunk bed, probably playing with some gender stereotypical doll and wondering what I’d look like when I was all grown up. Perhaps I’ve always just been a little vain, but I recall studying my face in the mirror and trying to predict what I’d look like when I was a teenager. It’s funny, when you’re a kid you think everything’ll be like an episode of Lizzie McGuire as soon as you hit thirteen. Yet of course it’s not, you’re still just as immature and gawky as ever, and even worse, crimped hair and flared jeans have gone out of style (again). Looking at myself now I think I can finally see who I aspired to be all those years ago: A young and confident woman with a great set of friends, a sense of purpose and everything as in place as it can be at this stage.
There are so many things in life I want to pursue; the number of books I’m yet to read is endless, the films on my ‘what to watch’ list are rapidly building, not to mention the ukulele lying neglected upon a bookshelf just waiting to be played. Those are simply a few things off the top of my head, awaiting my attention. Now, my dilemma is not that I am lacking in time, I actually seem to have an abundance of that when I really think about it. The problem is that my mind simply won’t function. After terms of hard work preparing for exams, copious amounts of revision, maintaining a part-time job, attempting to uphold a (somewhat) lively social life and trying to get a decent amount of sleep, I just can’t seem to manage to exert myself in any other areas of life.
For as long as I can remember, (as cliché as this may sound), I’ve loved to read. And before I could read, I recall stories being told to me before bed, whether those be ones of my parents’ imagination or simply a passage from Roald Dahl. Even when I didn’t really feel like reading, I’d fall asleep to a Harry Potter audio book or something of that nature. Interestingly, I’ve always prided myself on being a bit of a “bookworm”, whether that’s due to my career aspirations or just because I felt like it elevated me somewhat, I’m not sure. However in recent years I’ve been reading (pardon the pun) more and more into how my love of literature has effected my decisions and behaviours.
Recently I made the appalling, to say the least, discovery that many women’s products are being sold at 10% more than men’s that do exactly the same job. For example, men’s razors are likely to cost far less than women’s, despite doing the same, if not a better, job. What astounded me the most might have been the fact that apparently there is scientific research proving that women like to pay more for their products because it makes them feel “pampered”. Well I’m not having any of it.
Nothing riles me more than a woman so ignorant that she doesn’t even realise how unfeminist her own views are. Picture this: After a long hard day of doing nothing I settled down to watch a recording of Dragon’s Den. Now being the self-confessed lazy person that I am, I didn’t get up immediately to turn the television of and an episode of Newsnight came on. I wasn’t particularly paying any attention until I heard a woman slating the recent #AskHerMore campaign.
For years, decades, centuries, people have been striving to find the perfect definition for the complex and mind-boggling concept that is, ‘love’. But it seems that merely finding a definition is one challenge, truly understanding it is another.