Memo to boys: get over it

I’m sorry to say your time is up. No longer can you wheel out your inability to express yourselves based on the past.

The security blanket of ‘macho men unable to cry because society has told them they can’t’ has now been well and truly removed from your grasp.

Men now emote. Your heroes do it on the big screen, the little screen, in autobiographies and during interviews in the changing room. Their emotions bring nations to their feet and throngs of adoring women.

Men now talk. Because their fathers have mellowed and seen the error of their ways. Thanks to a few self-help books, and an erosion of stubbornness in their years, they reach out to their sons for an open discussion.

Men now express. As it is celebrated and has worth amongst the people they do it with. A man who can talk about his feelings is seen as stronger than the pack mentality once behind him.

Men now are softer. Thanks to a beauty industry supporting them: moisturizers and preening are now socially accepted norms. Your softer side is superficially catered for and widely appreciated by the women around you.

And just like the women today who cry double standards, there is enough effort going on to change this that to rely on the past is simply lazy measures.

So suck it in and take it like a man: talk about your feelings, cry with the rest of us and embrace your vulnerability.

For women are wary now of the dinosaurs who won’t adapt. You will simply become extinct.

Turning thirty and exercising constraint… almost

I will never buy into the thought of acting your age. To do otherwise, is turning your back on nature’s form of botox. Dressing your age, drinking in moderation, thinking before you speak is all the elements that bring on the lines and make you boring as fuck.

I’m not saying that dressing like a piece of old mutton, binge drinking and grandstanding is acceptable. I’m just advocating a sense of healthy rebellion.

Age in some cases is irrelevant. And should not be seen as a benchmark to the experiences you have.

But what I am finding slightly challenging, is letting go of some of things I gave no thought to in my twenties.

Eating three meals a day, exercising regularly and getting a good night’s sleep in my own bed have suddenly become paramount to my day-to-day equilibrium.

And what can disturb this self-imposed balance of maturity, wisdom and fragile grip on control is finding infinity with the twenty-something males I hang out with.

I relate to them. But not from a platform of hindsight, but just because they are going through the same shit I am. They wake up with mid-week hangovers, deal with break-ups based on acrimonious decisions to part ways, and have the same zealous drive to make their mark on the world.

I don’t think I’ve lost my innocence yet: that blind faith that no one can do it quite like me. That the world is still waiting to hear about me. That I can change the way things are done like no one else.

It does sound slightly cocky. But why bite into the cynical cake that everyone eats into in their thirties?

The only difference I’ve found to age is when the twenty-something male fancies me. That’s when I feel old. I don’t want spontaneous nights with cheap wine, college art projects, bad furnishings or naïve view that love conquers all.

I just want a male who will never buy into growing old the way society tells you to.

Why do we shit on bigger girls?

Bigger girls: Taller than the average male, not the bijou statue representing the socially desirable body type. Could also be applied to a girl fitting the petite mould but big in personality, confidence or ability to do job well in a male-dominated working environment.

The beginnings of this observation are going to be slightly messy, so prepare yourselves – you have been warned.

Today a rather large, stubbornly positioned poo was found in the girl’s toilet at work. Much to my horror another female co-worker towards the end of the day unwittingly brought me in, to witness that this body by-product had not dislodged itself from its earlier position at nine in the morning.

Like a naughty schoolgirl, I brought three younger male members into the sanctimonious realms of the female cubicle to share my shock and hysterically giggle about girl-poo.

I knew they would enjoy my juvenile fascination with pooing. A few pictures on a mobile phone were taken (not by me, I might add). And I felt a sense of light relief in a day that was seriously over-stuffed with ‘grown up stuff’ for my liking.

But the laughs stopped there – for the males were a little distraught with the thought that women poo – let alone a cheeky fart.

Why do men struggle so with the biological fact that women do what they do: fart, burp and poo? Why is it deemed so unlady-like?

And when they chose to play CSI-detective and get to the bottom of it, why did they pick the big girls as suspects to this rather large piece of evidence?

Surely a little woman can do a big job like this as well?

It just seemed a little unfair that their suspects were women bigger in statue to them. And the unsuspecting, bijou lady who brought this to my attention was deemed to have shady, ulterior motives.

See no matter what size a woman is you just can’t win. Surely the evidence should have been a point of celebration. She had the balls to let go of the shit men want us to believe?

BFF*

*Best friends forever

I remember my first half moon pendant – I shared it with my best friend Kate. As a whole our friendship would survive well into our adult lives of career, marriage and family. We would live on the same street, double date with our husbands and share a chardonnay after a long hard day at work.

And just like Beaches I would be the performer, she the preened professional. Unlike the flick, we would escape AA meetings, useless two-timing men and terminal illness.

We lived in wholesome Australia, where thanks to a daily dose of Home and Away, we thrived on innocence and isolation. Our view on friendships was as shiny as the half moon pendants we proudly wore around our necks.

I have no idea where Kate is now. Maybe she is married, maybe divorced. She could have a 9 to 5 job or be a stay at home mum. Hopefully she hasn’t experienced useless two-timing men or a terminal illness.

But I just don’t know. We lost contact. And I have no idea where my half moon pendant is.

The innocence of friendships in my adolescence, I’ve let go for a far more grimier version: less Home and Away, more Hollyoaks perhaps. I guess that comes with growing up and taking off those rose coloured glasses – replacing them for a pair of shades with a slightly darker view.

It’s not all doom and gloom; it’s just accepting that not all friendships are forever.

Some more or less resemble this season’s trends: they work short term, but then less appropriate next year. In a cruder sense, they outlived my need.

And it was the same when we had the pendants.

Your BFF in school could change as quickly as ra-ra skirts were in. It was just a little easier back then as it was more socially acceptable. You could easily bundle up last year’s friend in a bin liner, take them to Oxfam and feel you were doing a good deed: letting them free to discover a better owner.

But now, oh now… it is almost like a social taboo to do the same trip to Oxfam. Maybe you’re a tad too fickle, too haughty, too above your station.

Why is that? Have we lost our appreciation in the beauty that nothing lasts forever? That temporary happiness is just as worthy and valued over something permanent. I mean we never stay in the same job forever, so therefore it’s okay that some friendships move on too.

Just like jobs and trends – seasonal friendships should not be overlooked for the joy and satisfaction they bring.