February 20, 2015
I was the first child my parents had and they really wanted a daughter… but they got me. Growing up, I was a total tomboy. I was on a football team, I loved playing outdoors in the dirt with my male friends, having a kick about, catching frogs. I still have a scar on my foot from playing army, I refused to even be in the same room as a skirt and I even had a slingshot, for crying out loud. The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles were my heroes, and I wanted to a be a Power Ranger (specifically Pink Ranger, because I had the biggest crush on Red Ranger – no one was in any doubt about my sexuality).
At some point this all changed, and I morphed into this Barbie-Ke$ha-80’s groupie chic thing that you see before you. Now, I couldn’t be less of a tomboy if I tried. I squeak when I have to go outside in the rain, I can hardly walk in flat shoes because I’m so used to heels and despite having all the clothes in the world, I have nothing to wear. My bedroom is a mess of pink and glitter, I’m forever on a diet and as far as exertions outside of the gym go, walking around the shops is about as far as it goes – occasionally running if there’s a sale on.
To look at me, you might think I’m the girliest girl ever, but it’s just a glittery shell in which that tomboy is imprisoned. Perhaps the gender binary is bullshit – that no matter what we identify as, things aren’t so black and white – or maybe I’m just broken, and that’s why people describe me as a ‘female female impersonator’. Either way, here are six reasons why I am getting being a girl so terribly, terribly wrong…
I don’t have my wedding all planned out
Girls and weddings, man. They’re cray for that shit! Look at me, already, talking like I am not one of these creatures they call ‘girls’. Most girls start planning their wedding when they’re a child (prancing around with a pillowcase on their head, etc.), and by the time the right man comes along, they’re good to go. Soon as the proposal happens, boom, these are the flowers, this is the dress, my bridesmaids will be these girls – it’s all taken care of. Apparently we’re supposed to have this thing called a ‘bottom drawer’ too, in which we stockpile the things we’ll need when we finally marry (I don’t know, like forks and vases and shower curtains and shit) – sadly, I missed this memo and my bottom drawer is filled with stuff from Ann Summers and old copies of Cosmo that I refuse to part with. I, surprisingly, have never given my wedding much thought – except for that one occasion when I wondered if Mr Frankie might consider Game of Thrones themed nuptials, not that those weddings ever go well. Really though, I have no wedding in mind. In fact, I think they’re a spectacular waste of money. I know what you’re thinking: ‘Frankie, your monthly glitter expenditure alone makes you a sort-of sparkly Marie Antoinette’ but it’s not because I’m tight, it’s because I genuinely think it’s a huge chunk of money to spend on a day. I was chatting with a couple of brides-to-be a few days ago, and when I vocalised the fact that, given the choice, I would rather blow £18k in Harvey Nicks than spend it on one dress that I would be able to wear uncomfortably for one day of my life, they looked at me like I’d lost my damn boy-ish mind. Also, come on, it’s white, and everyone knows you don’t wear white after Labor Day…
I don’t let men pay for everything
I am constantly being told that I am a bad girlfriend because I don’t let men pay for things. Apparently, we’re supposed to let men pay for everything, or something like that – I don’t know. For me, it doesn’t feel right to let men pay for everything, boyfriend or not. Here’s the thing, if you expect your boyfriend to pay for everything and buy you shit all day long, then how is he supposed to spoil you? As awesome as it would be to have a person who just pays for everything in theory, I just can’t go along with it. I have to pay for things. And it’s hard, because men think they’re supposed to pay for things, and when they like you they want to shower you in gifts, to the point where you simply admire something in a shop and suddenly a bag is being placed in your hands. This is lovely, but it’s a scary power to have, and one that I don’t want. So maybe I am a bad girlfriend for wanting to pay my own way, but relationships aren’t just about the man keeping the woman sweet. And if your fella makes more money than you and wants to spoil you then that’s great, but don’t get too used to it. It’s worth noting that it’s never a good idea to be financially dependent on someone you’re sleeping with…
I have the taste of a teenage boy
I love Sex and the City as much as the next chick, but the shopping-shagging-and-shoes genre is not my favourite. In fact, when it comes to media, I have positively teenage boy-esque taste. One thing that very few women understand is how I can love video games, but I do love them. I grew up playing Nintendo GameBoy games and Sega Megadrive games (and, yes, I do still play them) and my love has only grown from gen to gen. Shooting gangsters, trolling asylums for monsters to kill, collecting coins and setting little critters free – I love that shit. I also love gross-out humour, that kind that makes ‘normal girls’ roll their eyes. Freddy Got Fingered is one of my favourite films of all time, and yet I often find it’s only the boys who share in my joy watching Tom Green getting a blow job, despite having a real umbilical cord taped to his stomach. I love gory films, like the Saw flicks, and when it comes to TV shows the likes of Breaking Bad and Game of Thrones are more likely to hit the spot than Gossip Girls and The Sisterhood of the Travelling Vajyajay or whatevs. Ozymandias is one of the greatest things I have ever witnessed and that GoT scene with the Viper and the Mountain… wow! I squealed with joy, disgust and sadness, and I loved every second of it. Sadly, an impressive kill:death ratio does not a cool girl make. It makes most other girls think you’re a loser. They look down on you for laughing at stupid dick jokes. For finding farts funny. Girly girls are not typically the ones who find films in which Eddie Murphy plays all characters hilarious, but there’s always a few exceptions to the rule and I seem to be one of them.
I dress like a slut
Look, it doesn’t matter how many times I google feminism, I’m uncertain if I’m supposed to cover my boobs or have them on show for all to see. My love of a low-cut top and something I bought from ASOS called a ‘micro mini’ is a step in the wrong direction for womankind, apparently. People tell me that my top is too low (today, supposedly I had 70% of my boobs on show – it was 20% at best), and that my skirt is too short, and that I’m wearing too much eyeliner. Girls are my harshest critics, and it’s not just us chick on the street that invite criticism. Sometimes a female celebrity will be on TV and I’ll hear the ‘normal girls’ saying: ‘Wow, look at that slut’ and it blows my mind. She’s a slut because she’s wearing short-shorts on stage?! The truth is, we girls can’t get it right. We don’t dress feminine enough, we’re too butch. We dress too feminine, we’re sluts. I go where fashion takes me and if fashion takes me to a shop where they sell suspender-look tights, then so be it. A pair of tights does not a slut make – in fact, rocking a full gusset makes being a slut surprisingly tricky.
I’m not ‘baby crazy’
I’ll be walking down the street or through the park and I’ll see one… they’re so cute, I squeak with joy and turn the person next to me and say: ‘Oh, can we have another one?!’ I am, of course, talking about dogs – did you think I was talking about babies? Awkward. I am not in the least bit broody, unless we’re talking about puppies, and this is confusing to people. Apparently, all girls are supposed to want babies all the time and if we say we don’t, we’re told we will eventually. FYI, menfolk in particular, telling me I will want a baby one day is a surefire way to have me ensure you will never be able to naturally father children of your own. If that’s not bad enough, my baby banter is all off. When confronted with a new mum, the standard questions like ‘how much did it weight?’ do not spring to my mind (because why?!), instead, I’m like an inquisitive little child, more inclined to ask inappropriate questions like ‘did it hurt?’ and ‘how many stitches did you need?’
I don’t fancy Ryan Gosling
Zac Efron? Yes please. Henry Cavill? Gimmie some of that on toast. Matthew McConaughey? Huhha hubba, get a ru…! Where was I? Oh yeah – I don’t fancy Ryan Gosling. At all. Not even a little bit. I’m not attracted to his face, his voice, his personality, and his acting chops don’t impress-a me much either. I don’t know why, because all girls go crackers for him, but I just don’t fancy him. I wish I did, just so that girls don’t angrily ask me to explain myself when I say that I don’t. Feely flicks like The Notebook do nothing for me at all – I’d sooner shed tears over ‘Not Penny’s Boat’ in Lost. I know what it says in the vagina handbook – that we’re supposed to love Gosling and mushy flicks and mushy flicks that star Gosling especially – but I just don’t. I’d much rather lust after Ray Liotta in Goodfellas or Jake Gyllenhaal in Enemy.
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