If I were a MAN
Last week male writers admitted why they secretly envied women. Today, from never waxing again to actually being listened to, six women imagine how life would be different . . .
LAST week, Inspire’s favourite male writers told you what they would do if they were female. A lively online debate ensued with many of you wanting to know what women would do in the reverse situation. So, over to the ladies ...
I’D BE LISTENED TO AND GET THE CREDIT I DESERVE Sarah Vine
YOU’RE i n an i mportant meeting. All the men are looking serious and fiddling with their ties in an amusingly Freudian manner. They have a slightly shifty air about them, as though they know something that you don’t. The boss comes in. It begins. You put forward an idea. Everyone listens politely, as though watching a slightly remedial six- year- old reciting Twinkle Twinkle, Little Star. The boss thanks you politely, but without great enthusiasm.
‘Certainly something to think about,’ he says, perhaps even making a small mark on his notepad just to show willing.
The meeting continues. Everyone pitches in. Then one of the men suggests an idea. not just any idea. Your idea. The one you’ve just explained and which everyone has ignored.
The room begins to nod i n collective agreement, as though witnessing some great universal truth being unfurled before their very eyes. Even the delivery of the Ten Commandments would not have enjoyed such a rapt audience.
Everyone agrees that this is positively the best idea anyone has ever had in the history of good ideas. ‘Can you make sure that we get on to this one straight away,’ says the boss.
He’s talking to you. You take a deep breath. nod. Get on with it.
If I were a man for a day, I would be that man. And instead of stealing all the glory for myself, I would make sure that my female colleagues got the credit they deserved.
I would make a point of explaining that just because a person doesn’t have a loud, deep voice or talk very loudly on the telephone in front of the entire office so that everyone can see how busy and important they are, that does not mean they are stupid.
And then I would make her a cup of tea.
I’D EAT OUT ALONE AND NO ONE WOULD STARE Farrah Storr Editor of Cosmopolitan
IF I WERE a man, I would head out into the thick of night al one. I would order an ice-cold beer, sit at a bar and watch the world around me, completely undisturbed. nobody would question why I was out, past my bedtime, sipping a beer with nothing to do other than listen in on other people’s drunken conversations. nobody would think I was looking for company. no one would feel sorry for me — a man alone, at ease with his own company on a Friday night.
I’d move on to a restaurant, weaving in and out of drunken knots of men and women. none of them would meet my eye.
Instead they would tumble around me like skittles on a bowling alley, blind to my existence.
I would enter the restaurant. ‘Table for one,’ I’d tell the maitre
d’, who would greet me with a kind of benign respect.
no one would be suspicious of my presence, or think I was ‘brave’ to be dining on my own — they’d just assume I was on business.
After dinner, rather than spend 20 minutes shivering in the queue for a cab, I’d stride home enjoying the night air.
I’d barely notice the man walking behind me nor the group of youths horsing around at the bus stop.
The night-time city would be mine to enjoy.
I’D NEVER WAX OR SHAVE AGAIN Jan Moir
I’d WALK around covered in hair and not care. With great, big hairy legs, pelted like a bear’s. Armpits and everywhere else blooming like the rainforest. Quite possibly the full ZZ Top in the chin department, most definitely with a lovely Tom Selleck moustache flourishing unchecked on the upper lip.
To be a man for a day would be to feel the wind ruffling through the glorious wheat fields of my calves, to welcome and even nurture the mysterious late-life eruption of goblin toe hair, to let it all hang out and grow wild.
It would mean saying goodbye to that tiresome, time- consuming war against she-hair. There would be no more waxing therapists, begone silent threading ladies with your whiplash spurts of pain, exit stage left the quasi-horror of the electrolysis needle wielders and the pulsers of follicle-busting laser beams.
You might say there is nothing to stop me going au naturel right now, only patriarchal oppression and social conditioning. Are you kidding? The Ancient Egyptians started the hairless trend back in the pre-Immac age, and my generation wouldn’t dream of regressing, even if we are oppressed.
Who could forget the moment in 1999 when Julia Roberts waved to the crowd at a film premiere in London, accidentally revealing chrysanthemums of armpit hair so large that comedian Joan Rivers wondered if she was ‘hiding Tina Turner up there’.
So this is what I would do. Come the summer, I’d buy concrete-coloured shorts that come down to the knees, with pockets for khukuri knives, compasses, emergency rations and an axe.
I’d get myself a pair of those all-terrain mountain-orienteering sandals, the really ugly ones with Velcro straps.
Then I would stick my hairy toes in them, no pedicure, and lumber off to the pub in full-Womble hairy mode, not giving a damn about anything.
I’D STOP BEING SO CONSIDERATE Hannah Betts
I don’T often wish I were a c hap. However, the one thing that would convince me is if I
never had to choose a Christmas present, charm an awkward relative, or humour the office bore again.
Sociologists refer to this as ‘emotional labour’: all that remembering people’s names, jobs, marital status, birthdays and dietary requirements.
Men tell us that this is the stuff we are ‘just naturally good at’, leaving them at leisure to earn more, live more and generally rule the world. Bolstered by our constant prompting, they are then free to sail through life without a care in the world.
If you’re childless, like me, this translates as handling family, friends, co-workers, even the odd suicidal postman.
If you’re a mother, i t means being responsible for everything from ensuring your offspring leave the house in matching footwear, via enduring the details of their teachers’ love lives, to cheerleading your spouse through the tedium of his mid-life crisis.
either way, it knows no bounds. Back in December, my partner had a meltdown based on a mere hour’s Christmas shopping that led him to have to lie down in a darkened room.
Meanwhile, I wrapped presents, remembered the names of family I had yet to meet, wrote a list of topics should the conversation run dry, while flossing, mixing martinis and consoling his friend about a break-up.
Still, all this does give me an excuse to sit texting away while my partner cooks, cleans, and otherwise runs our lives.
The moment even the merest criticism is raised, I sigh heavily, roll my eyes, and bellow out: ‘ Yeah, I ’ m doing your emotional labour.’ I’D RELISH THE CAMARADERIE Jane Fryer I WISH I were a man so I could be in the university rugby club first XV.
Not just for the thrill of having a dozen 15 st men hurl themselves at me or because I’m strangely somehow drawn to the idea of cauliflower ears and broken noses.
Of course not. But I’d put up with all that for the camaraderie — the après-rugby, the 14 best mates on tap from the minute I arrived at university, who will travel through life with me, even though we’ll give up the sport by our late 20s complaining of groin strains and dodgy backs.
But during those three or four magic years, as part of that team, I’d do it all.
I’d jump naked into a massive communal bath, light soggy cigarettes, flick muddy water, compare stud rake marks and plan the evening’s heavy drinking.
I’d live in a house that smells of Deep Heat and Lynx and Marlboro Lights and mince and boasts a surprisingly organised washing-up rota.
I’d have a wardrobe full of Umbro-branded clothes, wash my sheets once a month and own a kit bag so big I could sleep in it whenever I lose my front door keys.
I’d drink my age every birthday in pints. I’d eat greasy pies at teatime and curries at 2am and chips and Mars bars in between.
I’d not give a ruck if I’m fat or thin. My team won’t care — they’ll just tape down my ears, stick me in the front row and call me ‘meat head’.
I’d go to all the Six Nations matches and drink for 12 hours solid without being sick, and I’d know all the words to Swing Low, Sweet Chariot and Flower Of Scotland.
And I’d have 14 best friends with whom to spend those golden years before I graduate with a solid 2:1 degree in geography or modern history or politics.
And later, at my first interview for a well-paid job as a solicitor or an accountant, at least one of the interview panel will look at my CV and say: ‘Oh brilliant! He was in the first XV. Bound to be a top bloke.’ I WOULDN’T NEED TO WEAR HIGH HEELS Laura Freeman IF I Were a man I’d loom. I’d tower head and shoulders above crowds. I’d see the world from crow’s nest height and take great pleasure in my view.
I’d rise above the scrum in packed Tube carriages and never get an elbow in the eye. I’d reach with ease for aircraft lockers and change light bulbs without wobbling on a chair.
I’d man-spread my long legs on trains and take up armrests with my gangly limbs.
And when it rained, I’d hold umbrellas and be thought of as chivalrous.
I’d have the quiet confidence that comes from always having been picked first for teams at school. I’d play basketball and score slam dunks.
(Never, ever, will I forget school netball and the shame of shots that always missed the hoop.)
I’d look tenderly at little women, the smallest hint of condescension in my gaze, and wonder why they torture pretty feet in such high heels. I’d block the view at cinemas and plays, and never need to make a booster cushion of my coat.
In bed, I’d stretch and sprawl and steal the covers, and say: ‘There’s more of me, I need it, I can’t help it.’
In summer, I’d pick the highest, choicest blackberries, and at Christmas put the star on top of the tree.