As I have succinctly established in my recent posts; I am a little all over the place at the moment. I don’t know what I’m going to do tomorrow… let alone for the rest of my life. I tell my parents that this is a good thing… that they need somebody to fret over, lest life would be far too plain sailing and dull. I look to the heroines of popular 90s chick flicks for salvation; you know… all slightly dishevelled mentally, but physically astounding. I point out to my dad that no heroine of any chick flick of the past 20 years has had her shit together at the beginning of the film… Where would she go from there? Therefore neither should I. He points out, quite aptly, that I am not the star of my own show, but, rather less glamorously; a post-teenage train wreck living in perpetual denial, who is quite possibly failing her degree and who has very few prospects. Fantastic. I think. That’s just where I want to be actually. You see, from here, the only way is up. A phoenix will emerge from the ashes of my former gin-addled, silly self; slimmer, more agile… perhaps with ninja like abilities to return library books on time and never run out of petrol on the motorway. Call me a fantasist if you will… but the day is coming. It’s on the horizon. The time is now. Well, maybe after this g & t.
But watching another prime-time US sitcom, attentively introduced to me by channel 4 and its freeview counterparts. I realise that they still seem to be under the impression that the woman’s domain is innately social: Concerned predominately with fashion, feeling and feminine-ity, not femin-ism. And it’s the same old story isn’t it? The ditsy girl is rescued from a series of silly situations by the smarter sex. The thinking woman, then, is a fearsome and unfeminine thing to behold. I fear I too may have fallen into this trap and legitimized this false stereotype. As a result of my over exposure to popular film/television, I have allowed myself to slip into the same narrow categorization that these characters are subject to: I’m the ditsy one of course (though rescue is not in sight as yet). The disorganised one. And as my dad never tires of telling me the undatable one… through his incessant insistence upon calling me Bridget. But I’M NOT BRIDGET. She’s an outdated cliché. I no longer want to be the star of my own chauvinistic show because I understand that women are far more diverse than US cable contributors would have me believe. Women in the comic sphere have been confined to a strain of categorization not prevalent in any other outlet; if a woman is to be funny, she must lack complexity; she can either be pretty or witty, there is very little in-between.
So, not yet willing to conform to the conception that I’m 2014’s answer to Bridget Jones, I have re-assessed myself: I don’t deny that, perhaps I do possess Bridget-esque traits; I cannot hold my liquor (but god knows I’m trying), I’m often late, my general knowledge is limited and I do tend to say the wrong thing from time to time. But I will let these trivial minute details define me no longer. My name is Sarah and I’m a post-feminist; far too complex for clear classification. Occasionally you may be fortunate enough to find me horizontal on the dance floor, while on other occasions I will be pacing the national gallery, pouring over my favourite portraits or showing the boys how it’s done at the gym. We modern day females are creatures beyond common comprehension. But far too often do we allow one aspect of ourselves to define us in our entirety.
Specs can be found alternately carrying out complex psychological experiments and keeping up with her favourite family (apart from ours) the Kardashians. Snotty alternates wildlife photography, writing and long distance running with SATC marathons, drinking white wine and dancing on tables. Swilly is well on her way to a first in Geography whilst simultaneously upholding her longstanding reputation as the leader of our notorious gang. And the treasure troll intersperses days spent in the library, reading about Major and Thatcher, Plato and Aristotle with eclectic house music nights at Sub-89 and trips to Thailand.
So, I have pressed pause on my inclination to align myself with the dishevelled girls trapped inside the television. Because I would rather be an overtly chaotic and confused real person, than a 2 dimensional copy of a constructed and constricted caricature I saw once on a screen. We may be fun loving girls. But we are also free thinking girls, and we do not do ourselves justice by confining ourselves to the narrow categorizations imposed upon the characters we’ve been over exposed to.
Just a few fun loving, free thinking girls who know how to shake things up.