I’m having one of those dispiriting days where the sheer impossibility of getting anywhere at anything has induced a kind of numbness in my mind. This time, it’s the absolute, total, all-consuming power of the patriarchy (hey, nothing new there, then) that is beating me down.

It’s everywhere – yesterday I picked up a newspaper to fill in a bored lunchtime, and I could barely read it for irritation at the endless stories that just emphasised again and again how deeply we are into this thing.

I’ve given up watching TV these days, and even the radio (I only listen to the BBC because at least they are advert-free) winds me up more and more these days. This morning, for example, it was time to celebrate 60 years of the bikini. Cue “jovial” analysis by the (male) presenter of questions about stretchmarks after childbirth, the decreasing appropriateness of a bikini with the increasing age or size of the wearer, and whether fat people should ever be allowed to take their clothes off in public. Ick, ick, ick.

As a friend said today: once you’ve seen it, you just can’t un-see it.

I’d rather be able to see it than not, but sadly that doesn’t change the fact that I am impotent to do anything about it. I can only rage and despair pointlessly into the ether.

********************************

In other news, men have hormones too. (Who knew?)

I’ve just spent a cheering half an hour or so cruising body-building sites. The men on there are hideously plastic, unattractive and objectified. Aah, refreshing. If only they were pornified and subjugated too, we’d really be seeing some equality.

More to the point, bodybuilders are worried about their hormones. Specifically, the effect on hormone levels of taking anabolic steroids. In case you either (1) give a damn about this or (2) don’t believe I could possibly have spent any time reading articles about the effect of steroids on pore little bodybuilder boys, here are some links: one, two, three.

Anyway, it turns out that even men get kind of tetchy when their hormones are out of wonk. Yet nobody looks at a rampant road-rage nutter with a patronising smile and says: “That time of the month, is it, dear?”

Advertisements