The lovely Monika tagged me on this:
Have you ever wanted something that is considered ‘manly’ ? Like a basketball, a cell phone, a dog, a camera or a new laptop? A new car or motor bike? Ever wanted to be a pilot? A doctor or not a nurse? And the manliest want of them all – The remote!
As a kid did you enjoy playing with a bat and a ball?
There was a time when books were considered ‘manly’, women authors had to pretend to be men – would you say books are still rather manly – women should want to embroider and crochet?
I have always been a girly girl. Damn it, even today, my nickname on the www, generously given by the bloggy world is Milady. But once, for a very short while I was not a girly girl. I was a tomboy. When I was young. Blame it on my father. He insisted I have my hair cut short. In a boy crop. I wore pants and shorts and tshirts. I was the son he never had. And the fact that I was the reduction zerox of him played no mean role in his fixation with getting me to masquerade as a boy. I was too young to realise I needed to protest. I played with the boys. I prefered hanging out with the boys to playing doll and dress up with the girls. And I was one of the boys.
The father expired. I was nine. And the hair grew. And I began menstruating. Yup, I started at nine. Partly the reason why I stopped growing in height too, I reached this height minus an inch or so by the time I was nine, and then, full stop. The mother was reluctant, naturally, to have me think of myself as part of the boys then. Especially since I was a girl, and a latchkey child. I was gently steered towards girly things. Like dresses. And make up. And I began sprouting breasts and filling out. I was a little lady.
But I got into college and started one non lady like habit. I began swearing. The F word was my favourite. I was careful to not use it in front of the mother, but my mouth was a gutter. Until I cleaned up my act in the last year of college. Now I dont use any bad language. I dont need the shock value it gave me anymore.
I also wear jeans. Every single day of the week. And my uniform is blue jeans and a black tshirt.
I dont watch television, despite us having three sets in the home, but if I do, then the remote to the one in our bedroom must be in my hand.
I detest kitchen work, cleaning up and housekeeping. I am officially the world’s worst cook.
Like all men, I am a major whiner when I am ill. I sniffle. I moan. I groan. I make sure everyone in the immediate vicinity knows I am ill. And demand sympathy. I make a simple fever a cause for a national holiday.
I am great at delegating stuff and not doing anything myself.
Other man things I am guilty of? Making a mess of my cupboard. Leaving the bathroom in a mess. And some more I cant think of.
But in most matters I’m a dyed in the wool old fashioned gal. I like doors opened to me, me getting right of way, oldfashioned chivalry and courtesy, I like my nails manicured and my lipstick on, and my heels high. I like being soft spoken and I like to have a good cry while watching some movies.
But yes, I can eat any man under the table. That is the most manly thing I can do.