Feminist. I’m not one.
I’ll confess before I begin that I haven’t spent any time reading feminist literature or burning my bra (the conflagration that would result from setting fire to that much material would probably take out most of the street).
I’m grateful for the right to vote. Is grateful the right word? Let me qualify that. I’m not grateful for the right to vote, I’m grateful that women fought for my right to vote to be recognised. I believe that all women should have the right to be and do everything they want, without the necessity of seeking the permission of a father, husband or guardian. But…
…I still want to be treated like a ‘lady’. I still like it when a gentleman holds a door open for me, or waits until I sit before he does so himself, or (rarely, these days) walks on the outside of the pavement. I like to be complimented, I like to make an effort to look good for a guy and for it to be noticed (but, I’m sorry, I can’t be ‘girly’. I can’t giggle, I can’t get away with wearing pastel colours and I really, really can’t agree with everything a man says whilst gazing adoringly up at him like a puppy).
Can I feel this way and still call myself a feminist? I think not.
But I am all woman.