 If I were a man, I would probably wish
I was a woman. That’s the conclusion
I’ve come to after listing all the (relatively
unappealing) consequences of being
reborn a man. I say ‘reborn’ because
otherwise I wouldn’t have the same insight
as I do from ‘the other side’.Not only do I now have a new and
often overlooked perspective on sexism
and how it shapers our expectations and
preconceptions of men, but I have come
to realise that if I were indeed a man, my
incredible good taste would probably make
me a gay man, and therefore subject to
all the prejudices that would entail. Of
course, this assumption in itself is riddled
with stereotypes, but the truth of the matter
is, as a woman, being a man just doesn’t
sound like much fun.
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To be fair, I asked a cross section
of my female friends to fill in the same
blank. What I found was a mix of serious
and not-so-serious recurring themes: a
fear of gendered financial expectations,
suppressed fashion consciousness and
overall a bit of sympathy for the seemingly
dull and rigid world of men.
A friend of mine put it nicely when she
said, “I’m trying to think of what it would be
like, but the dude world just doesn’t interest
me, “While many of our initial reactions
were to think superficially of how boring life
would be without our ‘feminine rights’ to
look great and be fabulous, more serious
thought into the matter would seem to
suggest that us women actually feel like
we are more ‘liberated than men. In some
ways, we feel like we have more room to
think and do what we like.
And if that’s the case then we’re
obviously among the world’s more
privileged women. But as another friend
said, “I honestly can’t decide whether I’d
feel more privilege or pressure as a man.”
And so, without further ado, here are some
of the consequences of being a man, from
a woman’s point of view: the good, the bad
and the ugly.
- For a start, according to the statistics I’d have a lower life expectancy. Some people
say it’s about quality, not quantity, or in this
case length, but if I were a man apparently
length would matter so that would be a bit
of a let-down.
- I’d finally know what the phrase
“the way to a man’s heart is through his
stomach” feels like, or I’d be willing to give
it as many tries as it would take to find out.
- I’d force myself to apologise, stop and
ask for directions, and all those other things
that men are accused of never doing.
- I’d probably be a designer or decorator
just so I could have an outlet for colour
and style.
- My love for Michael Jackson and
Queen would take on a whole new
meaning without the nostalgic justification
of girly middle school dance parties.
- I’d probably wear a three-piece
pinstripe suit and wingtip shoes every
chance I got. Otherwise, I might risk
deteriorating from boredom.
- I think I’d wear Speedos for comfort
(not that I can be sure how they’d feel).
- I’d have to live with the fact that
everyone I know would be asking each
other behind my back whether or not I
was gay. But who cares – women would
love me.
- If I did actually care, I’d have to be
more overtly machismo and insensitive
than I really am just to assert my sexuality.
- I’d probably get far fewer hugs from my
male friends, except for when they were
drunk and even then it might still be a bit
awkward.
- It might be difficult to find other men to
talk about my feelings to, and I might
end up spending a lot of money on a
psychiatrist as a result of my pentup
emotions.
- It would be more acceptable for me to
be openly vulgar, and on some occasions
I would feel obliged to do so just so I could
be “one of the boys”.
- I could take my shirt off in public places
and not just for a swim.
- I could write on walls while urinating
(though I might still pee sitting down just to
avoid the whole toilet seat issue).
- The doctrine “size does matter” would
all of a sudden be relevant and I’d have
to get used to the unofficial sizing up that
goes on in public urinals.
- I’d have the opportunity to experiment
with every style of facial hair possible and
watch myself go through identity crises as
other people couldn’t decide whether I was
a trucker, porn star, bushman or lascivious
Italian.
- It would be more acceptable for me not
to shave my legs or armpits.
- I hope that I would remind myself and my male friends that a woman’s eyes are
not down her top.
- I’d probably buy drinks for strange
women and their friends just so they’d talk
to me, even if only for a second
- I might feel like I should be earning a lot
more money than I do now
- It would be difficult to find work if I
wanted to be a kindergarten teacher or a
midwife.
- But I could work construction or
mechanics without always having to
explain that I wasn’t making some kind of a
feminist statement.
- Even fewer men would hold the door
open for me, and fewer yet might stop to
help if I had a flat tyre
- I’d certainly be expected to do more
things like help people move, carry heavy
things, fix broken things and remove insect
and vermin infestations.
- I might be able to get out of things like
cooking and cleaning easier
- I’d inherently have more authority and
wouldn’t quite know what to do with it
- I’d either feel a little jealous of the fact
that I couldn’t deliver babies, or perhaps
relieved that I would never have to go
through childbirth.
- I’d be “too much of a nice guy” and be
single most of my life.
- I’d be forced to pioneer a serious men’s
right movement
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