Swimming And into the ocean I go to lose my mind and find my soul poster
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Swimming And into the ocean I go to lose my mind and find my soul poster
Her vocation is to rid the world of germs with the aid of a knight in shining armour, a genie in a bottle, a white tornado. This is housework as heroic exploit. The houseworker can only know that she has done her duty when she has squirted bleach-based agents into every nook and cranny of her house, even down the drains. Houses no longer smell of cooking; they smell of cleaning. Yet kitchens are not operating theatres and antisepsis in kitchens is as undesirable as it is impossible, because it can only be achieved by huge overuse of powerful chemicals. Millennial food preparation takes less time than the old methods; the time spent getting food on and off the table has shrunk by a third, but it must not be thought the houseworker has more leisure time as a result. Housework expands to fill the time available. Time not spent doing one task will be taken up by another. Washing used to be done on a single day of the week, usually Monday. When washing machines became cheap enough to be owned by the majority, washing came gradually to be done on any day of the week, and then on every day of the week. Laundry is nowadays done several times a day. Television commercials show beaming women snatching a single soiled garment from the back of husband or child, and producing it blazing clean minutes later, having been through the whole washing and drying process aided by a horde of sophisticated bio-digesters, enzymes and whitening agents as well as immense amounts of power and water, all squandered on a single garment. Kids won’t wear their jeans and T-shirts for more than a few hours each before into the machine they go. Swimming And into the ocean I go to lose my mind and find my soul poster
The person who does all this work is usually female. Advertisers and market researchers who tried to buck the stereotype and show men spraying Harpic under the rim of the toilet very soon realised their mistake. Nowadays, it is always a woman who pops the meal in the microwave, whips off her apron, uncorks the wine, lights the candles and waits. There is no magazine called Man and Home. The 23 percent of men who will consent to cook when they have a woman in the house do so on special occasions with great song and dance, leaving the clearing up to be done by her. Men who clean and wash are presumed to have a wife in hospital. The few men who do a hand’s turn around the house expect gratitude and recognition, so sure are they that, though it is their dirt, it is not their job. Work around the house is as gendered as ever it was. Men have not agreed to do a share, let alone a fair share, of domestic work, because they have never agreed on the amount of work that needs to be done. It is difficult to know how they could, because most of the work done in the home does not need to be done. The men who leave ziggurats of dirty dishes festering in the sink are actually involved in a power play which they have no intention of losing. All they need to do is to exploit inertia, and wait it out. Sooner or later, the woman will give in, because the squalor is not held against the menfolk but against her. A man who is slovenly and untidy is considered normal; the woman who is, either a slut or a slommack or a sloven or a slag. The external attribute becomes a moral quality, as it does not for a man. This works both ways; a house-proud woman equates her spotless house with her virtuous self and derives her sense of self-worth from the orderliness of her cupboards, rather than qualities of her mind or soul. The only way to escape this tyranny of housework is to abandon the house. You can live with nomads or hunter-gatherers, maybe, or become a nun with nothing but a cell to distract you from the day-long excitement of prayer. Or maybe you can make a vow that no more than an hour in any day may be spent on housework—and keep it.
her arse is surely too big. What is pathological behaviour in a man is required of a woman. A bald man who wears a wig is a ridiculous figure; a bald woman who refuses to wear a wig is being stroppy and confrontational. Women with “too much” (i.E., any) body hair are expected to struggle daily with depilatories of all kinds in order to appear hairless. Scientists call abnormal preoccupation with a perceived defect in one’s appearance Body Dysmorphic Disorder, or BDD. Yet no one would say that the woman who puts herself through the agonising ordeal of hot-waxing her bikini-line must be suffering from BDD. Such insecurity has been instilled into women over generations; we have made not the least headway in the struggle to dispel it. Every issue of every woman’s magazine exploits women’s anxiety about “unwanted hair.” Even if you escape hairiness, you will fall foul of cellulite. When The Female Eunuch has written, “cellulite” was a French disease. The English word should by rights be “cellulitis,” but, as British pharmaceutical companies jumped on a bandwagon set off by sales campaigns for French products, they adopted the French word. Cellulite is subcutaneous fat, pure and simple. It keeps women warm and softens the contours of their bodies and, if it builds up, it often dimples. Whether or not your fat dimples is a matter of genetic endowment; some women have tight smooth fat and some women have softer fat, which droops and dimples, even on their knees, invariably on their bottoms. The characteristic orange-peel appearance can be seen even in the bottoms of babies who have not eaten chocolate, drunk coffee or alcohol or smoked, or committed any other of the sins that are punishable by cellulite. Once upon a time, men and women both admired dimply fat; it took 20th-century marketing to render it disgusting. Most of what is written about “globular fat cells,” “poor lymphatic drainage” and “toxins that have solidified” is cynical tosh.
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