Charlotte Howells, editor of Nollie (extreme sports for girls) and Kiss & Makeup (cosmetics) has committed to flouting social taboos for our amusement. This week she entirely fails...
Here’s the part where I’m supposed to try something that women ‘shouldn’t’ do. Something that is usually reserved for the male of the species, and by doing it, I’d be breaking down a huge stereotypical brick wall. This week, I decided to try one of the most gentlemanly male pursuits – the ceremonial rearranging of their meat and two veg. Obviously I don’t have all the correct equipment, but I could still scratch that imaginary itch - right?
But here’s the problem. I just couldn’t do it.
It seems playing with our genitals in public isn’t just a stereotypical gender divide, for me at least, it’s a full on mental and physical block. While I had no problems fiddling with my bra and indiscreetly rearranging my top half, when it came to sticking my hands down my pants in full view of four of my new house mates, I just couldn’t go there.
Frustrated with myself, I retreated to my room to attempt a test run. I managed a brief reshuffle of my underwear, but nothing on the scale of the five minute fondle most blokes seem to enjoy. On my second attempt out in the open, as far as I got was feebly touching my belt. It’s pretty pathetic, but then I guess there’s just nothing in my trousers that I want to touch all the time. When you think about it, all that scratching and poking and rearranging is really just another way to remind you that there’s something in there. It’s one stop short of placing a giant red arrow with the words ‘check me out, I have a DICK y’all’ inscribed on it.
Yet when I considered exactly why I was a genital fondling failure, I realised it wasn’t social conditioning that stopped me from reaching down, nor that I didn’t have a penis to be proud of – there was nothing that held me back from doing it just because I was female - but rather I was too concerned about what other people would think of me.
I honestly didn’t expect to learn anything from this non-experiment, but I did, and it’s that maybe we should all just care a little bit less. So what if word goes round that you shoved your hands in your pants one time. Would it really matter? If we so want to rearrange our underwear or do something similarly ungainly and unfeminine in public, maybe we should.
