This afternoon I decided I should write something pro woman and this is the best I could come up with.

I ended up calling in sick because I had a headache that made me feel like I slept with my head under an anvil and woke up with all the signs that my body needed to be horizontal for a few extra hours – sore throat, achey muscles and a general lethargy. So I stayed home, slept in and found myself on the couch watching Practical Magic.

I’d never seen the full movie before, and I of course loved it.

As a movie about strong, powerful women it was a fitting choice for the International Women’s Day. It had all the great things about the feminine state of being – strength in sisterhood, midnight margarita seshes, a general inclination towards chocolate, shitloads of candles, flowers and being fabulous in the face of not just haters, but she-man-woman-haters. It also had a few of the really shit things that come with being one of the womanfolk – slut shaming, domestic abuse and judgemental glares from a bullshit society.

Movies like this tend to give you a pretty empowering perspective on the condition of having a uterus, and that being able to produce life isn’t something to be ashamed about. After watching a movie like that, your head is clouded with the notion of how fierce and fabulous females can be, and the power that comes with not being laden with a dick and balls.

And yet still us magnetic forces of fantastic can still sometimes be made to feel like nothing but a walking sheath for the pork swords of the world. There are still times when we’re made to feel inferior – either consciously or subconsciously. Still, the simple notion that we’re just as good as the menfolk is distorted.

And that shits me to tears.

I’m reminded of the truthfulness of that advice urging us to carry ourselves with the confidence of a mediocre white dude. 

Maybe we (“we” being “women”, but I don’t mean to speak for all womankind – I’m writing from a first person perspective but using inclusive terms to give me the authority I like to delude myself that I have. However, if you do identify with my sentiments, by all means consider yourself as part of my “we”) find it difficult to think of ourselves as top shit. Maybe we tend to have a more realistic self esteem because there’s something about holding a urine-soaked tampon string in a particular way so you don’t accidentally  poo on it that makes you realise that you might not be the most important thing on the planet.

There’s something, shall I say, humbling about the female existence that gives us no illusions about the graphic, and at times revolting nature of the human experience. It’s easier for men to have idealised notions and consider themselves as gods, because they don’t personally encounter as many occurrences that remind them that humankind is just another filthy breed of animal.

Feminitiy is great and all – like don’t get me wrong, I do love the free and breezy skirt option on a hot day – but it is hard to boast romantic notions about the divinity of human life when you’re the wiping mucusy scraps of your uterine wall out of your arse crack. Those kinds of things remind you that life is messy. Life isn’t poetry. 

Life cannot be like Kerouac’s On The Road, nor can it be summed up in the egocentric ramblings of a rich, white Holden Caulfield. We can’t constantly maintain romantic fantasies about the despairing beauty or beautiful despair of life or whatever wankery you choose, because eventually you’re going to have to pull that tamp. And no matter how wide your vocabulary nor how deep of a thinker you may be, you can’t twist yanking a cotton wad soaked with meaty bodily fluids into that flowery fuckery of that kind of a narrative.

Peeing against a tree can be whimsical and can be done with whisky in hand – particularly if you’re a sensitive protagonist with a heart of gold. But squatting over the dirt with urine splashing back at your bottom and the warm puddle dangerously nearing your open-toed sandals is somewhat less romantic.

Hey, there’s nothing wrong with not thinking of yourself as a god. In fact, I reckon most psychologists would recommend it. It really can’t be too healthy for the old mind. But when a bunch of other bastards walk around with an inflated sense of entitlement, it makes things difficult.

And, look, I don’t have the answers here. But it is nice to feel powerful. And maybe I’m rambling because I’m feeling pretty lightheaded, but I think there’s something quietly powerful about not being repulsed by the flesh and blood of life. 

While there are a few filthy things about being a female, there’s a shitload of good things about it: that whole sisterhood thing, midnight margaritas, the chocolate, the candles, the flowers and being fabulous in the face of haters.

So I’m watching Practical Magic for the second time today. And making pancakes.

(But I’m making banana oat pancakes. Because while being female is fabulous, I imagine it would be slightly more fabulous if I looked like a young Sandra Bullock in those denim shorts.)