Salient

Fuck feminism. Fifty years ago, we women were expected to keep the house tidy, bake cookies, pop Valium, and vacuum. Now we have to work, think, and lift heavy things just to prove that we can. Girls, we’ve got this all wrong.

I’d give anything to be able to potter about the house all day, watching daytime soap operas and washing the occasional dish. I’d peer through my kitchen window at the neighbour’s house, see Madge peering back, and yell “Yooohooo, did you hear about Sally’s husband? Shocking!”

I’d curl up in a chair when the house was spotless, reading a pornographic novel about Tudor England. I’d sip gin all day, making sure I brushed away the stench of stale booze when I heard my husband pull into the drive. I’d have sex with the milkman, the plumber, and Madge. I’d pop out 10 children and I’d name them all after characters from The Bold and the Beautiful. The only reason I’d burn my bra would be if my husband didn’t like it.

This world is hard for the lazy, and I am definitely one of them. I spend my life avoiding exertion, and can’t understand these people who actually exercise for fun. I remember once waking up next to a boy who immediately sprung up and dressed for a morning run. I couldn’t get out of the house fast enough. Well, I could have, if I wasn’t so disgusted by running.

You see these sporty breeds running along the waterfront in uniform lycra, waving a smug hello at you and your ice-cream as they pass. I never wave back. Quite frankly, I can’t be bothered.

Me? I resent even having to get out of bed. I resent having to walk to the bus stop. I resent the idea that I have to work to survive. I resent having to do an assignment, when I’d rather just YouTube Louis Theroux documentaries. If I had it my way, I’d sit in bed all day, daydreaming about Harry Potter as David Tennant fed me chocolate.

I’ve always been a lazy girl. In kindergarten I got a certificate for going to sleep the fastest at nap time, and in primary school I spent most PE lessons hiding in the cloakroom. It runs in the family: I once stumbled across my mother’s 3rd form school report and was delighted to read that the PE teacher couldn’t comment, “as Elayne is yet to have turned up to a single PE lesson”.

I had Jehovah’s Witnesses at my door recently. I answered the door in my pyjamas, fag in hand, and listened politely as they gave me some beautifully illustrated pamphlets. “This looks nice”, I thought to myself as I studied a picture of children playing with woodland creatures underneath a rainbow. As I read on, I realised that it wasn’t for me. This brings me to my next point: self-deprivation. Why?

Why should I give up smoking? I like it! Why shouldn’t I have casual sex? I like it! Why shouldn’t I eat a block of chocolate whilst watching an entire season of Project Runway? I like it! Why can’t I have wine every night? I like it!

Like I said, we’ve got this all wrong. Back to the caves, I say, where we can lounge about in the sun all day, grunting at each other because we can’t be bothered talking. No rules, no morals, just a bunch of primates who know what life’s about.

We’re the only species on Earth who have been silly enough to make life difficult for ourselves. I envy the kitten that I live with—her sole purpose in life is to find the most comfortable place in our house to sleep. Her behaviour seems erratic to us humans, but only because she acts on impulse, doing whatever first pops into her head; “oooh, that shiny thing looks fun, I’ll play with that for a bit…oooh, is that edible?”

Let’s start a revolution. Let’s stop worrying about politics, grades, morals, and our own general well-being, and spend tomorrow just looking for the warmest spot in the house. Let’s make sure all of our favourite things are always at arm’s reach: cake, cigarettes and Harry Potter. Let’s call work and tell them we’re not coming in again. Let’s throw away our running shoes, and order pizza instead.

Oh no, wait, I can’t be bothered. And anyway, I’ve got an essay due.

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