Coffee milk over cocktails

ATTENDING a workshop over the weekend (shamelesly encouraging the side of me that writes fiction), I was surprised at the reaction of fellow scribes when they heard I wrote a weekly column.

“That’s so Sex And The City,” they sighed.

Oh yes, I rolled my eyes. I’m a size zero and spend my wage on cocktails and shoes.

I began realising how unlike a “columnist” (and I use the term loosely) I am.

I blow my wage on Cadbury and Jacaranda iced coffee (manufacturers of either that may be reading – feel free to pay back the plug I just gave you. Please.)

And the last pair of shoes I bought were winter boots.

Even then, it was only because my last pair had to be cut off one night when the zipper broke.

I’d tell you that I’m not very girly, but my “rough as guts” family may disagree. If you can’t swim in a muddy dam with a few eels, then you’re a bloody girl – or so I’ve been told.

So by this set of standards I am practically Sarah Jessica Parker (minus the hair volumne and dress sense).

But, you see, I grew up on a farm with two blokes (Dad and younger brother).

There were no lessons in make-up or hair and if clothes were clean, they were good to wear (and sometimes even if they weren’t).

Needless to say, when women start fussing like… well, like women do… I tend to think I’m missing a chromosome or two.

When this particular group of women writers started talking about me like I epitomised all things feminine just by writing a column, I got very nervous.

Would they suspect I had spent less time with Barbie as a child than I did throwing dirt rocks (they hurt less on impact than real ones. See, I can be gentle!) at my brother hidden somewhere in a cane field?

Or that I renovated my doll house into a mouse mansion with just a stanley knife?

I began to wonder if I was unworthy of column-writing.

If you’re a woman writing a column, is it meant to be some trend-setting saga that other women aspire to?

Would I be exposed as a fraud?

And then I thought: This would make an interesting column.

I mean, how many women are actually like Carrie Bradshaw anyway?

Even she would have a tough time remaining size six if she lived in Ipswich.

After all, those coffee milks are terribly addictive…

 

 

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