Friday, June 16, 2006

I Knew There Was A Reason....

that I could never bring myself to even pick up a copy of "Bridget Jones' Diary". Some small voice nagged away at my subconscious saying don't do it, don't read even one word, it will drive you insane with anger... I should have payed closer attention to that small voice because yesterday a bit of BJ (how appropriate) snuck into my eyeline and I accidentally read Fielding's column in the Independent. You just know what's coming don't you? Well, get ready for it.

Having had her baby boy, Bridget's perineum is being sewn up after her tear/episiotomy. The doctor asks Bridget's boyfriend if he would prefer a 16 or a 17 (it may even have been an 18, I cannot bring myself to re-read the passage) Boyfriend Daniel opts for 14. I can only assume that this refers to the tightness of Bridget's vagina as it might have been at various ages. I am reeling in shock.

Is it ironic? Am I not understanding something? Is this post-feminism? An allusion to the designer vagina or the possible aesthetic value of the pubescent cunt? I cannot find this funny. Or clever. I find that I have been right to avoid the books; if this is a representative section then clearly there is nothing in them worth reading. I can only hope that I have seriously misunderstood the passage and it is actually a discussion about dress size or penis length.

UPDATE: I have checked the actual wording in Thursday's Independent. here is the sentence in it's entirity:

There was some disgusting stitching to be done, and distinctly heard doctor say, "Ok, Daniel, what's it to be - 16-year-old or 17-year-old?", to which Daniel replied, excitedly, "Could you make it 14? Thank-you Doctor!". Humph.

I thought so. I absolutely despair. How any woman can read this and not feel revulsion is beyond me.

Wednesday, June 14, 2006

I Am Left to My Own Devices!

I had my last therapy session yesterday. I have wept copious tears in preparation for our parting and I wept more last night and this morning. I have been seeing my amazing therapist for a few years; each time I got up the nerve to go it alone something traumatic happened and I crashed, needing more time. Well, this time I am making the leap out into the open world no matter what happens. We have worked together for ages, getting me equipped with coping strategies and ridding me of my depression demons and for that I am more grateful to her than anyone could imagine. But now I have to test my mettle, or I will never test it at all.

So now I am free-falling into my own space and hoping that my landing is a safe one. My feminism will sustain me. I hope.