Posted in #everydaysexism, exercise, feminist, fitness

Scrotes (Or Committing the Crime of Exercising in Public Whilst Being Female and Plump)

I think one of the major curses of trying to improve your fitness when you’re not in the first flush of youth, you have the audacity to possess female secondary sexual characteristics in a public place *and* you aren’t Jennifer Aniston is that every pillock has an opinion.

The people who love you are “Yay! Go for it! Good for you!”.

However the rest are, I regret to say, a bunch of cosmic wank hats.

Today, when I was out for the first run I have done in many a year (doing walk/run intervals – 2.98 km, go me!), some “yoof” who appeared to be trying to impress a teenage girl, starting giving it “Run, Forest, Run”, “You’re meant to be RUNNING” – Me “Er, no I’m not, it’s called interval training for a reason”, “Your arse is wobbling and so are your tits!” etc.

Startling, I say, startling powers of observation there, mate. Also I hope your harassment of a random woman in sportswear, whose face is so red that she resembles a match, alerts your young friend to the fact that you are a complete douche canoe, and that she kicks you, unceremoniously, to the kerb.

So here is my retort.

Firstly, fat shaming is so effective at making people lose weight….er, no, it’s not. (There’s sound on the article so switch off if at work)

Secondary, being 40-odd, rather overweight, and currently built like a busty prop forward, I’d be bloody worried if those areas didn’t wobble. On account of them being areas on the female body where fat is stored and because it would mean that I had become a slim bloke since leaving the house, and that, for me, as a cisgender woman, would be just weird. Either that, or I’d mutated into a gazelle.

I think we can all agree that that’s kind of unlikely.

Thirdly, I’m seriously pleased with myself, because I went out for a run and did not expire.

Fourthly, I’m seriously pleased because none of my broken bits are playing up.

Fifthly, I’m doing this because I don’t want my heart to explode, my bones to crumble to dust and maybe, just maybe, I might be able to wear dresses with an actual waist band again  at some point. You know, so I can hopefully have an existence free from being riven with pain, and potentially, free from premature death. That harshes one’s buzz somewhat.

Sixthly, I reserve the right to wobble, jiggle, ripple and even (if I’m in the fettle) undulate, where ever and when ever I bloody well like.

Seventhly, I possess a mirror and clothes therefore I possess enough self awareness to realise that I don’t look like Jessica Ennis.

Once upon a time this would have put me off, now it’s a challenge 🙂

Posted in #everydaysexism, feminist, stuffbyme

Dear Sexist Child (A response to getting sexually harassed while minding my own ******* business taking my kid out for a walk)

Never has writing something in rhyming couplets been so therapeutic….

Dear Sexist Child
A mum, a child, a sunny day
Met some youths along the way,
While walking in the local park,
And it wasn’t even dark.
First, there came a piercing whistle
(A finger raised up in dismissal)
When with unfettered erudition,
One made the mum a proposition.

The much maligned young Casanova
Yelled from a place that’s quite far over,
“You’ve got one kid, do you want another?”
“Give that poor dear boy a brother.”
“You know you wants it, yes you do”
“I’ll even loan my special goo”
And next he offered explorations
Illegal in a host of nations.

The mum did think, “perhaps I’ll dodge
that close encounter with your splodge,
Plus shouting filth behind a hillock
gives proof you are a total pillock.
I will not fear, upon my life
A fool too young to buy a knife,
Some youth today are running wild,
You grim and rotten sexist child.”

The angry mum kept walking up,
To find a shirtless callow pup,
Say “He really fancies you, you see”
“So this should make my loins go “SQUEE”??
Thought mum, while praying to herself,
That spunky boy stays on the shelf,
Or least by order of this sweet lament,
Is grounded until retirement.

And so I end this sorry tale,
Of youthful misadventures (male),
I’d rather bite the cyanide tooth,
Than take up with a sexist youth,
You did not win, you sorry soul,
My peace you broke upon that stroll.
This mum can now take all her solace,
Because she called the Edgar Wallace.