Tonight I’m feeling really grateful that my sense of self-worth is not limited to the legs I had when I was 20. I’m feeling sad for feminism, but grateful that when I’m 49 I will be unlikely to berate others for not wearing high heels or describe myself as “A Cinderella Princess from the kingdom of dreams.”
[This poorly articulated sentiment stems from drinking in an establishment where the clientele were mostly vying to be told they looked like they could be on TOWIE/Jersey Shore. Since we were the only women in jeans (and “Look! Cumfeee shoooos!”), it’s not that surprising that lots of women were equally horrified by us.
We went to another bar in the end, and discussed how grateful we were that our conversations weren’t limited to heel discomfort and the “the only men I pull when I dress up just want sex” dichotomy. We left the second bar shortly after we fished a girl’s hair extensions out of Andy’s pint.