It just got harder out here

Another day another so-called feminist putting back the movement 10 years.

Lily Allen making a comeback was not the worst news I'd heard all week. Sure, she's slightly annoying with her posturing lyrics and accent that conflict with her privileged lifestyle. Yawn. However, what I always did like about Lily Allen was that she wasn't afraid to be a little pudgy and to wear trainers and that she was successful despite her non-conformist attitude to the industry's idea of beauty. I admired her confidence, if not her music.

Once Lily started getting more media attention for her miscarriages than for her albums I began to feel increasingly bad for the fallen starlet. As women our worth is measured by the outside world by few, but tangible things: our beauty, or career choice and our ability to conceive and carry a pregnancy to term. Like it or not, this is a fact, and here Lily was failing, publicly at the one thing that we women are supposedly designed to do. I defy any woman, regardless of her attitude towards her own familial desires, to not feel a twinge of sadness and of inexplicable guilt upon hearing that a woman can't get pregnant. But Lily retreated from the public eye, opened a boutique and finally achieved her baby success. Not once, but twice. This was very happy news, not just for Lily and her fans, but for women everywhere.

Now that Lily is back in 2013 with her comeback single I was expecting more. I'm pleased that she aimed her new single at misogynistic idiots like my old buddy Robin Thicke, but she's gone about it in the wrong way. A woman who has been through what she has should know better. Writing lyrics about how she "don't need to shake my ass for you 'cause I've got a brain" while at the same time panning to the many scantily-clad twerking women in her video. She's created a hierarchical system within the confines of her own video. The women who are dancing around her aren't the same as her. Lily is saying she is better than them. Lily remains fully clothed (a la Thicke) and drops to the ground lazily as the other women drop and convulse and lick their fingers at Lily, because it is Lily who is writing their paychecks. They are performing for her, not with her. She is using them for her amusement, she is not part of their group. Lily pouring beer over the ass of one of her dancers while she laughs is just as offensive to me as if a man had done it. Objectification is objectification, it's not clever. And if you're a woman doing it to another woman, it's almost worse.

It's the same issue I had with Britney revisited. These women have the wrong idea. Show me your own body if you want to take a stand against objectification. Miley Cyrus may be a tit, but she's a tit willing to show us her own vag and not exploit someone else's.

I won't jump on the bandwagon and claim that Lily is racist. I don't see that. She just made a dumb assumption, as many others who haven't seen a music video post 2000 does. That only rap and R&B artists use women as props in videos and that only rap and R&B artists are black. But that's just not true and if anything it makes Lily look ignorant, but not racist. A woman who knows exactly how hard it is out there should have known better. She had a massive opportunity to produce thought-provoking, intelligent commentary about the industry which she has been a part of for a decade, but in order to sell records and cause controversy she took the easy option. What a shame.

As a final bone of contention the word "bitch" is repeated over 20 times in a video running just over 3 minutes. The result is that word being tossed around the screen like a grenade but no one running for cover. Who are these bitches that Lily insists are being hard done by? Well if her video is to be believed it is those who surround her. Those she motions to and laughs at, but not Lily herself. Just those she degrades with words, objects and costumes. I'd like to know how hard it ever was for Lily Allen out here, because something tells me that things just got a bit harder.

Mistress Maldives

The Maldives is the vacation equivalent to taking a Valium with a glass of red wine. You don’t need to think here. All the thinking is done for you. When to eat, what to drink, where to swim and even what your idea of romance is. If it isn’t a Jacuzzi-topped luxury suite, you’re fucked. This brainlessness attracts a certain type of customer (so many copies of Fifty Shades of Grey!) and that’s not to say that it’s wrong. These people must work very hard to be able to afford this place. They probably get very few holiday days in the year and want to spend them doing as little as possible, and if that’s your thing then yes, this is indeed paradise. It’s the seductive mistress of destinations. You know what you’re going to get with a mistress: Sparkling conversation, laughs, a few drinks and some hanky panky to finish the evening off. Winning.

But what if what you want is something unique and surprising with a few hidden tattoos and a sneaky Prince Albert? Well then, look elsewhere. The Malidves is all organized fun and crowds of people you hate but can’t escape. I am the luckiest person in the world to be able to enjoy this place with my very good friend whom I haven’t seen in ages. I’m having a great time, but if I were here with Steve I’d have drowned him by now.  Steve and I are nearly in our 9^th year of marriage and that’s not to say that we can’t have a good time in each other’s company, but both of us want more. We want to discover things and make places ours and one can’t do that here. Nothing is yours. It’s all manufactured to feel like it can be anyone’s. Nothing too specific or special. It’s one size fits most.

Being here with girlfriends is ideal for me. And I’m thankful for that, as this place couldn’t feel less romantic in my opinion. I’m flanked by honeymooners at all times and watching them has become a great way to pass the time, but I doubt I’d ever run into any of these people on any other of my travels and again, that’s ok. I’m not judging. I’m simply observing and it’s fascinating.

On Disco Night I was treated to what seemed to me to be a peek into these couple’s bedrooms. Some gyrated seductively, pressed into each other’s pelvises with urgency. They pretty quickly vacated back to their jacuzzi suites. Some flailed their arms and legs about with the rhythm of a frying egg. These were my favorite couples and I think they might be in it for the long haul. Then there were couples who’d been either married for ages, or married later in life. Hands in the air, giving no fucks, they danced until I was afraid some of them night vomit and a few probably did. I have yet to identify any gays on the island, which is sad for me, but I don’t really think I know any gay couples that I believe would enjoy it here. It’s way too straight and really, really white.

There are also a large amount of Cougars here. Older women with their toy boys strolling on the beach hand in hand like a living advertisement for online dating. There are pudgy German tourists hogging the sun loungers and not speaking to each other and there are families here too.  Older parents with their older children, young mummies with their toddling pink bundles and families who decided to put off Disneyland for one more year and whose restless 7-year-olds search for something to destroy.

After over 3 months in Sri Lanka, working 7-day weeks this is the perfect way for me to unwind. I have a beautiful room, lovely company and outstanding scenery. This place has been so good for me. It’s forced me to relax in a way no other destination ever has. Even swimming with sharks this morning I was all “what? A shark? No biggie.” And actually swam at it. I’m so relaxed I’m losing brain cells.

But to really enjoy a place to the point where I want to go back again and again I need to be able to get lost. I need to be able to find something new every day and know for sure that I haven’t seen it all yet and as incredible and beautiful as this place is, I feel like I’ve seen all there is to see and maybe I’m ready to go home.

Stuck in the middle with Foo

This morning I set out at 6:15am with Bernie and Sheella for some early morning snorkeling. Now I’d been snorkeling before in Thailand and found the whole experience unpleasant. Bobbing drowsily up and down on waves while often inhaling mouthfuls of salty, foamy liquid without even so much as a glimpse of a fish. The whole experience felt like one big awful oral encounter to me.

But the water here is like glass. It’s so clear and incredibly calm, so I thought I’d tag along. Bernie is an accomplished diver, so I felt safe enough. She generously gave me her mask and snorkel as she had goggles and flippers and is a great swimmer. I splash about a lot, but never really go anywhere. Anyway, what I saw this morning was mind-blowing. It was like the first time I’d been to the theatre or stood up by myself on ice skates. Something inside me sang and I felt totally peaceful and full of curiosity and hope. I know that sounds silly, but it’s how I felt.

I porpoised about in the water and followed the other girls fingers with my eyes and was continuously amazed. We saw blowfish, black and white clownfish, triggerfish, angelfish, sharks and loads and loads of Nimo’s Dory. This was all just outside of the villas. And we were the only ones on the beach. WHY?! Why aren’t there hundreds of people in the water?

From this first encounter I was hooked and Bernie signed me up to go out on the boat to the big reef a few hours later.  I was super-excited when I boarded the boat and took my seat next to a girl with candy floss hair. Our guide told us to stay seated until we reached the reef and proceeded to try and tell us about the types of fish we might see and how far out to swim. One of the other people, whose name I found out was Foo, stood up in the middle of our guide’s explanation and tried to get to the front of the boat. All of his friends started to laugh. The guide asked him to stay seated and he plopped down like an angry child, not in his seat, but at the feet of our guide. At this stage I realized that I was about to have no fun on this trip and most likely going to try and drown someone.

Our lovely guide proceeded to try and tell us more about the fish, but Foo wouldn’t shut the hell up and refused to keep his ass touching a surface, so our guide gave up. My heart broke a bit for him as he must have such an incredibly hard job and these jackasses couldn’t even be bothered to shut up for five minutes to listen to the advice, which of course could save their lives.

I was one of the first off the boat armed with Bernie’s underwater camera and a belly full of expectations. What I saw dwarfed any of my preconceptions. Coral for miles. All different kinds, colors, textures and I imagine from the way the fish were nibbling, flavors. There were red fish and blue fish and neon-finned fish and big lethargic fish and quick nimble fish. Fish that came at me for a closer look and fish that swam faster away form me than they would a predator. I was having such a nice, peaceful, meditative time under the water until CRASH!

The water exploded around me and dropped a curtain of bubbles and foam. The beautiful creatures I’d been observing all disappeared. I turned my own head to see Foo, having cannon balled into the sea now flailing around like an idiot, nearly drowning himself despite the life jacket that strained around his middle. My submerged head was just shy of his jerking limbs so I swam sideways to escape him. Then, one by one, in spite of our guide’s instruction to NOT jump into the sea under any circumstances; the bodies of Foo’s crew all cut through the water amidst a cacophony of screams. Even under the water I could hear them shouting, laughing and splashing. The fish had retreated.

I lifted my head long enough to locate them all and try to get as far away from them as possible, but they were fast. Swimming backwards, the current was sweeping them my way and none of them were paying a damn bit of attention the where they were going. A young German took a flipper to the mouth as I fled further out to avoid this circus of idiocy. From behind, our guide glided effortlessly and with incredible speed towards someone on the other side of the reef. Within seconds he had retrieved the bemused explorer, sputtering on a lifesaving raft.

All this calamity made me nervous and I couldn’t catch my breath. I managed to pull myself through the waves, thick like butterscotch but nowhere as sweet. I checked as I gulped down mouthfuls getting to the boat. I boarded the vessel, dropped off the camera, grabbed a life vest and got back onto the water. These fuckers were not going to ruin this for me. I placed the open vest under my belly and kicked far out to the other side of the reef and instantly regretted not taking the camera back out with me. There were whole new shades of blue and purple, red and green. All around me and all alive. I floated like that for a good fifteen minutes before Foo and his crew came and shat on my day again.

I got back on the boat, exasperated with the behavior in the water only to find some of Foo’s crew spraying each other with a water hose and paying no mind to other people’s belongings, which they were saturating. They pulled on the pathetic contents of their speedos and then promptly all picked their noses as if it were a choreographed routine. Cursing my luck at choosing the wrong boat I waited for our departure. Our lovely guide clambered back onto the boat after having to go and fetch another of Foo’s crew who’d gone too far astray.

At this juncture Foo approached our guide and thrust his camera too forcefully at the guide’s delicate chest. “You!” Foo exclaimed and then motioned for the guide to get back into the water. The adorable guide, clearly used to this kind of treatment dropped back into the crystal waves and proceeded to dive for the beautiful photos Foo was too inept to capture himself. He did this for over 30 minutes and when he finally reappeared he was greeted with a lukewarm “thanks”.

Foo stumbled clumsily over to candy floss hair and the rest of his gang who had now all re-boarded the boat. He scrolled through the photos excitedly, all the while stomping on my foot as he shifted his massive weight with the waves. I can safely say that I did not like Foo. His presence and the presence of his awful friends nearly ruined my experience, that is until the boat started up again and Foo fell over on his face. After that the world was a beautiful place again.

Lookin' Good!

Lucky me. I’m sitting here in what can only be described as paradise. Seriously this place looks photo shopped. I’m surrounded by the most stunningly beautiful beaches ever created, and lush greenery whose brilliance can’t even be captured on film. All the while the soft breeze being seductively coaxed from the immeasurably still waters is gently kissing my face. The pillow-soft mattress on my double bed in the sand has proved to be a reliable base from which to nap, work and observe. Though I could easily stare open-mouthed out to sea every day I’m also surrounded by other, more familiar scenery. That of women and men in their swimming gear.

All sizes and shapes are represented here: all colors; from the darkest purple black to the brightest magenta. This place is a human swatch that Dulux would be envious of. As I lay here still fresh in my whitish blueness I can’t help but wonder that if I’m watching them, who’s watching me?

I think most people know that I have an above average body confidence level. That’s not to say I expose my body and flaunt it, but I know how to dress for my shape and never apologize for the cellulite on my thighs. I have to admit I am pleased with the amount of other seemingly body confident women on this island. I think as women we spend far too much time telling other people how unhappy we are with our bodies, but really, we like them just fine and are happy to unpack our bodies once far out of the eye line of out nearest and dearest. Why is it not ok for us as women to tell other people, especially women that we like our bodies?

I remember very vividly being in Thailand with a friend and the conversation turned to what physical attributes about ourselves we would change. Now this is always an incredibly boring, and at times it would appear infuriating conversation to have with me because my answer has always been the same. “Nothing.” On this occasion my answer was met with an incredulous stare and garnered the response “Nothing?! Wooooow!”  Said with bite. Then she quickly gave me the once over and sighed in that overly-judgmental way people do when they don’t want to say anything mean, but not saying anything is always meaner. 

Now I’m no Samantha Brick. I’d never claim that I am incredibly attractive or that my physical appearance has won me loads of admirers and gifts. It hasn’t. But that’s not what real beauty is about to me. I don’t measure my attractiveness on anyone else’s scale but my own. And I’m doing just fine. As women we are always comparing ourselves to others or obsessing over a tiny imperfection that only we can see. I say we stop. You look good, girl. I look good. Let’s all look good together and stop coveting other’s noses and placing values on out appearances rather than our intellects. Why is it that if someone called you stupid it would hurt so much less than if he or she called you ugly? You’re not ugly, so why does that word always make women turn inwards on themselves? 

I recall a very long time ago when I was just 20 and in a fight with my friend’s boyfriend about the way he was treating her. He ran out of defenses so he decided to call me “ugly”. I just laughed in his face and said, “Come on, now. We both know that’s not true. You can do better.” I might as well have slapped him. He then said that it must be great to be me because no one could call me ugly. I told him that “people can say it all they like, but that doesn’t make it true”.

Ladies, it’s OK to admit that you like the way you look. You don’t need to qualify that statement with “but, I’d like to lose some weight.” Or, “I’d look better if…” That kind of shit is really boring. If you allow yourself the one little luxury of admitting you’re pretty you’ll feel good too. Life can be incredibly difficult and challenging. Why must we make it tougher by being so damn hard on ourselves? I had 12 pieces of bacon for breakfast, 2 waffles and champagne and I’m still sat here in my bikini. Guess what? I look pretty badass.