The crux of my feminist considerations are domestic-centric; even writing that sentence immediately puts me on the defensive, against the literary image that a woman's sphere was limited to the home . . . but in reality, I begin here only due to the simple human fact that 'home' is where I live; it is the forge of my life and relationship, and it's as good a place as any, from a personal perspective, to spark my internal negotiations.
A few years ago, when I was living in a flat alone in Bristol, it was very easy to be an independent woman. Things were clear cut, simple, almost black and white: I lived alone, I had a career I loved and then at weekends, I saw my boyfriend who lived in London and we each alternated travelling to see each other.
After three years of doing this, our relationship had progressed so we wanted to spend more time together, plus we were fed-up of the travelling back and forth late on a Sunday evening! Even though love and cutting down travelling-time are strong foundations for any move, I was determined that if I was going to move away from a city and a job I adored, I was going to move for a self-centric reason, namely a new career opportunity, which happened to bring me closer to my boyfriend but only by happy geographic coincidence. This was a condition I placed upon myself not because I was worried that our relationship would not survive close proximity (I didn't consider this as a possibility once), but because I did not want to be one of those women who uprooted themselves from everything they knew just for 'a man', albeit one I love immeasurably. I had spent two and a half years writing Disney Princess books and I was determined not to become one (unless it's Merida. Or Elsa.).
Moving in together is one thing, but learning to live together is quite another thing. Beyond the amusing arguments and situations which arose when we first moved in (how to time how we both get ready for work in the morning without sleepily bumping into each other whilst brushing our teeth, what time do we set the alarm in the morning, that the kitchen 'jar' shelf absolutely can't have peanut butter next to curry sauce or the rationale of keeping vases next to the teabags), we eventually got down to the nitty-gritty of life: when both of us were working long hours each day, who does what?
Actually, it ended being very easy, we split everything between us (and still do). My Dad told me that as time progressed, the 'little Utopia' we'd built would slowly subside without us realising, until the point came that I would find that, because sans a 'y' chromosome, I'd discover that the inevitably equilibrium would be settle with me doing all the housework. How is that fair, I snapped in repost, when Nick and I work equally hard, each at our careers, that for him at the moment he crosses the threshold, he can expect only to relax and unwind, but the moment I do the same action, I can only expect to clean and cook – all based upon traditional roles from years ago, when women also didn't work full-time. The change in society which has given the freedom for a woman to have a career should also be followed by a domestic change. Aren't Nick and I both adults, with equally responsibility within the place we both live? A wry smile crept across the faces of my audience, as if my views were naive and unachievable, they knew that now and it would be something I'd learn in time.
Traditionally, how a home was 'set-up', was based on the home of your parents, who teach you how to act in all things. I take much advice and many life lessons from my family, but when it comes to this, I can not – me being an independent woman is a running family joke (or rather loving tease). It has meant though (perhaps a consequence of the fact that I have stubbornly protested too much), that when I once mentioned that I ironed Nick's shirts, I doomed myself to never live this down. It is seen as a sign that I am 'softening' in my feminist views, as everyone predicted. Now every time I perform the necessary domestic chore of ironing, my brain imbues this action with a guilt; ironing has become a symbol that actually, I'm a traditional housewife, who has grown out of her youthful feminist follies and accepted who her she really is, whom her chromosomes and traditions dictate she must be .... Women always find their way to the sink, after all.
What it means to be a woman in 2015 is in flux for me, and from what I read on social media and in the press, it is the case for many different women. I suppose I'll have to forge my own unique role to fit with my own life, even if it feels against the tide at times. Fortunately, I have a co-pilot in life who is accepting and finding his way too, so I consider myself very lucky that we can do this together. Hopefully then, my answer to 'How to be a woman in 2015' is simply to be myself and do what works for me. The freedom of this choice to be yourself is what I believe to be the foundation of all types of equality – so for now, I'll run with this and see where it leads.
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