How to Be a Woman

How to Be a Woman

Caitlin Moran

Language: English

Pages: 400

ISBN: 0062564749

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub

How to Be a Woman

Caitlin Moran

Language: English

Pages: 400

ISBN: 0062564749

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


The New York Times bestseller—part manifesto, part memoir—that put a new face on feminism as it cut to the heart of issues with an irreverent, transcendent, and hilarious touch—now available in a limited Olive Edition.

“There are lots of things to love about Caitlin Moran’s How to Be a Woman….A glorious, timely stand against sexism so ingrained we barely even notice it. It is, in the dour language [Moran] militates so brilliantly against, a book that needed to be written.”—New York Times

Though they have the vote and the Pill and haven't been burned as witches since 1727, life isn't exactly a stroll down the catwalk for modern women. They are beset by uncertainties and questions: Why are they supposed to get Brazilians? Why do bras hurt? Why the incessant talk about babies? And do men secretly hate them?

Caitlin Moran interweaves provocative observations on women's lives with laugh-out-loud funny scenes from her own, from the riot of adolescence to her development as a writer, wife, and mother. With rapier wit, Moran slices right to the truth—whether it's about the workplace, strip clubs, love, fat, abortion, popular entertainment, or children—to jump-start a new conversation about feminism. With humor, insight, and verve, How to Be a Woman lays bare the reasons why female rights and empowerment are essential issues not only for women today but also for society itself.

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wear stilettos for a year. But whenever the mood takes a man to wear a dress, or a woman to go furry, there’s no reason why it shouldn’t be part of the range. There are some women out there who are just going to look better with a mustache: that’s statistics. There are a lot of armpits that will look better with a silky curl of fur than they do stripped, or plucked, depending on what outfit is being rocked at the time. A monobrow can be magnificent: my six-year-old—raised on pictures of Frida

do not think you shouldn’t be standing on that chair, shouting, “I AM A FEMINIST!” if you are a boy. A male feminist is one of the most glorious end-products of evolution. A male feminist should ABSOLUTELY be on the chair—so we ladies may all toast you, in champagne, before coveting your body wildly. And maybe get you to change that lightbulb, while you’re up there. We cannot do it ourselves. There is a big spiderweb on the socket. I was 15 when I first said, “I am a feminist.” Here I am in my

opportunity to work on my stand-up routines. Two years later, and I’m still going on about the dress. I’m twirling around in it like Scarlett O’Hara in her ballgown. “It was only 12 pounds!” I say guiltily. “Twelve pounds! Although it felt lovely to buy something new, I won’t need another dress for years now! I can dress it up and dress it down with accessories! It really will be value for the money. That’s my celebratory spending spree finished.” “You know,” Pete says, polishing off his 914th

reasonably fair person, who could always accessorize well with gloves”—while weeping. Now I know how birth works—now I’ve been talked through labor by that quiet-voiced woman—I feel I’ve finally been told what my task is. It’s simple—so simple I’m amazed I didn’t know it before. One morning I am going to wake up, and before I sleep again, I will have to tick off a long list of contractions, one by one. And when I get to the last one, I will have my girl. Each one of these will be a job in

time he pans the stream, and true love on the very day he decides he needs to settle down. “I can’t have you,” I tell him sadly. “The world will fall in if I have you.” Because not even for a second do I think I should have this baby. I have no dilemma, no terrible decision to make—because I know, with calm certainty, that I don’t want another child now, in the same way I know absolutely that I don’t want to go to India, or be blond, or fire a gun. This isn’t who I’m going to be, again:

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