Caitlin Moran - More Than a Woman

For Sal, Loz, and NadiaTeam Tits. The wind beneath

my bingo wings. Except bingo wings dont exist.

See .

I AM IN THE SPARE ROOM, WHICH DOUBLES AS MY OFFICE, AND I HAVE just finished my days work. Typing the last full stop with a flourish, I light a cigarette, and lean back in my chair. Today is the day I finished writing How to Be a Woman, and I am exhaustedbut jubilant. Like a salmon thats just spawned a super-chunky hardback through its mental vent.

I have tried to put every conceivable female wisdom into a single, 220-page volumespanning the entirety of a straight, white, working-class womans experience in a mere 89,000 words. I have thoroughly chronicled the most difficult years of a womans life: thirteen to thirty. The painful years of constructing yourself. The messy, panicky, scared, brave years, where you have to inventand then reinventyourself, over and over, until you finally find peace in the bones youre in.

Those are the dark decades, I muse. Thank God that once a woman gets to thirty, she knows the worst bit is over! She is strong in herself, and ready to enjoy the next epoch. I am ready to enjoy the next epoch! This is the beginning of my true, real, great liferight now!

By way of celebration, I try to blow a smoke ring. I fail. Oh wellplenty of time to practice in the coming, empty weeks! Now Ive achieved perfection! Im going to have time for all kinds of amazing hobbies!

There is a small commotion behind me.

Oh my GODpress save! Youre making me anxious. Why would you finish a document and not press save? Do you not remember how much work youve lost over the years?

I turn aroundand there, sitting on the bed, is what I would describe as an elderly woman in a leopard-print coat, with messy hair, regarding me with a sigh. I stare.

Nanna? I say, eventually.

For it appears to bemy nan. But wearing Doc Martens boots. My Doc Martens boots. Why is my dead grandmother here, dressed like an aging indie kid? Is her ghost having a breakdown in Heaven? Whoever she is, she seems preternaturally peeved by my reaction.

Nanna? Nanna? You cheeky cowits me. You. Im you. From the future. Nanna? Jesus Christ, Im only forty-fucking-four.

I look again. Oh Godit is me. Mebut much more grays Future Me is looking at me like shes expecting me to freak outbut, obviously, Im not going to give her the satisfaction. Weve all seen all the Back to the Futures. We all know how this stuff works. Im going to act cool.

Oh, yeah, I shrug. You are me. From the future. Sweet. Fag?

I offer her a cigarette, politely.

No, she says, primly. Ive given up. Its so bad for you, and it really starts hurting once you get to thirty-eight. Its a disgusting habit.

Suit yourself.

I drag on my fag. She hesitates for a minuteand then reaches over for the packet.

I still have the odd one here or there, though. At parties. They dont count.

She lights it up. We both exhale together.

So, I say, looking at her. Yeahit does look like me. Her hairs shorter. Shes got two gray streaks in it. Her adult acne, I note, is still presentsuggesting the new serum I bought only the other week is a fucking liar. And her noseher nose seems bigger than my nose. How has that happened?

It keeps growing all your life, we say, in synchronization. And then, still in sync: Like Granddads.

We both sigh.

So, I presume youre here because of some cataclysmic future event, which youve come to warn me of? I say, casually, pressing save, in case losing this document is the future cataclysmic event. If it is, this is the worst Terminator-inspired plot ever. Its all backed up on my external hard drive, for a start.

No, not really, she says. Im here for a laugh.

What?

Well, things are a bit... lively, in 2020, and I could do with a lighthearted giggle, so Ive come to bask in a more... innocent me.

She reclines on the bed. Theres an odd cracking sound.

Thats my back, she says, still prone. Well, my back and my pelvis. You wont believe what happens to them as you get into your forties.

What have you done to my back?! I ask. I need that!

Oh, the backs nothing, she says, sitting up again with a series of ooof sounds. Look at this.

She points to her neck. Theres something hanging off it.

A wattle. Our wattle. Touch it.

I tentatively wobble the stalactite of loose skin, like a turkeys neck, with my finger. It keeps swaying for a good ten seconds after I finish. I wince. She tuts at me.

Ive grown to kind of love it, to be honest, she says. I wobble it on difficult days. Its like an enjoyable stress toy.

Now Im near her, I look at her more closely. Yes, she has a wattle, and seems programmed to endlessly complainbut she still looks pretty fresh and cheerful. Why?

Botox, mate, she says, reclining again. SorryIm just going to stay here for a bit. I am knackered.

Botox! You have Botox! Butyou cant! Its not feminist! Ive just written a whole chapter on why its a betrayal of every value I have!

I gesture to my laptop.

Yeah, she says, dragging on her fag. Thats one of the reasons Ive come back for a laugh. Its really funny, she says, beginning to giggle. Its really funny how you think youve got everything figured out. You thinkand here, she becomes hystericalyou think youve done the hard bit, dont you? Youre thirty-four, with two small kids and you thinkHAAAAA!that you know everything.

By now, shes coughing and wheezing. I can see why shes tried to cut down on the fagsher lungs sound like bagpipes.

Well, I kind of think I do, I say, briskly. Let me remind youI have just gone through adolescence and my twenties, beset by bullshit on all sides, which I have nobly battled, and eventually triumphed over. Periods, pubic hair, masturbation, losing my virginity, battling an eating disorder, discovering feminism, living through an abusive relationship, shunning an expensive wedding, taking Ecstasy, having an incredibly painful first birth, and a perfect second one. Ive had an abortion, Ive been to a sex club with Lady Gaga, discovered what true love is, confronted sexism, worked out my position on pornography, raised my children into strong and capable people, and, finally, found some jeans that fitWhistles Barrel Leg, fifty-nine pounds. Im thirty-four, and I know that all the statistics say that thisthis is about to be the best period of my life. Not an actual period period. No. An era. Im about to enter the Era of Supremacy, because I am a grown-ass feminist woman whos worked out all my shit and is mere weeks away from my proper life beginning: one where I will be confident and elegantlike Gillian Anderson in everythingat the height of my attractiveness, with a capsule wardrobe, and probably going on walking holidays where I do emotional oil paintings of the best fells Ive scaled.

She stares at me.

Ive done all the hard stuff, I reiterate. I know how to be a woman. This is where it all gets good.

Theres a pauseand then she comes over and hugs me.

Mate, she says, with impossible tenderness. Mate, mate, mate.

What? I say, face muffled in her bosom. Shes wearing a cashmere jumper. Things cant be that bad in the future! Cashmere is a luxury fabric! In the future, am Iam I a millionaire?

No. Thirty-nine pounds ninety-nine, Uniqlo, she says, still crushing my face into her tits. Look. Its great youre optimistic. I