I can't decide whether to be slightly alarmed by this result, or to be proud of the fact that I'm not conforming to gender stereotypes. I'm leaning towards the latter; while I don't belong to the "life is too short to stuff a mushroom" or the "all men are morons" schools of feminism (I like canapes and my male friends far too much for either philosophy to stick), I'm hardly a card carrying member of the girly girls club either. Far from it, in fact.
Mainly I'm curious as to how the analysis works. Which topics are on the "girly" list? Would I have to be writing about shoes, beauty products and the many, many failings of men before anyone noticed the distinct lack of y chromosones around these parts? Or would a softer, less obvious choice of topics work - puppies, maybe? Recipes for cake? Perhaps all I need to do to shift the balance is keep my insightful opinions about Formula One and other major sporting events close to my chest?
The irony* is, I have just spent the afternoon engaged in an uncharacteristic flurry of toe-curlingly stereotypical, "girly" activities. In a blatant attempt to CONTROL THE INTERNET, I am going to tell you about them. They included some or all of the following:
Painting my toenails for an unprecedented second time in one month. Or, now I think about it, year. Possibly even life-time.
Washing my hair, not once, but twice; the second after an unfortunate, sit-com style mix up between a container of leave-in hair conditioner and a remarkably similar looking container of foot deodorising spray (note: sit-com style mix ups are a lot less funny in real life)
Having a major wardrobe crisis, which is still not over. (This is a crisis of the "Why don't I have anything to wear? WHY WHY WHY?" variety, not the Janet Jackson one, although given one of the dresses on my short-list, the latter is a distinct possibility. Watch this space.).
Discovering a tube of "eye-repositioning cream" in my bathroom. I have no idea what this is, what I am meant to do with it, or where it came from. I also can't help thinking: is this how Picasso got started? (If I was a (stereotypical) man, surely I would have applied this cream with reckless abandon, enjoying the adrenelin rush which came with not quite knowing whether my eyes were going to end up near my knees or down around my ankles. I did not; instead I put it carefully back in the cupboard.)
Applying one of those face masks which, if you are starring in a romantic comedy and wearing a white bathrobe makes you look endearingly sweet and kooky, but which in real life makes you look like a sea-monster. Even with the white bathrobe. This particular mask was one of the ones which once dried has to be peeled off in the style of a Scooby-Doo villain, magically removing, if the packet is to be believed, a layer of dead skin and all manner of pore-clogging goop in the process. Resisting the urge to mutter "I would have gotten away with it if it wasn't for you medling kids" as I removed it remains my crowning achievement of the day.
I could go on. But I won't, mainly because I'm curious to find out how much difference this post has made to those percentages. Also, there is a particular reason for this afternoon of girlishness. And it's not just that I am looking for excuses to avoid sorting out my tax, although my toenails have been a handy distraction in that regard.
The truth is, I am off out somewhere. Am I going to tell you where, or who with? I am not.
We women need to maintain a sense of mystery once in a while.
*(I use the term irony with some caution, but given this scenario passes my mental litmus test, namely "does it feature in the lyrics of an Alanis Morissette song? If the answer is no then it's probably ironic", I think I'm OK.)
---Update---- : It still thinks I'm a man, but percentage maleness has dropped from 57% to 54%. Which is a start, I suppose. I'm off to curl my eye-lashes now.
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