‘Throwing like a girl’.

This morning I went to pull up the
bedroom blind and hesitated as I often do.  I have trouble getting the blind to retract without its
flapping all the way to the top and over such that it’s hard to retrieve the
cord the next time I need to pull down the blind.
            ‘Hold
onto the cord,’ my husband tells me repeatedly ‘that way it won’t run away from
you,’ but still I get it wrong. 
I lack coordination in such matters
no matter how hard I try.  It’s a
familiar feeling my distrust of any capacity when it comes to things
physical.  Too clumsy and uncoordinated.  
I’ve been reading Iris Marion Young’s essay ‘Throwing like a girl’ which seems to connect.  She writes about the way girls tend not to use their bodes in the same free and easy way their counterpart males do. 
My brothers used to laugh at me and
my sisters, the way we ran. 
Running like a girl/throwing like a girl are derisory expressions used
to reflect a certain discomfort women have with their bodies.  How are we taught these things?
I don’t remember anyone saying to
me that I should or should not use my whole body when throwing a ball but I
remember a pressure to keep my body out of the equation.  I always put it down to wanting to
remain invisible from my father but lately I’ve observed that other women also
feel some pressure to remain invisible even as women are also the ones most
likely to be looked at, the ones who feel great pressure to put their bodies on
display, especially the young women. 
‘Didn’t your mother teach you to
pull up blinds,’ my husband asks half joking.
‘No,’ I say.  ‘I only remember Venetian blinds.’
‘Posh,’ is my husband’s reply. 
I have never thought of Venetian
blinds as posh but I can see now they were when they first came into
existence.  Before we moved into
our new AV Jennings special – a triple fronted cream brick veneer on Warrigal
road in Cheltenham – we too had never seen the likes of Venetian blinds, but we
had no blinds ether as far as I can recall, only curtains.  So I did not get to practice the retraction of the cord. 
These blinds remind me of my
body.  Out of control.  I felt it last week after I side swiped
the car to which I had failed to give way. It was almost as if I was in a
dream.  I pulled to one side
slightly up onto the footpath and felt my foot trembling on the brake and for a
moment there I feared I could not even stop the car and I saw myself rolling
into several other cars that were parked in front of me in the car park.
I pulled myself together in time to
stop but the sensation was one I often have in dreams where I cannot stop no
matter how hard I try, though in dreams my sense more often is of getting into
reverse and not being able to get myself back into a forward motion.
These things come to me now as I
reflect on my clumsiness in all things physical.  My lack of physical strength relative to the boys and men in
my life.  I know men are believed
to be inherently stronger and often times are bigger but as Iris Marion Young
suggests women tend to underplay their own strength relative to their size.  We could be stronger she implies if only we could
convince ourselves it’s okay to be strong.   

Crash, bang and bingle.

Most times when I set off in my car
I contemplate the possibility of an accident.  It’s standard for me, a typical thought – today might be
the day on which I crash. 
In the thirty years plus that I
have been driving I have endured a number of bingles.  And yesterday’s was no exception, a bingle and worst of all it
was my fault. 
I took a short cut through a few
narrow streets around the corner from my house as I routinely do, my thoughts
ahead of myself.  I did not notice
the car on my right as I turned left. 
The damage to both cars was minimal
but enough to make an insurance claim, on my policy of course.  It was my fault.  The fellow into whose car I had
collided established that fast.  No
sooner was he out of his car than he asked a woman standing nearby to be his
witness. 
My hands shook as I filled out the
details on a sheet of paper he provided. 
He was unshaken it seemed to me and when I asked if he had insurance he
said yes, but did not know with whom. 
‘The wife takes care of that
stuff.’ 
Perhaps that’s why he was
unshaken.  The wife might be the
one to get annoyed about the damage to the car.  The wife might be annoyed that some stupid woman wasn’t
looking where she was going and the wife might then have to deal with the
inconvenience of getting the car fixed.  
At least she won’t have to pay.  Small consolation. 
Am I trying to shift the blame here
by noticing this? 
I’ve been in both positions,
bingles that have been my fault and bingles that were not.  In any case the worst of it, besides
paying the excess and watching my annual premiums go up, is the inconvenience
of having to get the car off for repairs and doing without a car for however
many days it takes.  
The worst of it for me is the sheer
humiliation.  The sense of being a
dunderhead, an uncoordinated klutz. 
‘No self recriminations,’ my
husband said to me, kindly I thought. He who rarely has such accidents.  ‘There’s no point in going
over it.  That’s why you have
insurance’.  And as the insurance person said when I phoned to make a claim, ‘At
least no one was hurt.’ 
All this rationalisation helps of
course but it does not take away from my sense of humiliation, and the ripple
of anxiety that still runs through me after the event.  The memory of that loud crash, still
ringing in my head.