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Excellent (and damned funny) column by Frances Ryan in the New Statesman. I like my feminist critique tongue-in-cheek when I can get it.

Why having a woman’s body under patriarchy is a job in itself:

I’ve known for some time a lot of people are obsessed with my breasts. The fight to defend my right to put them in a national newspaper. The fight to defend my right to have them visible to children on a shelf in the Co-op. The complexity of whether going out with them attached to my chest means I’m asking for them to be groped. The disgust if I get them out to feed my hypothetical baby. The disgust if I don’t get them out to feed my hypothetical baby…

It’s all resulted in me having very little idea what I should be doing with them on an hourly basis. Even now, they’re just sitting here. Two awkward half melons waiting to know what the latest thing is they’ve done wrong and what they should be doing to fix it to finally make everyone else happy.

But look! It’s okay. It turns out that they can smell better. As the Telegraph reported today, I can now worry about whether my breasts are producing the sweat their existence means they’re guaranteed to make. And you can too! There’s no discrimination here. Everyone with breasts can hate themselves. Deodorant for breasts – or “swoobs” (sweat + boobs) – is now here for us. And to think, all this time I was only focused on whether my vagina was offensiveto the wider public. [Rest.]

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