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Being a woman is like running on a treadmill, you don’t “quite” get anywhere. You pick up each day from where you left the previous day. In these pages, we celebrate waxing woes and bad hair days, we tick the boxes and break the rules, and we apologise for getting old and feel guilty when promoted at work. We speak of unwanted advice, as we offer some too. We sigh, smile and scorn. We observe, absorb, judge and compare. We own our space. The subjects of the book are women I know. It’s not a case of pure coincidence but pure intention. No research has gone into the book unless you consider banter over drinks, on long-distance phone calls or by water coolers, so.
Often, I get asked how it feels to be a woman. I stay bemused for I don't know how to be anything else, except being one. She, choose me. I simply caved in. Allow me, I want to talk for a few (more) minutes about being a woman, just before I sign off. I am in love with my existence, and I will not trade my position with anyone, a fellow girlfriend, or a fellow male friend. Am I grateful? Oh, yes. Am I exhausted? Yes. Am I wiser? No. I don’t know what to say to women who walk up to me under the impression that I know better. Am I ready to give up? No.