Mistaken identity

I have an International Women’s Day story for you.

I dropped into a Women in Distilling International Women’s Day event on Friday on my way to Nook X (more about that tomorrow).

It was a lovely event, filled with women in the distilling industry telling the audience their stories.

One of the women was an executive who was formerly a government press secretary and chief of staff. She worked with politicians ranging from Paul Keating to Julia Gillard and former Western Australia Premier Carmen Lawrence.

It was fascinating to hear her speak about her experiences as a woman in politics.

She headed off a little before me and as I was making my way out the door I ran into a bloke who’d been at the Campari function I attended the night before.

I said hi and he congratulated me on giving a great International Women’s Day speech.

I laughed, thinking he was kidding around. Then he said he’d love to know more about what it was like to work with Carmen Lawrence.

And that’s when I realised he thought I was Amanda.

Awkward.

And a little mystifying.

Amanda was wearing an eye-catching electric blue dress. I was wearing sage linen pants and a navy linen top.

Amanda has black hair. I have red hair.

The only thing we have in common is that we are middle aged.

And in his eyes that must mean we look interchangeable.

I would find that a little maddening at any time, but it was ironically maddening that it happened during an International Women’s Day event.

FFS.

He made the gaffe in front of a group of people. I chose to simply correct him, then leave him in the hole he’d dug himself and politely make my way outside.

As I stood there waiting for DD to pick me up I laughed for a moment, then I felt cranky.

Days later I am still a little furious.

Much has been said about how women feel they become invisible as they grow older. That small incident on Friday drove it home to me that no matter how brightly coloured my hair might be or how loud-mouthed I am … I am middle-aged woman wallpaper to a large cohort of society.

Mostly I don’t mind, but part of me feels that i have failed somehow by growing old and gaining wrinkles.

Many studies have shown that women strive to achieve aesthetic ideals because they recognise the correlation between beauty and social and career standing. 

As my friend Cathy writes at Mamamia: “Overall, it seems that society sees older men as powerful and distinguished. Their grey hair signifies experience and knowledge. They are celebrated for their life experience. 

“But on the other hand, women are actively encouraged to hide our greys, smooth out the wrinkles on our face, and cover up our ageing bodies.”

However, I do find it refreshing to wander down to Woolies without worrying about whether I am wearing make-up or flattering clothes. I don’t expect to receive a second glance or a jibe from a passing car. I am invisible and it is so relaxing.

I remember men shouting from car windows at me in my younger days. They would yell thing about my body or call me a “lezzo” because I had short hair. Construction workers would sometimes wolf whistle from building sites in what men think is a compliment but is simply discomfiting.

The only thing a woman thinks when men yell or whistle at them is that she wishes they would stop.

We want to live our lives without being harrassed or fearful.

And we don’t want to worry about whether we are too visible or invisible.

Which brings me to the other thing that has filled me with fury: the murder of Samantha Murphy, the 51 year old woman who went for a run near her home in Ballarat five weeks ago and never came home.

Mia Freedman at Mamamia writes: “Why can’t I go for a f**king run? This is what women are texting each other right now.”

And I bloody agree with her.

“What can we do?” she asks.

“Not much. Because it doesn’t seem to matter much what we do or don’t do, what we wear or don’t wear, how much we drink or don’t drink, where we go for a run or when. Men keep killing us.”

I know that sounds melodramatic to men, but unfortunately it is horribly true. We spend far too much of our lives feeling fearful.

We worry for ourselves, we worry for our sisters, we worry for our daughters and we worry for our female friends.

As Mia notes: “As we are encouraged to celebrate International Women’s Day while reeling over the loss of yet another woman — and another and another and another — we share despairing texts and make promises to look out for one another, to add the safety of our sisters to our own mental load.”

She doesn’t have any answers and neither do I.

There is no song of the day, but I promise to tell happy tales of Nook tomorrow.