I'm bringing back fainting

I'm back! But boy, am I feeble...

I don’t know about you, but news stories about dropping birth rates make me happy. Alright, maybe happy isn’t quite the right word. They make me feel a sort of malevolent mirth. I feel like our society benefits from the occasional hearty reminder that women are much more equipped to continue the human race than men are. And that, if we really wanted to, we could simply refuse to procreate and slob about in our pants, waiting for our species to die out. It would certainly be more eco-friendly.  

What I also find quite amusing about these news stories is all the questions about why. Old, white economists are scratching their heads and rifling through their many papers. Politicians are deeply concerned and looking into it. Elon Musk is raging. Why won’t women just do their duty to humankind and get bloody pregnant? 

I don’t need to tell you, the readers of this newsletter, that the idea of having a baby is infinitely less fun when it’s nearly impossible to buy your own home without financial help, childcare costs more than rent and women are significantly more likely to struggle in their career after having a child. Apparently, what’s obvious to most of us is still bamboozling to the rest. Women aren’t having babies because it’s just not sensible right now. And we’re not sure if it will be sensible again in our lifetimes. 

Nevertheless, the onus is still on women to get on board in spite of our trepidations, which got me thinking about the types of books I’ve been reading lately. I never read very many classics as a child, but it’s always made me feel left out of a club which is actually quite easy to gain access to…you just have to read them. So I’m elbowing my way in, at speed. So far this year I’ve read Dracula, Frankenstein, Jekyll and Hyde, The Great Gatsby, Mrs Dalloway, Wuthering Heights and a few others, and one thing I’ve noticed is the frailty of the women depicted. Pale little waify things that are always one stiff breeze away from toppling over. 

So, I’ve decided: if society wants to continue to treat women as birthing machines, then I’m going to bring back my own archaic practices and start fainting. Women do it all the time in classic literature, so why not me? Raised your voice at me? I’ve fainted. Cat called me in the street? Oop, fainted. Calmly and fairly discussing something I may have done wrong? Sorry, still going to do a massive faint, I'm afraid. Can we jump on a quick call? Sorry, a gentleman is concernedly fanning my face and I don’t plan on reviving for some time.   

All I’m saying is, if you want to treat us like it’s the 1920s, go for it. But be prepared for some very feeble, sickly responses. And no, I still won’t have a baby right now. I feel far too faint. 

For more writing and poetry, follow me on Instagram @alannaduffield