Remember when we all stopped saying “real women”? I don’t recall which trend piece woke me up to that shift in our cultural lingo, but I do know how fast it clicked. For most of my conscious life, “real women” had been the phrase used to describe women who weren’t models, who seemed relatable rather than aspirational, women who weren’t too hot or too confident but were, you know, normal gals. (And it went without saying that these were probably straight, cis women, too.)

“Real women” seemed like a helpful, friendly phrase, but of course the moment someone pointed out that all women are real women, I got it — and instantly tossed that term out the window. Odd how something that once seemed useful and even empowering can reveal itself as exclusionary and offensive when you take a closer look.

I thought about the real-women problem a lot while second-glancing The First Wives Club. I saw this film for the first time at the age of 12 with my dad in a local suburban multiplex. We both laughed, but at times he seemed a little squirmy. Walking out of the cinema, he sighed in quiet disappointment: “I just wish it wasn’t all about hating men.” At the time, I thought my dumb old dad just didn’t get it. Because, uh, it wasn’t even about men. It was about women — real women — standing up for themselves and each other. It was about unity and self-actualisation, and also it was just a really good, funny movie. They sing in the end!

As I turned on the film a few weeks ago, I remembered my dad’s man-hating comment, now seeing it differently. He must have felt so threatened, so defensive in the face of such unapologetic feminism, I thought. This movie came out in 1996, back before Roxane Gay and Lemonade, when people still made bra-burning jokes about feminism. This comedic opus of real womanhood must have been a shock to his deeply un-woke system. The opening titles continued as Burt Bacharach’s “Wives and Lovers” plays in the background, an obvious satire: “Hey, little girl/Comb your hair/Fix your makeup/Soon he will open the door/Don't think because/There’s a ring on your finger/You needn’t try anymore.” Twenty minutes in, I’d all but decided my father was an MRA — when I realised I was squirming myself.