I never took birthdays too seriously until I turned 30. 30 was the milestone that made me take the case for celebration seriously. Like that pathetic of all heiresses I celebrated it in three cities. Not so much Paris, London and New York, but close enough. Perth, Melbourne and the Hunter Valley.

My 31st was spent in Valencia Spain on the eve of La Tomatina. Getting drunk with countless other Aussies. Shenanigans were rife as they usually are when Aussies drink while overseas. A group were jumping into the back passing convertibles naked… but nothing as silly as walking along the ledge of a bridge in Rome. I went to La Tomatina the following day and almost died but at least it’s implanted in my memory. The fear, shock and pure adrenalin not easily forgotten.

So on the eve of my 32nd birthday I sit at home alone, with the exception of my two ginger minges, and turn on the TV for comfort. I have two choices, Miss Universe on channel seven or Embarrassing Bodies on nine. I can flip between women getting mongoloid breasts examined and universal beauties frolicking in skimpy swimwear in the Bahamas. Each one equally appealing yet paradoxically unappealing at the same time.

And as diametrically opposed as these two programs would appear to be they both would seem to have a common goal. Women pandering to the male needs desperate to appear attractive to men. And as an old school feminist living in the naughties I find myself asking: what message are we sending our daughters (in my case my niece) as the host quipped “Miss Universe is all about looking your best”.

So why attempt to make it anything more? What is the point of the cringe-worthy question at the end? Does it make Donald Trump appear less chauvinistic… does it help him sleep better at night? The following examples are proof as to why they should boycott the final question and have the women come out simply as objects to be wanked over:

a) Miss Puerto Rico when asked about her evening wear replied “this dress reflects my personality. It is simple and elegant”.

b) Miss France while stuck in a silver uncomfortably skin tight more prawn than mermaid number said “I pick this just because it is really me and I feel really comfortable in it”.

c) Miss Venezuela when asked about equality of men and women in the workforce answered “I believe we have reached the same level that men have”. Hands down she is my new Field Assistant next time I take another group of uneducated buffoons (otherwise known as Drillers) out bush on a job where I haven’t already been turned away as “its no place for a woman” or “I wouldn’t want my wife out there”.

d) And Miss Kosovo gave some awesome insights into fame. Apparently you don’t need talent at all… “There are also other ways to make you be famous and feel famous and they are intelligence and beauty”. And we STILL have no classification for Paris Hilton.

OK maybe I am being a little cynical and harsh. At least no contestants talked about the inviting, sparkly blue waters of Guantanamo Bay this year. But I flip back to channel nine and its not much better. Women with their tits out in plastic surgeries across the UK dreaming about nipples that “poke your eyes out”.

As I encroach on 32 rapidly (it’s now 11.30pm) it makes me wonder… Are women ever going to be accepted as real women? Can’t we age like the other half of the population? Do we always need to look like 15 year olds with perky nipples, flawless skin and Nullarbor flat stomachs? Life was distressing enough back then with emerging breasts and acne. When does it ever fucking end? When can we stop having to look like over sexualised prepubescent teenagers?

Donald Trump is a smart man. After all, he didn’t make 1.7 billion playing tiddly winks. The Miss Universe pageant appears to be one gigantic advertisement. But what in the hell are undernourished women parading in swimsuits advertising to young girls? And who the fuck wears a bikini with stilettos anyway? Stilettos themselves represent the absurdity of it all. The latest trend in the stores now are after party shoes… flat slip-ons that you carry in your bag and put on when your feet ache at the end of the night. Are we now that twisted we have forgotten the whole purpose of wearing shoes? And what happens at the beach? Your skimpy swimsuit ends up your crack, the top lost in the whitewash and you have broken your ankle or at least gotten bogged just laying out your towel.

I am not entirely against the Miss Universe competition. I did watch it after all. But why can’t I watch semi-naked men prance up the catwalk, look down the camera straight at me with hollow cheeks and vacant eyes, give me a wicked pout before an undisputed score out of ten appears in the top right hand corner of my television screen? And while I’m on this tangent why aren’t there Skimpos (male skimpys) in my local pub?

So on the eve of my 32nd birthday I’ve flipped between women with 14GG size breasts (the biggest the surgeon has ever seen) and ones that want to turn A’s into C’s and B’s into D’s so that they can be more attractive to men. I’ve watched women from landlocked freezing nations such as the Czech Republic and near iceberg locked Iceland, parading in skimpy swimsuits with cloth barely covering the essentials and balancing on towering heels. And what have I learnt (keeping in the context of my recent decision to remove myself from the impenetrably chauvinistic mining industry)? Well I haven’t learnt anything that I didn’t already know but in the spirit of optimism maybe I could suggest a way forward.

… maybe Ill sleep on it… I’m sure Ill figure it out when I’m 32.