The crisis in masculinity is well-known. In fact now there are even bodies of social theory that explore the nature and patterns of the masculine identity. These theories of masculine fragility differ from separatist theories of patriarchy from so-called "rad fems" which disavow the world of men, or calls for castration from the Jilted Lovers Collective.

Rather they try to sympathetically identify the complexities of the masculine psyche. Instead of hearing words like "bastard" and "asshole", theories of masculinity treat us to such euphemistic pleasantries such as "victim of a castration complex" and the "split oedipal subject".

Of course, the crisis in feminity is less associated with such esteemed high theory and is much more comfortable in the company of talk-back and talk-show divas such as Oprah Winfrey and Sally Jesse Raphael. The crisis of feminity is generally linked with such rabble rousing catch-phrases such as "Love your body/Love yourself" and "When loving him hurts, let him go".

Well, last week I realised the frightening shallowness of all these "pop-psych" phrases when confronted with my own gendered insecurities. Of course, it was none other than the mainstream media that was responsible for rocking my fragile feminine foundations with two articles that tried to get to the very root of what it means "To Be a Woman".

In the "Nation" section of the The Star , the article carefully instructed on "How to be a 'champion wife'". The article was based on a speech by the PM's wife and the Bakti president when launching a special course open to Bakti women.

Because it was featured in the "Nation" section, the directives had a specifically Malaysian flavour about them. A wife in Malaysia is not simply good or bad, smart or stupid - in accordance with the " Malaysia Boleh " spirit, she is entrapped within the champion/loser dichotomy.

If a competition were to be held of the World's Best Wives, or an Olympic medal given to The Wifeliest Wife. Malaysians would be up there carrying the flame, standing on the podium, our names emblazoned in lights.

But what constitutes success in the sphere of feminine excellence? Is it transforming the lives of millions through a revolution in digital technology, is it identifying the key feature in uneven economic development, or even the discovery of the stay-on mascara "that won't stop working when you do"? Heaven forbid, nothing so noble!

The Star tells us that the champion wife is well-trained in Malay dance, manages her stress, is knowledgeable on public policy, computer-literate and knows the way the prime minister likes his eggs done, and the colour of his favourite tie. (Yes, believe it or not, the Bakti members were subject to a "get to know" session about the PM as part of their "champion training".)

It is here that my crisis in confidence began to set in as I realised that my knowledge of the PM consisted of slanderous statements from smoke-filled backrooms, my favourite form of dancing is the stage-dive, I manage stress related to males with the curt phrase "I'm sorry I don't have time for this. Grow up or it's over", and my definition of good public policy is much more welcome on the IMF/World Bank opposition news-lists, than in pre-dinner drinks' conversation.

And whilst one redeeming feature is that I am extremely familiar with surfing the Net, I generally use this skill to pursue activities that are in contravention of the other cardinal principles of "champion wifeliness", such as visiting the wonderful "Bitch Bulletin Board" designed to let off steam in the most feminine of ways.

So naturally the initial insidious neuroses such as, "Will I ever be a champion wife?", "How many years of training will this require?", "Can I repeat subjects if I fail?" soon snow-balled into an all-consuming, soul-destroying interrogation of my very status as a woman. Obviously the champion wife occupies an iconic status in our society, and surely she embodies the most pure and refined qualities of femininity. If I fall so short of the threshold, is not my very status as a woman in jeopardy?

It was in this state of utter emotional trauma and psychic dysfunction that I turned to the "World" section of The Star and was confronted with the heading "Laughter is all about gender, says US survey". As if the Malaysian gloss on my feminity was not brutal enough, I now had to be told the results of a survey in which 120 students watching "funny film" excerpts at the Vanderbilt University in Tennessee were observed. It appears that "women react strongly to the gender of the person they are sitting with, laughing more in the company of an intimate male friend than with a woman friend or a male stranger".

I tried to translate these observations to my own humble context and recalled the last "funny film" that I had watched. It was a Hindi film starring Salman Khan. And if any genre of film deserves the dubious adjective "funny" it is that of the Bollywood action/drama/tragi-comedy.

My female companion and I were giggling uncontrollably as we tried to anticipate the moment in which Salman Khan would perform the inevitable unveiling of his Adonis-like upper body; we were positively hysterical at the use of the ridiculous transparent chiffon shirt designed to whet our over-stimulated taste buds, and then had tears in our eyes when he finally "took it all off" and gave the camera the "yes, I know you want me" look.

Now please explain to me how the dizzy heights of mirth that we reached could ever have been achieved were there a male in the room. Salman's hypermasculinity is only a source of ridicule when in the company of women - for guys it is the object of envy and when a guy is in the room it is our job as women to perpetuate this state of inferiority. This requires sincere and longing looks at the screen, side-ward disappointed glances at our intimate partners' humble appendages and sighs filled with despondency and frustrated lust.

However, these seemingly "normal" responses put me in the aberrant quota of respondents to the Tennessee survey. Already reeling from my "loser" status in the good-wife stakes, the study cast the death knell on any residual hope that I held of being a real woman, a proud and upstanding representative of my gender.

The following taunt reverberated in my mind, "Not only do I dance, read and speak incorrectly, I also laugh wrong."

And as at all times when my sense of self sinks to depths of despair, I sought refuge in the world of high ideas. Surely there is a theory out there to explain my "condition". Surely there is a body of work that authorises my wayward nature, and gives me hope to carry on through the ignominy of abnormality. Surely the Electra complex, penis envy, the horror of the maternal womb could be relied on to justify my plight. But alas, nothing could be found.

It was then that I realised the error of my ways. Even if I could find the origins of my crisis in psychoanalytic theory, and even if I could understand the esoteric statements of academia, there would still be something lacking. It then dawned on me that six syllabled words and over-argued hypotheses could never replace the sheer potency and visceral honesty of the well-worn refrain of Shania Twain's hit song Man! I feel like a woman .

I recalled the words "Oh, oh, oh go totally crazy - forget I'm a lady, Men's shirts. Short skirtsOh, oh, oh, I wanna be free-yeah, to feel the way I feel. Man! I feel like a woman!"

And it was in these words that I sought solace and reaffirmed the potential of redefining the borders of acceptable femininity. Over-simplistic, you may argue. False consciousness, maybe. A victim of the mirage of free choice that late capitalism feeds on, perhaps. But disillusioned by the perpetuation of gender stereotypes of women in the mainstream media, lost and lonely I was rescued by the lyrical genius of Shania Twain. And for now I need look no further.

SANGEETHA CHANDRA SHEKERAN finished her studies in English and law last year and is currently a researcher in labour and migration issues.