[sic]
While we all know I can be pretty macho, and rebel against stereotypes and whatnot, there is at least one time I am undeniably, lamentably, a total fucking girl: when reading a short email from a guy I just hooked up with.
Yes, rather than spending today being Thankful, I have mostly spent it staring at three sentences on a computer screen going, "WTF does that mean?!?!" I'm sure in reality the meaning of all such emails is perfectly clear*, but those two X chromosomes conspire, like a devil and angel over my shoulders, to drive me mad. Only the angel is kind of a bitch. For example:
Devil X: Cmon, you know you want to email him back. Do it! What if he really does like you, but he's worried you don't like him? Then you'll have missed your chance! Email him!
Angel X: Um, if he liked you he would've tried to see you. But he doesn't. Because you're fat.
Devil X: Maybe that ambiguous phrase he used is a British thing.
Angel X: Maybe you should lose five pounds.
So yeah, that's fun. Love those two.
Seriously, dear readers: do guys not do this? I'm told that they don't, but I thought I'd turn to you for confirmation. Do you withhold your feelings out of uncertainty and fear of rejection? Do you "play it cool" when you feel anything but? Do you reread emails in five different tones of voice to see how many of them the words fit, and harass all your friends over the significance of prepositions and modifying clauses?
Sorry for all the body-hatred, by the way. In fact I think my lack of citizenship might be more of an issue in this case, but why be rational at a time like this?
*"He's just not that into me."
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Gender Is Density
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Chicks I Like, And Would Like To Be
She is an awesome director. Most recently, she directed the revival of Equus currently on Broadway, starring Daniel Radcliffe and Richard Griffiths. She is 31 years old. (Possibly 32.) She was Artistic Director of the Southwark Playhouse when she was 24. Peter Hall talked her into directing Blithe Spirit. There are rumors that she might be the next Artistic Director of the Royal National Theatre. She has a wedding ring and a baby. (Both of which I saw.) She looks incredible.
31 years old.
She came to my school to lead a weekend-long workshop on Noël Coward, which we directors got to attend. She is wonderful--very open and intelligent and nice, and the workshop was great. She was particularly nice to the directors--we were told we'd be observing silently, but she totally made us act, which was a lot of fun.*
So, this woman is living the dream. It is awe-inspiring, and also just plain inspiring. It is also, of course, very very intimidating. I am almost 27! I was already focusing on the fact that I should've written "Thunder Road" by now--now I know I also should've run a reputable theater. Of course, Sharrock has been in theatre school since she was nine, so that gives her a bit of a head start. But the strange part is that working with her put the idea in my head that, for professional purposes, I really do need to lose about 20 lbs. Go figure.
The thing is, I was told YEARS ago that "a woman can't succeed as a director in [New York] unless she's a lesbian." It was clarified for me that it didn't matter with whom you were actually sleeping, but it was important to seem pretty dykey. Sharrock did not seem dykey per se, but she definitely looked like what I realized was my concept of the quintessential Female Director: dark jeans, white T, flat ankle boots, no make-up whatsoever. We directors get head shots at the end of the year, and the word is that they encourage us to cultivate a persona--most of last year's head shots scream "I AM A DIRECTOR." My flatmate is horrified by this, but I'm looking forward to it. I definitely plan to push my Knowing Tough Girl self-image.
I will almost certainly be wearing make-up, however. Cross your fingers that this doesn't ruin my career.
*For me at least. At least one of my compatriots wanted the floor to swallow him up. Thea Sharrock seemed to appreciate this.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Getting To The Root Of Things
Jezebel's awesome Dodai just wrote an interesting post on her dislike of mirrors--or, more specifically, her discomfort in being confronted with her full reflection. This instantly reminded me of the brief period of time when my hair was pink:
(Strangely, not a well-photodocumented part of my life.)I dyed my hair pink in the winter, just as I was turning 23, during a time when I was SEVERELY depressed--like, Panicked-mother-screaming-at-my-pharmacologist depressed. I don't know if this was rationally, consciously my reasoning at the time, but I needed a pick-me-up. I think I was remembering a Times Magazine "Lives" piece from many years ago (which I have not been able to find) about a young Asian woman who dyed her hair pink and discovered the joyful effect it had on people around her. It made people smile. And I remember the time I first noticed my own cotton candy tresses having this effect--on myself.
Sometime before or after an appointment with my therapist, I went to DSW to look for cheap-ass shoes (another form of anti-depressant). I was unshowered, unkempt, my hair in a messy ponytail and some old show shirt on my slumped torso. I glanced up and accidentally saw my reflection in the mirror. And I smiled. It was the first time, perhaps since childhood, that I felt attractive. Attractive unto myself--not just, oh I look good today because of my hairstyle, because this top is flattering, because of my make-up, because I'm having a good face day, but actually like it didn't matter what I did in the morning, or what I wore, or any of that. I felt like if I were messy and poorly dressed, as I was that day, I looked like an attractive person who hadn't showered rather than an ugly hopeless wreck. It was an amazing feeling of relief.
Which doesn't necessarily make SENSE, because what had changed was, after all, a question of what I'd done to my hair. But I felt like me. No matter how I looked, I was getting across something about myself that I wanted to get across. And I kind of miss it. But the months passed, and as time came to redye, so came time to interview for post-grad jobs, so I went back to the red. Besides, towards the end (as my depression began to be manageable) I did start to feel a little silly. Part of what I'd been combating, with pigment, was how fucking SERIOUS everything felt all the time. But at heart I guess I'm a serious person. Pink was an important place for me to visit, but I couldn't live there.
And life goes on. The last time I saw my reflection and felt truly, inherently beautiful was when I was on Ecstasy, but the mirror and I still have our friendly moments. And I still have fun playing the frosted cupcake now and then--pink has won itself a cherished place in my wardrobe and in my heart. Because part of the fun was, for once, letting myself be a girl. Not acting so tough. I think, looking back, that was important to helping myself heal--embracing both my toughness and my softness. And now of course we're getting into tricky territory because if pink=girl and pink=soft, does girl=soft? I think what I was telling myself was: no. Look. You are a girl, and you are not soft. And You are a human, and you are very soft. So cut yourself some fucking slack. If you don't let yourself be soft, you will break.
So, that's my anecdote. I just wish I had more pictures.
Friday, June 20, 2008
More Love/Hate With SATC
So, I'm still funemployed* and the roommate has purchased the complete series of Sex and the City**. I just watched "What Goes Around Comes Around" and had that old familiar feeling--part of the episode made me go, "that is so my life," and another part made me go "ugh."
The first part, of course, concerned Miranda. An extremely handsome detective is totally into her, and she's so intimidated by the fact that he's "out of her league" that she ends up getting sloppy-drunk on a date and convincing him she's an alcoholic. Har. This is a problem she has more than once--suspiciously hot guy genuinely likes her and she somehow messes it up***. Which sometimes makes me roll my eyes, because guys who are hotter than me are sort of my favorites. I don't always know what's wrong with their eyes, but I shrug my shoulders and capitalize. But then Miranda drunkenly roars this:
"I'm no Mena Suvari, but I'm great in bed!"
First of all: Mena Suvari? So random, thus adorable. Also, I TOTALLY relate to that. The whole "compensation" thing. When I say it to myself, I tend to say it with genuine confidence--it DOES make up the difference, I think--but there's still the need to say it.
And then Samantha fucks a virgin and he falls ridiculously in love. Blah. Some of us virgins were totally capable of having an awesome first time without getting artificially attached.****
Look! A whole post and I never once needed "I had to wonder..." Suck it, Bradshaw.
*Though I'm moving to London in September to go to grad school so woot!
**And has given me carte blanche to blame its presence in our apartment on her should any gentleman callers balk.
***Though another time the guy seems to like her BECAUSE she doesn't know she's hot, and when her self-esteem gets boosted he bails. Yes, I'm a Miranda buff.
****Though, to be fair, the one time I know that I slept with a virgin, he did seem to get at least sort of attached.
Monday, March 3, 2008
The Bare Necessities Of Life
Seeing as I'm now "funemployed"*, I've gotten lazy about a lot of things, and one of those is healthy eating. It's occurred to me that I could stand to lose a few pounds--not necessarily from an objective aesthetic standpoint (cuz no one wants to hear that), but because some of my underwear doesn't reall
y fit anymore. Apparently the extra pounds go to my hips and ass, and now I can't even think about anything in the g-string or French bikini family.
However. What with the funemployment, I just cannot bring myself to watch what I'm eating. As I've said before, I think guys should be fine with my body even if I know they won't be, which kills the motivation. And I like boyshorts better anyway. But this has gotten me thinking about food. Namely, that I love food. I enjoy food. And I wonder if an enjoyment of food is related to an enjoyment of sex.
In high school I had an idle interest in palmistry, read a few books on it, found it interesting. One book categorized my "hand type" as Romantic. (I think, this was like 10th grade.) It characterized my ilk as sensual, to the point that we might be a little overweight because we so enjoy the acts of eating and drinking. (I am aware that most people enjoy these acts, but the diet idea of viewing food as nothing more than fuel actually horrifies me.)
There's a minor cliché that fat girls are better in bed. Some people go with the "because they have to be" angle, others go with "because skinny girls DON'T have to be." There's also the idea that conventionally hot ladies, caring more about their physical appearance, are more self-conscious when nude**. BUT, what if it's that, assuming that slightly chubby girls are slightly chubby because of their food intake, and that their food intake is due to their enjoyment of the taking-in, both the love of food and the love of sex are two results of one root factor--their attunement to, and enjoyment of, sensual experiences?
And yes, this is possibly just my excuse to eat lots of cheese. Mmm. Cheese.
*Credit to Sojourner at Diary of a Mad Blacktress for the phrase. I'm unemployed and lovin' it.
**There's also the theory that none of this is even true, but bear with me.
Thursday, January 3, 2008
26 Years of Enfranchisement!
Well, it's been two weeks, because I've been sitting around being angsty about work. But what better way to return to my duties than...on my birthday! Yep, happy birthday to me. It is fitting, because last night I was thinking a bit about my birthday suit. That's right--it's body image time! So, here's what occurred to me for the first time: I don't hate my body. Obviously, we all have a few things we'd like to change about ourselves, and we all have what I like to call Bad Face Days, but all in all I actually kind of like my body.
But. (What, you weren't expecting a but?) I realize that I assume OTHER people hate my body. While I enjoy my curves and my soft spots, I know that they don't fit into what I'm actually supposed to look like. I think people should find me attractive...but I don't expect them to. Yes yes, of course I have friends who try to convince me I'm hot, but they tend to be people who love me and/or people who have girlfriends*, so I don't believe them. So when I look in the mirror and want to cry, it's not because I hate my body--it's because I hate myself for not changing my body when I feel that would improve my life.
But that, of course, is exactly why I have a hard time committing to any more diet and exercise than I've already done. (I lost 20 lbs. sophomore year of college through healthy means, it was nice.) I would be losing weight for some hypothetical other person I don't even quite believe in, for the sake of ideals I decry on this very blog.
Maybe this is not the happiest birthday thought, but it does make me feel better--both to realize I like my body, and to realize there's actually a kind of good reason I can't bring myself to weigh and measure my food. So I will not feel guilty about the mom-made yellow cake with chocolate frosting I will be eating tonight. Even though in some way maybe I should.
*Guys who have girlfriends are really good at thinking I'm hot while they're unavailable, then avoiding me like the plague as soon as they're single again. On bad days, I think of guys-who-have-girlfriends as my nemeses. Particularly guys-who-have-girlfriends-who-are-out-of-town-at-the-moment.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Hate The Sinner, Not The Sin?
I've talked along these lines before, but something a bit more specific has bothered me lately--they way we discuss anorexia. In my experience, we hear the word "anorexia" and say, "Oh what an awful disorder! Unrealistic beauty standards are destroying women and girls!" But when we hear someone called an "anorexic" we say, "God, that annoying Paris-wannabe needs to fucking eat something already."*
This is in part because of the latest influx of pro-ana groups like the one on RingsWorld or the Teen Vogue message boards. But by sneering at these groups, aren't we agreeing with them that anorexia is a lifestyle choice rather than a medical condition?
I am guilty of all of this as well. I'm wondering why. Is it that most of us don't really believe, in our hearts, that anorexia nervosa is an illness? We ascribe the behavior to shallow bitches, the TV-style prom queens who possibly made us miserable when we were teens. I suppose it's that we know that these pro-ana girls think they're better than we are. But aren't we hypocrites if we don't ascribe that to their disorder? Shouldn't all this arouse more pity than hatred and derision?
One pro-ana advocate recently live-blogged her suicide. Mamavision.com is in fact a great blog regarding eating disorders, and she manages to treat the "pro-ana" community as the horror it is without ridiculing the girls who are so far gone that they proudly post photos of their feeding tubes.
So, what do you guys think? Do you find that we treat people with eating disorders like they just have a bad personality? Is some level of derision warranted--and if so, why?
*Which is reminding me of that frosh year psychopathology lecture about clinical terminology, and the PC way to use it was saying that someone "suffered from schizophrenia" rather than saying they were "a schizophrenic." The move is against defining people by their disorders. Probably applicable here, no?
Friday, October 5, 2007
Mythbuster #3: [Insert cheesy euphemism for pubic hair]
This is not quite a straight-out Mythbuster, because the truth? I don't know what guys like*. All I know is, I am pretty riled up over the subject of the bikini wax. I'd thought we were finally starting to hit a backlash against the whole 'landing strip' thing, and now Time Out New York has an oh-so-cute little article making it sound de rigeur. HOWEVER, they neglect to actually ANALYZE their own little infographic:
Friday, September 28, 2007
Mythbuster #2: The Big Question
Does size matter?
I could make a joke about how yes, as a 38C I need a lot of support, or something like that, but y'all know what I'm talking about. Penis size is one of the concerns that makes me glad I'm a girl, because it seems to be so pernicious with so many guys--it might be the hardest insecurity to shake, and society is CONSTANTLY reinforcing it. Of course, I tell this to female friends and they give me a variant of, "Oh poor babies that they're given ONE physical insecurity, BOO HOO." But I digress. Probably I'll get a lot of comments on this post, so good! I'd love you to weigh in, as always. But for me there is only one answer:
Of course size matters. It's just not the only thing that matters. Not by a long shot.
It's only rational--how could it not matter? As in, obviously it has an effect. But it's just one of the many things that might or might not have an effect. I don't usually notice, unless we're talking extremes--I'm about as likely to notice size as I am to notice, say, vocality(?) or roughness, things for which everyone has their own taste. My feeling, in general, is that bigger is NOT better. Too wide is painful one way, too long painful another way. (As in, Ouch, that's my cervix.) And perhaps most importantly, a larger size makes oral sex much less pleasurable--or even feasible! If I have trouble getting the condom on, I'm probably not going down as eagerly. And let's not forget about anal, either. So, I like my men how I like my tops from H&M--medium. We all like to feel full, but not like we're being force-fed Thanksgiving dinner*.
If you're on the smaller side? Do not despair. Almost every woman has a story about that small-in-the-game guy who was the best lay she'd ever had. The street wisdom is that men who aren't that "cocky" go the extra mile. A LOT of women can't climax just from penetration, and are hugely grateful for a guy who spends time on foreplay and oral sex, and develops those techniques instead of resting on his laurels.
Granted, some women (and gay men) disagree. But when it comes to nuts and bolts, I'd say that most people are less picky than you'd expect.
*Not sure how I feel about this metaphor but we'll give it a whirl.
Mythbusters is now officially a Friday regular. We'll see if I can keep it up. So to speak.
Monday, September 24, 2007
Damned if you do, damned if you don't
Speaking (recently) of being a "sexy feminist," let's talk about the phrase. I, of course, do not use the word "sexy" to contrast with or qualify the word "feminist," but rather in reference to the fact that you all already know--feminism is way sexy.
However, let's talk about an area where I frequently feel conflicted: weight loss.
I know you're all thinking, "Where's the conflict? Up with positive body image!" Well, of course. But there's this trend, particularly among young, liberal, well-educated people, to sneer at women who have a negative body image. I often feel that, in certain circles, there is a bigger stigma against dieting than there is against being fat. A conscious stigma, that is--we've all still internalized cultural ideals, so the message seems to be: "Be skinny...but don't try to be skinny." Deviating from either dictum invites a lot of shame. The fact is, most of us have it drilled into our heads that we need to be skinnier, and it is really hard to get totally free of that. This new stigma is well-intentioned, as it attempts to counter all those negative messages, but it often feels that diet-dissers doth protest too much. Smart people have fat prejudices, know they shouldn't, and get haughty about weight loss in compensation. I, personally, am tired of feeling guilty for eating a doughnut, and tired of feeling guilty for feeling guilty.
America, that schizophrenic country of ours, obsesses over thinness while breeding obesity. We're puritanical and hypersexed, extremely diverse and extremely egocentric, and we hurtle towards extremes like negatively charged ions. How do we reconcile? Where's the spectrum? I want to love myself, and fuck the patriarchy...but I also want to lose 10 pounds. Preferably 15. Okay, 20. So Sleater-Kinney's "#1 Must Have" has been going through my head in a loop, and I listen to Lily Allen just for that lyric that goes "I want to be able to eat spaghetti bolognese/And not feel bad about it for days and days and days." I WANT to be attractive to the opposite sex, and I KNOW I shouldn't want that.
We're all guilty of blaming the victim. We even ridicule overly skinny celebrities--ok, mostly the vapid ones, but often we view them as vapid BECAUSE they're so skinny. Why can't we work on removing the fat-shame in the first place? The people who look down their noses at calorie-counters are usually the same ones who casually insult fat people behind their backs. So how 'bout instead of scoffing at that Diet Coke your friend ordered, tell her she's beautiful? (And just so she believes you, maybe tell her so when she's NOT stressing about her dress size.) I've long had an unofficial policy, and as of now I'm making it official: if a friend of mine ever calls anyone fat--strangers, celebs, whatever--I'm calling them out on it. I don't want to hear it. It's destructive, unattractive, and WORST of all not particularly funny*.
Hate the unrealistic standard, y'all, not the people feeling oppressed by it.
*Which is, of course, the greatest sin of all.
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