A twofer today. I’m going into the Mystic for a few days and will not be publishing DOODLYSQUAT. So until next week………peace and love Beauties. Here ya go.
I think women like to present themselves as fully put together at all times. It’s expected. Let’s be honest. If we read anything regarding celebrities, which unless you live under a rock you cannot help but be bombarded with, we are immediately put on the defensive about who and what we are. Our clothes, houses, exercise routines, skin care regimes, diets, jobs, travel, kids…all are put on a subpar level in a really subversive unspoken way. Because we allow it. Pure and simple. Such and such celebrity only uses La Mer? Precious. Such and such celebrity eats only organic food she grew without the help of Montesano and quasi-documented migrant workers. Adorbs. Such and such celebrity has eaten the same thing for ten years – she’s so dedicated. Bitch please, I’m lucky if I make it out the door remembering to put deodorant on. Some days I need to discreetly sniff to be sure. That and shaving my legs and you’ve got the extent of my BYOOOOTAY routine. Soap, coconut oil, sunscreen and if I’m feeling frisky….lip gloss. But the same lunch every day for ten years? Yes please, put me in that rut! Also, $14,000 a month in spa/gym/skincare/liposuction? CHAAAA! Let me go bankrupt myself because I feel the need to compete with someone I don’t even know. I’ll jump on that grenade. You betcha. I could be bitter but I’m amused with just a splash of I think I may have just vomited in my nose from the pretentiousness of it all. But we are programmed from a very young age to be objectified and somehow we embody it. It’s like Stockholm syndrome for sexism.
I’m pretty sure that what we’re not being told about these glamorous celebrities is the shelf life. The self loathing that is required to constantly be poked, prodded, assessed; to diet without end. To be ripped apart because of a choice in apparel. To have one’s self-worth tied up at a male run industries hands…….
Even at the mere mortal level, we are objectified to scale that is beyond ludicrous. It’s actually insulting. I used to follow a couple of magazines on Facebook. Good Housekeeping was one. Weekly (being kind) I’m told about how I’m doing something wrong. It’s this subliminal way of tearing down that just chaps my ass. You’re putting on your mascara wrong. You don’t know how to dress for your body. You should THROW out makeup you were charged a small fortune for because it goes bad. Yeah, that ingredient list that we now conveniently hide under the name (the one you have to untape and unfold to read and has everything you can’t pronounce)….our B….yeah, that stuff goes bad. You’d best replace it quarterly. You should only eat grapes/don’t ever eat grapes/you’re eating your grapes WRONG! YOU IDIOT! Your bra isn’t fitting correctly and here’s why…..you’re stupid and we, corporate Merica need to make money off of your insecurities which we put into your head to begin with. Better Homes and Gardens had a tutorial in curling hair. Yes. Because my need to know whether I’m planting in zone 1 or zone 8 is mystically hinged on how bouncy my hair is. Excuse me while you kiss my ass *cue Jimi Hendrix*
We make less money and we’re expected to accept it. We have more responsibilities. We work and cook and clean. We run offices and homes. Not many of our husbands run to the dry cleaner for us do they? We, for all intent and purpose, should dominate the world. Some of our husbands or fathers are/were wise enough to tell us we are everything. We are the caregivers. We are the glue. We are the nurturers. We are strong. We are powerful. We are worthy.
I was told the other day at my yearly physical that I’m perimenopausal. Yes, I’ve had my period since I was eleven and I’d like to upgrade to the non-ovulating model. Can we fast track this shit please? Because I’d like menopausal status AYYYSAP. To be done with the monthly I hate myself and everyone else who breathes cycle would require much celebration; like me dancing on the bar wearing a muumuu and a sombrero with a cheesecake in one hand and a pitcher of martinis in the other demanding everyone curtsy as they greet me and burn Kotex in effigy. As an aside, our family doctor is gay; a big, boisterous, Madonna loving, hot pink wearing gift from God. He says things like, “Girllll you fine”. Can I mention that I love my doctor? He sang Meghan Trainor to me when I was worried that I’d put on too much weight. According to him, I have all the parts in all the right places. If he wasn’t already married I’d set him up with my other best friend, Big Sexy Chocolate. I have so much respect for him it’s not even funny. But he gets it. I think any other male doctor would feel the need to console me….like I was broken. I’m not broken. I’m a woman who is following the normal progression in life and if I thought for one moment that somehow my value was less because of this fact, well I guess I should just pack it in. Sad. I thought I was gonna make until 80, 90………*insert RBF here*
But I’m not going anywhere. I will revel and travel and make dirty and clean jokes and drink and dance and cook and rejoice and share adventures with Mr. Magilla and garden and hike and laugh and make new friends and treasure old ones and smile and be the drop dead gorgeous specimen that I am and I will admire my beautiful non shelf life SELF in the mirror and dear corporate Merica and society? Don’t you ever forget it.
The other day a friend of mine lamented that a man who stepped into a fine eating establishment after her was served before her. Another friend was thrown under the bus completely in her office regarding the payment of a male employee over a female employee. Pay attention. A penis does equal power. I love men. I could never be accused of being a man-hater. A man-mocker? Yes. But I love men. Individually. My husband, though he is mercilessly funny and teases me daily, knows my power and capabilities and brags on me every chance he get. Why? Because he’s a good man. I will scream from the rafters how amazing my husband is. But corporate men? I hate you. No really. I don’t mean euphimistically. I think you are idiots. From the one at the marketing helm of Always maxi pads telling us to have a happy period to the dimwit who invented the thong.
For realizes? Will I do that? No. But if you worried for a nanosecond…………..GOOD.
As my darling Bobbi puts it