Eat the Damn Cake

(source)

I was eighteen. It was Valentine’s Day. I didn’t have plans. So I took myself shopping, on a whim. I set some important rules: you can only buy pink or red stuff and it has to be romantic.

Somehow, I hadn’t been properly educated about the holiday. Or maybe I had, but it hadn’t stuck. I don’t like little chocolate candies with unexpected fillings, and I think that probably has a lot to do with the failure. I also don’t like the heart shape*, which I found very challenging to draw evenly as a child.

I didn’t like it when the guys I dated got me flowers. My mom gardens too much. I know exactly which flowers I like. Her parents were florists. My dad has really good taste in flowers, and every Valentine’s Day, he gets her this truly colossal bouquet, which she puts in the humungous crystal vase on the table. Later, she divides the flowers up and puts them in little vases all over the house. And it’s all very beautiful. So I am a snob. And I wished they wouldn’t even try. They were doing it because they felt they should. They were poor, and they shouldn’t have been spending their money on flowers. I wished they would save it instead.

(I love that wildflower look. They never sell it on Valentine’s Day. source)

Continue Reading »

I’m over at Oh My Stinkin’ Heck today, guest posting. Heather, who writes OMSH, is awesome, and you’re going to have to go over there to see what her blog is like, because how can I summarize a blog with that title? I wouldn’t want to spoil the anticipation.

You may recognize the guest post from a while back. It’s called “I used to be a skinny person,” and it’s about, well, that. I used to be really skinny. My ribs stuck out a little. Now, not so much. I discovered Insomnia Cookies and how fantastically diverse grilled cheese sandwiches can be, and I never went back.

* * *

Un-roast: Today I love how square my shoulders are. I think they’re like my dad’s shoulders, except the girl version. Which is actually very nice.

New post on Un-schooled, about the film Race to Nowhere. It’s really good. And a really big deal right now. And the screening I went to was the first time I’ve gotten in somewhere crowded and trendy for free as “press.” It was ridiculously exciting. Probably more exciting than it should’ve been. You know what? Whatever. Nothing wrong with being excited.

This is the best idea ever. It is not mine. Andrea Owen thought of it, and she did it here. I found her through Plus-Size Models Unite. And now it’s my turn. This is a letter to my body:

Dear Body,

This is surprisingly hard to start. Usually I just write a sentence and go from there. But there’s so much here, that it feels almost impossible. There’s so much history. You’ve been there, through everything. Before I knew who I was, or what it was to be alive, you were there. You were me before I was my mind. Weird, right?

You do everything right. I’m the one who messes things up.

You let me move and walk and breathe and taste and experience pleasure and color and everything. You hardly ever falter.

You must be baffled by me. I’m always telling you you’re not good enough, and here you are, doing everything you need to. You must be thinking, “What does she want from me?”

I get frustrated with you for not fitting random aesthetic standards that you have no good reason to fit. Once, I held you down and tried to cut off your nose. That was incredibly mean of me.

Continue Reading »

There’s this woman who goes to my gym. She’s always a few ellipticals down from me. She is very tall, and all of her bones stick out. I try not to look at her more than twice or three times. I don’t want to be rude. She is wearing a tank top that flops. It billows. Her arms pump back and forth, the sinew stringy and sharp, her wrists like glass stems. Her face is gaunt, the skin pulled back.

It’s a little like watching someone cutting herself. Like watching a diabetic, like Bear, eat a bucketful of maple syrup. Except maybe if someone was sitting there with a knife, slicing their own arm open, we could say something.

(source)

We don’t say anything to each other anyway. We walk past homeless people on the street. It becomes easier and easier, the longer you live in the city. Someone is crying on the subway, but it feels too awkward to ask if they are OK.

Part of the problem is that we’ve learned that saying something is almost always offensive. It’s presumptuous. The people who say something are guys on the street who yell things at women. They’re casual acquaintances who make an inappropriate remark about how much weight we’ve been gaining. They are people without tact or sensitivity. We have learned to be very careful, because we don’t know the whole story. Because we know that everyone makes different decisions. Because we’re supposed to respect everyone’s decisions. Because we don’t want to step on any toes.

Continue Reading »

It’s a revolution out there! Or so I hear. Women with small breasts are taking over the world! Cosmo told me so. Or maybe it was Glamour. I can’t keep these magazines straight. The New York Times told me so. Everything is changing. Within a week or two, Christina Hendricks will be getting reduction surgery. She’ll ask her surgeon, “How small can you make them? Can we go down to a double A?”

“But Christina… your career…”

“JUST DO IT!”

Every time I go bra shopping, I write a post about it. It’s like I can’t even help myself. Because every time feels like a revelation. When I was fitted for a strapless bra to go under my wedding gown, the saleswoman was very impressed with my maid of honor’s breasts. She measured me at a B and, losing interest, left me to fend for myself. Sort of like how the runt gets abandoned sometimes while the healthy cubs gobble up all the resources. My tiny voice from the darkened corner of the cavernous dressing room shook a little when I cried, “Can anyone help me find a bra? A bra for my wedding? I’m so cold…”

Continue Reading »

Yesterday’s post and some of the comments on it made me think about beauty as a spectrum. You know: ugly, plain, decent looking, pretty, very pretty, beautiful, super sexy, MEGAN FOX (I can’t think of any Victoria’s Secret models names off the top of my head). It’s a very persistent idea. It follows me around places. It enters without knocking. It sees things it shouldn’t. It won’t go away. But it’s wrong.

“See?” say the researchers who are studying beauty and sex and love and fun, “When everyone in this room divides into couples, they always pick partners who are the same level of attractiveness as themselves. See that?”

But I don’t really see it. And I’m not just saying that to be like, “No….we’re all one family….we’re all a part of the human race… I don’t see differences, I only see how we’re all united by our gorgeous souls” or something. I mean, I think the couple who the researchers are defining as the most attractive looks kind of boring. Normal, I should say. They’re just the closest to a certain ideal of beauty. They’re tall and thin and blond. Maybe it’s my short, dark, Eastern European Jewish genes, but tall blondness isn’t my favorite look. No offense to tall blonds! You guys are definitely lovely! But my eye is drawn to people who look more mysterious.

That’s just me. And sure, I’m weird. But so are a lot of people. In fact, I think we probably make up the majority.

Continue Reading »

In old books, especially, women and girls are constantly being described as “plain.” “One sister was so lovely it looked as though she were made of the finest spun gold. The other was mousey and plain.” There’s always “the plain one.” The perky, thrilling girls who torment and delight and influence everyone around them are never plain. The plain girls drift silently to the back. They vanish. We assume that they must be dull, boring, and slightly stupid as well. Plainness is like a disease; it infects every part of a person.

People don’t use the word a ton these days, but I’m still terrified of it. I’m waiting for the day when someone will call me “plain” and all the potential and vivacity and spunk will drain out of my life and I will put on a big brown bonnet and retreat to my corner.

(there it is. waiting. source)

But seriously, I hate that word.

Continue Reading »