Eat the Damn Cake

I used to wonder what women meant when they talked about needing beauty sleep and described looking worn and tired in the morning and the evening and while traveling and before putting on makeup and after having children and just in general. I used to look the same when I woke up as when I went to sleep. Sure, my face would be a little puffy, in a cute way, but I looked like myself.

I’d like to lie and say I’m definitely still in the bloom of my youth, but I’m a bad liar. The ONE TIME I tried to sneak out to see a boy, my mom caught me. Oh, and then the other time. OK! There were two times! See? I just told you. I can’t tell a lie.

The truth is, I can see where this is headed. I’m smart. Let’s not pretend. My neck is going to sag one day. Not yet. But one day. It’s preparing. I can feel where it’s soft and pliant, at the point where the base of my jaw meets with my neck. I don’t know anatomical words. Clearly.

And when I am tired, I look tired. I look worn. I sometimes look like I just crossed through a war zone, where I saw things that no one should live to see, and I am taking those things to the grave. Which is where I’m headed at the moment. My hair looks limp, my eyes are hollow, and there are shadowed dips in my face, trenches alongside my mouth, up to either side of my nose, where patches of dark have fallen asleep and won’t budge. There is no flattering angle I can turn towards the camera. There can be no cameras.

(this is the only part of my face you’re allowed to see)

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Earlier, I had worn this very sexy outfit.

A short, electric blue dress with leggings and high heeled boots. Big gold hoops. Oh, how I love big gold hoops. I will never have refined taste. But sexy—I can sometimes do that.

We were out. I crossed my legs and looked flirty.

We got back, the rest of the Sunday was supposed to be lazy, because of the rain. But then Bear wanted to go to Prospect Park and see the blossoming trees. We’d missed them last year, and he was determined.

“But it’s cold…” I said.

“Put on some warm clothes,” he said.

I put on these ancient bellbottoms that I inherited from a friend who realized that they were never going to be fashionable again. They didn’t used to fit. They were so big on me. Now all of my other jeans pinch meanly, in tender places. So I pulled the big, flopping bellbottoms on. And the brown sneakers I try never to wear. And an expressionless long-sleeved shirt.

(source)

“Oh, wow,” said Bear, coming into the bedroom. “You look so hot. What a great outfit.”

I looked at him for a long moment. “Are you serious?”

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I always remember having such an amazing time. For example, I remember Costa Rica, two years ago, when we went for those glorious five days. It was the first time I think I’d spent that much time with Bear. Before then, work always broke everything up. There was always more work.

And then, for five perfect days, we were alone, uninterrupted. There were the two six-hour bus rides over bumpy, complicated terrain. Monkeys in the trees. I could read the signs, but I couldn’t communicate. He could remember a few phrases, and I was embarrassed every time we had to try to talk to a native speaker. But it was amazing.

I remember coming out of the pool like a Bond babe, glistening, possibly in slow motion. In my black string bikini from Victoria’s Secret that a college friend had given me after she mail ordered it.

“Here—my boobs are too big for this. It might work for you.”

It showed off how flat I was, the cloth was so thin. And my butt was bouncing free and scandalous. But whatever. I felt perfectly proportioned, because I was having so much fun.

Fun can do that.

We watched the sun slide down the curve of the sky, spreading like yoke when it broke on the distant edge of the ocean.

I was definitely beautiful in Costa Rica.

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She was gorgeous. A regal profile, dusky skin, round thighs that narrowed into long, graceful legs in black leggings. She was curvy, but she wasn’t the classic hourglass shape. She was something unique. Something captivating. I liked her tight, brave outfit. I liked her confident face and her perfect posture. There was something queenly and dramatic and comfortable about her.

We were on the subway. I elbowed Bear. “That woman is really beautiful.” I had to tell someone!

He glanced around. “Which one?”

“In the leather jacket!” Obviously.

Then I saw that her friend, slender and with hair molded into big, stiff curls, was wearing the same jacket. She was also beautiful. I hadn’t noticed her before.

“Her?” Bear nodded towards the friend.

“Leggings,” I said.

He looked thoughtful for a second. Then he whispered, “Kinda chunky.”

“Excuse me?” I knew I hadn’t misheard, but I hoped for a frantic moment that we could pretend I had misheard and he could say, “Kinda spunky…. and awesome.”

“Chunky.”

The world ended.

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This is a guest post from Rebecca Neff Brown. She sent me a photo of herself with buzzed hair and I was like, “OH MY GOD, Please write a guest post for me!” Because she is obviously awesome, and because I am a passionate proponent of buzzcuts. I’m letting her introduce herself:

I’m a personal stylist and fat fashion blogger. I live in Seattle, WA with my beardly and amazing husband, Bob, and our little, furry dog named Waffles. Recently I got a buzzcut, and I love it, and now I am going to tell you ALL about it.

I knew it was coming. The buzzcut.

I had grown my hair out for years after a particularly jarring haircut that made me look, in my husband’s words, like a Romulan. After two years of growing it out, it was luscious and long and braidable. I got tired of it and just cut it all off one day. Not buzzed-short, but short. And then I got it cut shorter. Then I buzzed the sides. Then I cut the top shorter…. It was calling to me, the buzzcut. It was only a matter of time before I went all the way.

It was rainy and freezing, and I found an amazing parking spot right across the street from the barber shop where my husband gets his hair cut. I felt like it was destiny, getting a good parking spot like that. The shop wasn’t crowded at all, it was a Thursday afternoon. Out came the clippers with the #4 guard, and off came my hair.

And readers? I love it.

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A version of this piece also appears on Psychology Today. 

I was not sexy last night. Bear and I went for a walk in the Brooklyn Bridge Park. Bear was like, “We’re leaving in ONE second,” because I kept stalling to gchat with a friend. I was like, “I need to put clothes on!” And he was like, “Well, you have ONE second,” and I put on leggings, a giant floral print dress (I can’t remember why I have this), and a bulky sweater. And scuffed, cheap boots. Not cutely scuffed. Just scuffed and flaking, so you can see that they aren’t real leather.

My hair is a bad length. People keep telling me, “No! It’s so cute!” And I know that’s not right. Either they can’t remember that it used to be cuter, they’re being polite, they’re lying, or they haven’t seen something cute in a long time. My hair has grown out from a buzz cut without attention, and it turns out that I have like forty different cowlicks, and it flips up on the sides like I’m trying to look like I’m from the forties, and it’s puffy, and it looks like a badly made wig. That’s just the truth.

Why is it like this? Because of my genes. And because I keep not doing anything about it.

I was not sexy at all, when we walked along the waterfront. A group of Orthodox men went by, and I thought for a second that I might seem almost respectable to them, in my shapeless, full cover attire. Almost.

Bear stopped me by the base of the carousel. He was saying something about me being beautiful, and I was handling it well. Not laughing or anything. Trying to respect his opinion.

And then I thought about the Killing Us Softly (4, 2/2) video I had watched earlier that day. In it, Jean Kilbourne talks about beauty and gender and food and sex, and she says:

“A visitor from another planet who just looked at our popular culture would have to come to two conclusions:  the first is that sex is really the only thing that matters …and the second is that sex and sexiness belong only to the young and beautiful. If you’re not young and perfect looking, you have no sexuality. And I think the ultimate impact of that is profoundly anti-erotic. Because it makes people feel less desirable. It certainly makes women feel less desirable. How sexy can you be if you hate your body?”

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Kate Torgovnick, the fantastic mastermind behind Kate-Book.com (yes, there’s a site for people with my name, because we rule the world), sent me this piece yesterday. It’s about Kates and plastic surgery. Some of the more prominent Kates in our ranks—Kate Winslet, Kate Walsh, and Cate Blanchett (I guess she counts)—are speaking out against it. Kate T joined them, writing:

“I almost see it as if women, as a group, are on strike, trying to push back against the unreasonable beauty ideals that are driving us all freaking insane. Which kind of makes the woman who gets plastic surgery the scab who crosses the picket line. I understand why she does it. But ouch.”

And she sent the piece to me because I write about body image, so I’m probably against plastic surgery, too.

Except it’s a little bit more complicated, because of the two nose jobs.

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