Eat the Damn Cake

This is so incredibly awkward.

I just typed a sentence and backspaced it. Typed it again. Backspaced. Now you know I’m on a PC. What is with the Mac not having a backspace key? Does anyone know why they decided not to? I think it’s a design flaw. I don’t find the design “intuitive.” Someone told me it was more intuitive. Is that code for “women are supposed to like it”?

OK, OK. I’m stalling. I’ll just do this:

I want to have a baby.

Is there a way to make that sound less…like I want to have a baby?

I am thinking about wanting to have a baby.

There. Better.

I have written about this before. But I feel it is my duty to report that the condition is worsening.

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I had a terrible scare recently. I thought for a second that maybe, somehow, I was pregnant. I had managed to mess up my birth control and simultaneously gain like ten pounds. I took a pregnancy test. And for a horrible, shocking moment, I wished that it would be positive.

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I used to think it was cool to be tough. I still think that, a little. I used to want to be described as “fiery,” and “stubborn,” and even “difficult,” because that sounded like someone who might disguise herself as a boy and train to be a knight in the king’s court, or tame dragons, or, even in this world, be pretty kickass.

(um, yes! That armor might be a little tight on me, but I could definitely do the cloak)

The last thing I wanted to be described as was “nice.” And the last thing I wanted to do was cry.

It turns out, I’m pretty nice. At least, as far as I can tell. And I cry all the time these days.

Crying has always felt like quitting, to me. Crying happens at the very end, when all else fails. It’s sort of shameful.

Crying is girly, and girly didn’t feel like me.

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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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Sometimes I think we get too specific about beauty. We think we know exactly what it’s made of.

I can look at my face in the mirror and describe to you at great length exactly what would have to change in order for me to be gorgeous. I am mathematical in my precision. The same with my body. A couple inches added to the length of my calves, a tightening of the skin on my back, a slight adjustment to the shape of my breasts. I am surgical in my attention.

And then I remember that once, I didn’t think of beauty as a string of measurements and numbers and proportions. I didn’t have to think of it, really, because it was obvious that I was it. So, the day before my 26th birthday, I want to pause and remind myself of another side of beauty.

Here are some reasons why I was a gorgeous little girl:

I was smart. I could figure things out.

I had brown hair. Which I thought was the best color.

I had beautiful things. Like an old wedding dress that a tiny great aunt had once worn and a veil that an aunt had worn. I rocked that outfit. I was a princess in it, and not necessarily a bride. I had dresses covered in flowers. I had shirts with trains. I had a dinosaur costume.

I looked different from my friends. Which was important, because I could distinguish my beauty.

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So it’s the last day of Body Image Warrior Week (creation of the fabulous Sally McGraw of Already Pretty), and I wanted to share my contribution with you. You guys have heard this stuff before. But it doesn’t mean I’m gonna stop saying it You can also find this piece on the Huffington Post, and on some awesome BIWW blogs. 

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I write about body image because I love eating cake, but women around me are always dieting.

I write about body image because I have been told it doesn’t matter, but every year, more girls have eating disorders.

I write about body image because everyone cares about beauty, no matter how much we tell ourselves we don’t. And because, really, we are beautiful, no matter how much we tell ourselves we aren’t.

I write about body image because I moved to Manhattan, where suddenly everyone was very thin and very careful about eating and always going to the gym and suddenly it occurred to me that I was not thin enough and not pretty enough and very bad at going to the gym.

I write about body image because I noticed that after I noticed that I was maybe not thin enough, I stopped eating some of my favorite foods. They slipped out of my diet. I said no to dessert. I felt guilty when I gave in and made pasta for dinner. I felt guilty all the time, because all the time, I was cheating. There were all of these rules about what I could and couldn’t eat, and how much of it was OK, and I had somehow memorized them without even being aware of it, and now, when I broke them, I was ashamed.

I write about body image because I got a nose job because my big Jewish nose seemed like the opposite of beauty. Because when I told people that famous, beautiful women never have big Jewish noses, they always said, “What about Barbara Streisand?” and that was a long time ago. No one can think of anyone more recent. And also, because when my boyfriend who became my husband told me over and over that my nose was beautiful, I didn’t really believe him, even though I should have.

(me, being sexy with my nose taped, after my second surgery)

I write about body image because people make fun of people who get cosmetic surgery, even though when I got cosmetic surgery, there was nothing funny about it. I hated my face. I wanted to destroy my old face.

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I’m writing this because someone wrote to me the other day and said, “Have you ever written about having friends of different ages? I think you might have, but if you haven’t, maybe you could do that?” I have, on my other blog. But I wanted to do it again, here, anyway.

When I was fourteen, I had a good friend who was eight. She kicked butt. I can’t even begin to describe to you how cool this girl was. We used to dress up together, in queen outfits, and ridiculous jewelry, and then meet in the woods and act surprised.

“Is that you, Queen Sanla? I recognize your purple queen dress.”

“It is I, dragon tamer. Tell me your name, for though I have heard the legends of your talent with the northern dragons, I had only half believed they were real.”

“Brellen Vek. I have made a long journey to reach you. I’m afraid the news is sad.”

I was writing a book, and she was a character in it. I promised to dedicate it to her. When, inevitably, it got published. As it was sure to do, because it was AMAZING.

OK, it wasn’t amazing. It was terrible. Very terrible. The evil character was called “the great evil,” if that gives you an idea.

When I was fifteen, I had a good friend who was eighty.

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This is a topic I try to avoid.

This is what my mind did just now, to arrive at it: OK, let’s see…what have we got…did bras, don’t have enough belt pictures yet to write a post about how much I love belts, Bear will kill me if I write another post about our relationship, food could be good, but I’m full…a post about how cute my cat is? No? OK…then God.

But reader AT asked me about belief and spirituality, and I’m gonna answer, damnit. Because that’s the kind of person I am (a person who occasionally answers questions).

I don’t believe in God. It bothers my mom. It bothers a lot of people, actually, who don’t even know me.

I don’t believe in God, but it’s not because I never tried.

When I was a kid, my best friend was born again. It happened very suddenly. One day, no one was talking about God, and the next, she was telling me that I was going to go to hell, because I was Jewish. My parents were going to go to hell. I remember her words. “It’s a rocky road to hell.” I don’t remember the context. I just remember thinking of ice cream. And also being offended. There was no way she was right. I was pretty sure I knew just about as much as she did about the world, and pretty sure someone had been telling her lies.

But she swore that there was gold dust on her hands, at her bible camp. God had done that. And that sounded really cool.

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