So Over It (or Everyone Should Just Shut Up and Eat Their Own Burger)

This is me being so over talking about women's bodies.  About my body.  This is me begging you to wear whatever it is you want to wear without worrying about sagging skin or cellulite or knobby knees.  This is me after a harrowing weekend of clothes shopping (one of my least favorite things ever) and that fresh hell they call the ladies' fitting room.  After two years of nearly constant sickness and a year of significant weight loss, this is me being over the way almost-strangers feel entitled to pass judgment on other women's health, weight, eating habits, or medical treatments.  Right now, I am closing the curtains, shutting the door, locking it down.  I can't change others, but I can make sure that I never again make those kinds of statements or judgments.

It starts nearly at birth.  Of course, I don't remember those days, but I have a little girl now.  I've seen it in action.  The comments about her appearance above all else, her "prettiness."  I know I've done it myself to others.  To her.  I find myself looking at her and thinking, "I hope she doesn't inherit my pancake butt" or "I'm so glad she got her daddy's nose."  And then I catch myself and feel a little sick. This is a child who was reading at age four, who never meets a stranger, who has the biggest heart.  So what does it matter if she has two heads and a prehensile tail?

Except it does.  It matters when you start school and your body isn't shaped exactly like the majority of the other little girls.  It matters when clothes aren't made or marketed for petite/tall/skinny/fat girls or women, and you're left facing that fluorescent-lit dressing room mirror in ill-fitting clothes that make you feel isolated and different and not at all like the happy-looking women plastered all over the shop walls.  It matters when puberty hits and you're the only one who gains fifty pounds or still looks like a nine-year old.  Girls get labeled "late bloomers" or "very developed." Boys get called, uh, wait a minute.  They don't get labeled anything.

If only it were a matter of getting through childhood and adolescence, it might be manageable.  But it doesn't get better.  Finish college -- hell, be the valedictorian -- what's the next question? When are you getting married?  And this from people who don't know your telephone number or your taste in movies.  When are you "starting a family"? (Because you can't call two people a family, apparently.) When are you having another?  You're too thin.  You look anorexic.  You should eat more.  You're doing too much.  STOP!

I am married to kind, loving, attractive man.  We are the same age, have similar levels of education, similar temperaments, etc.  I have never once heard him debate a piece of clothing because he didn't like a certain part of his body.  Nobody cares what he eats.  No relative strangers ever suggest that any of his problems might be a result of his own ignorance, neglect, or inability to care for himself.  Doctors and other professionals never treat him like he's hysterical or over-wrought.  In fact, most doctors and the like are the same gender as he, so he isn't some mysterious other to them.  People don't suggest that he should do less before he wrecks his health. When we were expecting our daughter, no one felt entitled to touch him or ask personal questions and offer comments about our chosen delivery method or feeding choices.

So what does all this rambling rage have to do with anything?  Simply this.  It doesn't matter to me what your "body-type" is.  I couldn't care less if you are a vegetarian, a paleo devotee, or die-hard burger aficionado.  I don't care what you choose to wear.  If it makes you feel strong and confident, you should be able to wear it.  Whatever it is.  Regardless of whether or not you have breasts and hips.  I want you to be in charge of your own health and well-being, communicating with your doctors and ignoring the incessant babble of pseudo-medical advice that is constantly on offer from every talk-show-watching, internet browsing, random person you meet.  Make retailers offer women's clothes that are sized by actual measurements, not arbitrary number sizes meant to inflate the egos of upper-middle class women facing the middle age spread.  Refuse to answer probing questions about your relationship status or procreative plans.  Praise your little girls for their brains, their kindness, their ability to climb or dance.  But most of all, just stop talking about weight, about most hated body parts, about genetic "flaws."  Stop analyzing the bodies of celebrity women, or even women who pass you in the street.  There are so many more interesting (and important) things out there to discuss.  This little rant is for me too.  I'm just as guilty as everyone else of obsessing about my appearance and making mindless comments to others.  So, here's what I'm going to try.  If I wouldn't say it to (or about) a man (or a boy), I shouldn't say it.

And also, the next person who tells me to eat something, is getting force-fed my copy of The Feminine Mystique.

[Get Out of My] Cabin Fever

I officially have "Get Out of My Cabin" Fever.  This particular illness differs from the more traditional, Cabin Fever, in that it requires every else in the house to leave and enjoy the outside world, whilst I remain home in my cozy nest, alone.  Except for the dog.  He can stay.

He's the strong, silent type.

We've been hit hard the past two weeks.  First there was the scourge of mothers everywhere....head lice.  There was treating and combing and laundry.  Lots of laundry.  And then there was more treating and more combing and more laundry.  If you see a kid at preschool running around in a swimming cap, that's going to be my kid.  We are NOT risking this madness again.  Also, I had to go three days without washing my hair or using any kind of hair product.  Yeah, there won't be any pictures of that.  Or maybe that's not really a photo of Sam above.  Needless to say, there has been quite a bit of homebound time during the Lice Debacle of 2015.

Everything but the Xanax

And then, just when I thought we couldn't have any more togetherness, there was the ice storm.  And no, it was nothing like the movie.  Here in the South, the world shuts down whenever any sort of frozen precipitation falls from the heavens, so we've been home now for three days with no preschool (Presidents' Day was thrown in just for fun.)  I have taken to hiding in the back of the house as soon as my husband gets home and takes over as Chief Question Answerer/Admirer/Edifier/Entertainer.  We say things like, "Mommy is taking a bath," which is code for, "Don't bother Mommy while she watches Star Trek:Voyager in peace."

Lest I sound like the biggest villain since whoever cancelled Arrested Development, allow to me clarify that we did celebrate Valentine's Day as best we could as a family, and I made pancakes with Kiddo this morning just because.  I also allowed my husband to join me in the back of the house to watch the mid-season premiere of The Walking Dead (yes, we're an episode behind.)  So I have my moments of soft-heartedness.  Only moments though.

Back to zombies, however.  What is the deal with the second halves of seasons on this show?  Last year we had to wade through at least six episodes of the separated group whining, I mean, wandering through the woods and a whole lot of not much else.  The first half of the current season was action-packed and ended with a BANG (literally.)  And now, here we are again in the Slough of Despair, directionless, whiny, and killing off one of the only currently interesting characters.  I am so sick of Conflicted Rick with his Furrowed Brow, and now it seems (at least as far as the mid-season premiere went) that he has passed this disease on to the perpetually hopeful Glenn.  Anyway, fingers crossed that the second episode is better tonight.  Also, on a side note, there is a special place reserved in hell for people who post spoilers on Facebook.  Ever heard of a DVR?  Or a ROKU?  Official Facebook pages for shows, this goes for you too!  (You'll notice that I was VERY careful to word my complaints about the show in very non-specific language above.)

While I'm in such a sunny mood, I'll also post a mini-review of Lena Dunham's Not That Kind of Girl, which finally came in on my reserve at the library.  (There were something like thirty people ahead of me.  This is not hyperbole.)  I added my name to the list, pretty much as soon as it came out -- you know, somewhere between the release announcement and the shitstorm of accusations that followed.  I've seen Dunham called all kinds of unrepeatable things -- not the least of which were that she was a child predator -- online and in print by a whole herd of angry people.  So when the title finally came in to my little library with my name on it, my excitement was tinged with curiosity from reading so much negative press.  I read the book in two days, so obviously, it was entertaining.  Reading this book convinced me of two things: #1 - Lena Dunham is awesomeamazingsupercoolsmartfunnycleverkindredspirit.  #2 - All those KneeJerks (as I am henceforth dubbing them) didn't actually read the book.  Now there's a shock.  

So what is their (the KneeJerks) problem with Lena Dunham?  Is it really that she was curious about what the human body looked like when she was very little?  Is it the fact that she talks about what she actually thought and felt as a young person in a completely honest, open, and straightforward way?  Or is that she is a woman who is comfortable in her own skin, at ease with own thoughts, and unapologetic about her personality and temperament? Perhaps if she showed some sort of shame about her not-so-Hollywood body they could forgive her being smart, funny, and a woman.  I am so over the dismissal of powerful women as bitches or perverts, as if being a woman in charge is somehow unnatural. 

Ok, I'm getting riled up, and this isn't the day to risk that.  So we'll move on.  Before we do, though, on a semi-related note, here's a link to a great Salon article on the power of female nudity. Do yourself a favor and read it with an open mind.

Well, Kiddo has had all the alone time she can muster, and there is a little face at my door every couple of minutes now with some manufactured reason why I need to be interrupted.  And I just used the words "unless you're on fire or dying" in a sentence to her, so yeah, I'd better go.  Plus, there are still papers to grade (only five, so that's not too bad.)  Tomorrow it's back to school.  FOR EVERYONE!

Good News, Bad News #LikeaWriter

Good news first, okay?  Yesterday was my first meeting with my new class of freshman comp, and it was great.  Sixteen really wonderful ladies who seemed engaged and eager.  What more could I ask for?  Also on the good news front, I got two more sections lined up for the fall semester.  Really excited about all the time to work once Kiddo is doing the kindergarten thing.  Just have to get her registered on Friday (also exciting.)

On the not-exactly-bad-news-but-not-so-great-either side of things?  I got my hair trimmed yesterday.  (Yay!) Unfortunately, I wasn't very specific about how much I wanted off, and it came out a little shorter than I imagined.  (Bummer.)  Oh, well.  Hair grows.  At least she cut it the way that I like it.

This is as much of my face as anyone is allowed to see today.  Made for an awkward morning.

Now for the actual bad news.  Like much of the bad news out there, this little doozie started as good news.  Sunday night on the testosterone fest that is the SuperBowl, Always aired a shortened version of their #likeagirl campaign commercial.  One commercial about the female empowerment in a sea of beer, trucks, and sex.  One.  Now, allow me to preface my impending rant with this little qualification: I am not a fan of retail companies using things like feminism/girl power/whatever-you-want-to-call-it to shill a product.  (I'm looking at you, Dove.)  But as far as girl power commercials go, this one was pretty good.  The only reference to the brand at all was at the very end of the spot and was simply a flash of the name Always.  And the message was spot on.  From doing things "like a girl" to more R-rated insults like, "pussy," being told you do things like you have two X chromosomes is almost never intended as a compliment.  Where as phrases like, "Man up" and "Grow a pair" imply a need for testicles in order to be brave or assertive, or even skilled.

So what I'm about to say now, is nothing that you can't read elsewhere.  There are lots of writers/reporters/bloggers/pissed-off-women out there writing their fingers to the bone about the Twitter backlash to Sunday night's commercial, the super-original #likeaboy.  Yes, from sofas and recliners everywhere, hordes of brave men went online to demand a menstrual product commercial of their own, one that demands that we all stop using the insult "like a boy."  Oh wait.  You've never heard anyone say that in a derogatory fashion? (Or seen a man menstruate for that matter.)  The closest you've ever come is the old chestnut, "Boys will be boys," always said with a wink and a nod to their charming rascality?  Yeah, me too.

Here's the thing.  There is nothing I can do about the basement dwellers and frat bros who participate in Twitter trends like, #likeaboy and #NotAllMen.  Arguing with them, pointing out the inequities between men and women's status in this country is an exercise in futility.  What I can do is plead with the men I know and love to stop and think before posting another mindless rejoinder to Twitter with one of these hashtags.  Does what you're about to type build up women?  (Or humans in general, for that matter.)  If not, then don't post it.  A television commercial that celebrates being female is not an assault on men or manhood.  In fact, it has NOTHING to do with manhood, and until men start making less than women for the same work, struggling with advancement because they are perceived as baby machines, objectified in every form of media (including ads for products marketed to them), harassed on the street and told to smile about it, published less, had their bodies criticized and analyzed more, mocked by pundits for their hairstyle and makeup, and basically told to go home where they belong, I'm not worried about you being marginalized by some smart little girls with confidence.

My suggestion to all the men out there who have amazing girls and women in their lives?  Go to Twitter and post about that.  Tell the world how your daughter won the science fair #likeagirl.  Your wife kicked ass in a marathon #likeagirl.  Your mother fought cancer valiantly #likeagirl.  If you don't know any women or girls out there doing things #likeagirl, then I suggest you leave your house/office/men's-only-club/panic room/fallout bunker and mingle with the other half of the world's population.  But be warned.  We take no prisoners, just #likeagirl.