French Christmas

This is what I have found

Sometimes I get tired of the endless parade of celebrities we’re supposed to be like.

They are tall, blonde, and impossibly thin. Or they are short, fiery-tressed, and impossibly thin. Or they are raven-haired, sultry, and impossibly thin. Every once in awhile, the great Hollywood machine will feature someone who doesn’t exactly fit into one of those aforementioned cookie cutters, who might be curvy or not a size triple zero or not white, but that’s more exception than rule.

These Hollywood ladies are pretty much everywhere, selling all sorts of things: hair dye, lip stain, jewelry, bikini wax. Sometimes the message is subtle and sometimes it’s direct, but it’s always the same: they tell us if we buy these things, we can look just like them. And if we look like them, we can be happy, because we’ll be better than we are right now.

After awhile, I start to hate them. I hate to admit that to myself, and to you, but it’s true.

I, for example, have never met Jessica Simpson. I’m sure she’s probably a perfectly nice person. Having never met her, and because I know relatively nothing about her or what makes her tick, I have no right to judge or hate or experience the schadenfreude (aka pleasure derived from the misery of others) that I feel when I read about something unfortunate in the lives of the whole Simpson clan, and particularly Jessica herself.

But I do. I can’t help myself. Whenever I see the latest beautiful, photo-shopped Hollywood girl of the moment on the cover of a magazine, newly named as America’s sexiest woman and proclaiming that “long walks in fresh air and lots of fruit and vegetables” are what keep her looking so tight and toned, I want to bare my teeth and then bite something. Hard.

The saddest thing to me is that I don’t think any of these women actually believe in, or even say for that matter, these messages. I think that’s where marketing and PR and advertising comes in. But it’s hard to be angry at those intangibles, even though they are the very things that make us cry when we look in the mirror or try on skinny jeans that don’t fit (seriously, do they actually fit on anyone out there?) or crave an extra scoop of ice cream on a Friday night.

So instead, we get mad at the sales ladies. We get mad at each other. We get mad at our sisters. Isn’t that what we’re all supposed to be – sisters? You wouldn’t know it from the squabbles and cat fights that go on in your average, all-female based reality show. You wouldn’t know it from the glee I see on the face of your average American female at the grocery store when she reads about the some celebutante’s divorce, drug addiction, or cheating boyfriend. (Ahem, that would be me.) You wouldn’t know it from the way girls will look someone over at the bar and then whisper, a little too loudly, about how bad she looks in those jeans.

The relentless pedestals these goddesses are put on, and the un-ending pressure to fit into that mold, is turning us ladies against one another. I’m sure I’m not the first one to say it.

But I will add this: I don’t want it to be like this. I don’t want to feel this simultaneous anger and envy and helplessness every time I’m bombarded by another ad that features another beautiful woman telling me what’s wrong with me and how to fix it. I don’t want women to look at each other as rivals. I want us all to talk about something other than calories and fat and little black dresses and thighmasters.

But this is what I have found: to beat it, this mindset, you have to find a community of women out there (in addition to your friends and family, who are no doubt amazing), who will support you and challenge you and help you grow.  Who will add to you, instead of subtract. Who maybe know things about what you do, what your calling in life is, and can help you reach whatever is next for you.

And it’s more than possible; I found one at the end of 2010, a community of amazing women thinkers and artists and dreamers and writers, who want to think and dream and write together and see what we can make.

That community is #reverb10.

Note: This is not to say that there weren’t plenty of amazing guy writers participating in #reverb10, because there were! And they contributed posts and comments and thoughts that were every bit as great as the ladies’. I’m just particularly pleased with the little corner of the web where I see women reaching out and holding each other up, rather than pushing each other down.

#Reverb10 Prompt 12: Body Integration

This year, when did you feel the most integrated with your body? Did you have a moment where there wasn't mind and body, but simply a cohesive YOU, alive and present?

I don’t know much about my Polish and Sardinian ancestors, but I get the sense that they must have been peasants, laborers, and other salt-of-the-Earth types, and that my body comes to me from them.

I am short, but not what you would call petite. My frame is small, low to the ground so to speak, but surprisingly heavy-boned. My shoulders, my biceps, and my thighs are thick, made up of sheet upon sheet of muscle. My hip to waist ratio is the perfect S curve for slinging babies and baskets.

In other words, I might appear small at first glance, but after a second look, you would see that I am strong and sturdy – a rudder, not a sail.

This is not the body we worship in this country, the rail-thin dancer’s body whose thighs are miles apart, whose limbs are long and gracious. It is easy to get caught in the web of this ideology, until I go to yoga, where my arms and legs serve their purpose, where I twist and turn and lift, where I become airborn and shed all notions about my body and just live in it.

Footnote: Yes, I skipped prompt #11 … for now. But that’s only because it is freezing frostiness here in Chicago, and when I went to yoga last night, where it was all deliciously hot and warm and my body felt at home again, I needed to write this post first. To remind myself it’s not about how you look, it’s about how you feel.

From 8 to 0 in 60 Years

Jezebel has been doing a great job with the un-photo shop expose lately. I especially liked this week’s reveal of Mad Men photoshopping, which seems so ironic given that curvy, fleshy bodies were all the rage in the early 60s. (Do you know Mad Men even has a contract clause that forbids the actresses from getting too muscular, since women didn’t have biceps and triceps and defined lats in the halcyon days of Betty Crocker?)

Too bad for many of us those days are long over. And they’re not just over; someone straight up dropped a bomb on them, nuked them, shot them dead in the water. 

In other words, you can forget what Nigel said in The Devil Wears Prada.  (I’m referring to the scene, for those of you that missed it, where fashion stylist extraordinaire Nigel tells innocent ingénue Andrea that size four is the new six and two is the new four.) It’s not about two or four: zero is reigning queen supreme, the number to reach (or plummet to, depending on how you look at it). On the clothes racks, sweater after sweater after sweater lines up under the magic number zero, an endless parade of circles staring you in the face like a bunch of furious, hungry mouths.

Ask the sales girl (who of course happens to also be a size 0) for anything higher, and she’ll flash you the “Pretty Woman” look, a look of pity mixed with barely concealed contempt. That’s because the magic zero halo doesn’t float above your head.

For those that have been so blessed, those that have the sheer will and ability to abstain from carbs, sugar and calories in general, in theory a magical world opens up. A world where all clothes fit just right, nothing makes your butt look big, and the constant hunger pains are worth it all. In this world, as Kate Moss once said, “Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels” – allegedly. That’s what Cosmopolitan and Vogue and all the others would have us believe, anyways.

(Nevermind that I’ve yet to meet one dieter who feels her life is complete and perfect now that she can slide into a size zero and wear it like a hula hoop. Nevermind that I’ve never met a dieter who hasn’t eyed my lunchtime tuna fish sandwich like a lion watching a baby antelope. Nevermind that everything is not ok when you exclude 4 of the 5 food groups from your daily diet. But it will be, these dieters assure me, when they lose two more pounds. )

Of course, there are the girls out there who are, as they say, “naturally skinny,” who slip into a size zero effortlessly without forgoing the French fries or skipping dessert. But when I think of all the women I’ve known over the course of my life, I have to rack my brain for those who actually possess this unique and coveted genetic disposition. And I can come up with two. When I think of my college roommates, old soccer teammate, girls I waited tables with, girls I went to the bar with, girls I stayed up too late and told all my darkest secrets to, there’s this simple truth that no one wants to admit or speak of: Those. Skinny. Women. Are. Not. Like. Most. Of. Us.

The rest of us lean to the right of zero and more towards the zaftig number 8; as my friend Conti calls it, “the Mrs. Snowwoman shape.” Round on the top, round on the bottom. We’ve got curves like rolling hills, curves for making babies and nursing babies and slinging babies around on hips. Curves to curl up in, to wrap yourself around, to get lost in.

And these are the bodies I remember from my 1980s girlhood, when big hair, big shoulder pads, and hourglass figures were in. But somewhere along the way, somebody (was it you Calvin Klein?) pulled out their sword and sliced curvy number 8 right in two. Bottom severed from top, reduced to half of her former self, she was just two gaping zeros, holes that women tried to fill with lettuce and cabbage soup and diet pills, holes that women were endlessly trying to disappear into.

Some say there are trends in history regarding women’s bodies, and that it’s only a matter of time before curvy is once again desirable. Some point to the flappers of the 20s and how their sylph-like shapes were heralded, and the juxtaposition of these bodies with those of the next generation, the heart-stopping voluptuousness of Marilyn Monroe and Sophia Loren, so worshipped just a mere 60 years ago, the era and shape that Mad Men now embraces. These people would say that there is always a swing back and forth between lithe and curvy, like a pendulum, like a child who can’t decide if he wants cherry or strawberry.

But ladies, I would ask you not to wait for the pendulum’s swing, the next fashion revolution, the newest It Girl whose form will have us all scrambling towards a new ideal. Zero may reign for another 40 or 400 years; it may give way to something else.

In the meantime, love your body. Whether you know it or not, your body is a miracle of evolution, one of the most perfect inventions on this planet. Love your body so much that you stop trying to make it fit a number someone else randomly decided on. That number, whatever it may be, will always be changing, photoshopped away by magazine editors until it is just out of reach. But while our fickle and restless society will always be changing its demands, your beautiful, natural shape--whether it’s a 2 or a 12 or a 22—is a constant that will always be there.

An Alien Resurrection

 

Flipping through the channels the other day, I came across a scene from my childhood. In the flickering lights of a dystopian landscape, a wasp-like alien corners a sniveling corporate bureaucrat, its lips peeled back in anticipation of the meal to come. The image was so familiar I could slip it on like a glove. 

Yes, it’s true. I find great comfort in extraterrestrial creatures that dine on human flesh and have acid for blood.

As a child, I eschewed Barbie for Indiana Jones, Cabbage Patch Dolls for Optimus Prime. But the myth that reigned supreme over my formative years, the movie that I watched over and over and over until I could quote it like lines from the bible, was the Alien series. Not so much 1, 3 or 4, but particularly number 2, always and forever in my mind the sequel to end all sequels.

On top of the special effects (which for the time were pretty awesome) and the pulse rifles (I desperately wanted one), there was always Ripley. Most of you probably know her as Sigourney Weaver, but to me she will always be Ripley—the protagonist of all Alien films, the original (possibly only true) female heroine.

If you’re not familiar with her, let me give you the basics:

• Ripley is the only survivor of the original Alien encounter. (She’s asked to go on a second galatical expedition when a group of human colonists comes up missing—the premise of the second film.)
• Ripley knows how to operate every machine on the spaceship (much to the surprise of the Marines running the search-and-rescue).
• Ripley does not wear bright red lipstick or leather bustiers that make her girls jiggle around during the big action sequences. (She’s too busy killing aliens, duh.)
• Ripley holds and fires a gun the way you’re supposed to.
• Ripley finds and becomes a surrogate mother to Newt, an orphan living in the human colony overrun by aliens.
• Ripley always finds a way out when there is none.

Watching this movie over again as an adult, I am struck by the femininity at its core. And by femininity I don’t mean pink hair bows and stereotypical demureness and baking. I mean a femininity that is blatant and powerful and willing to do whatever is necessary.

You obviously don’t expect it to appear, much less be driving narrative force, in the imminent masculine domain of the sci fi genre. But in this film it sneaks up on you and cold-cocks you right in the face, the realization that this film is very much about women and mothers and how they survive. You have Newt, a tiny girl who finds a way to live amongst unthinkable horrors. You have Ripley, who through sheer will (rather than coyness or blatant sex appeal) becomes the leader/savior of a military-sanctioned mission. And you have the Alien queen herself, who Ripley must face in the final scene of the movie. Two mothers locked in battle, fighting for the lives of their offspring.

But I didn’t know any of this when I was 10 or 11 or 12. I just knew that Ripley was a serious badass who could outrun, outshoot, outwit, and outlive any Marine, scheming company man, or Alien Queen out there. And I wanted to be just like her.

Photo: Via Google Images. Because I read somewhere once that book covers and promotional posters--since they're promotional in nature--aren't subject to the same copyright laws as say, a paparazzi shot of Lady Gaga. So I'm really hoping that's true.

 

Good vs. Evil

Approximately one week ago, I was writing a complaint ad to The Gap about their latest marketing FAIL, the "Put Some Pants On" ad campaign. (If you haven't seen the posters yet, check out this article on Feministing.) Apparently someone at Gap thought it would be a good idea to shame their customers into beeling it to the nearest Gap and dropping a small fortune on Gap khakis, all to protect the world at large from unsightly cankles and cellulite.

I'm not sure what universe they imagined this ploy would actually work in, since when I feel bad about my body, I tend to avoid shopping. Especially if it's any sort of fabric that's going to cover the lower half of my body. But from the email they sent back to me, a standard corporate yadda yadda form letter, I can only surmise that the people at Gap don't generally have that problem. In fact, I could practically see the customer service reps (or whoever it is that responds to these types of complaints)  snickering at the "fat, bitchy girl from Chicago" as they slapped that response into a return email and hit SEND.

But just as I start to feel all is lost, I stumble across this article on Levi's new curve jeans--jeans that understand that not all hips and booties are created equal. And hope springs.

On the Shady Side of the Street

The other night when I got home, Aaron was watching a documentary about abortion. Somewhere down south, there’s a pro-life “crisis pregnancy center” that purposely leased a property right next to an abortion clinic. They even had their phone number configured so that it’s only one number different than the actual abortion clinic’s number.

The result of all their efforts is that many young women who try to make an appointment at the actual abortion clinic often end up at the “pregnancy center.” The pro-life workers at this clinic don’t tell these women where they are or that they don’t actually perform abortions, until after making them wait around for hours, watching videos of partial-birth procedures and being handed pamphlets full of misinformation. (They say, for example, that says abortion causes breast cancer and all kinds of nasty other stuff.)

Those women that do make it to the right side of the street are harassed by protesters outside the clinic, who promise them money, clothes, food—anything to keep them from going inside.

Whatever your stance is on this issue, there are two things about this that especially make me want to pull my hair out. One is that the vast majority of these girls are barely out of their teens. They are young, scared, and frightened. They are accosted by protesters, who pray and wave their rosaries and spit verses from the bible at them. I really don’t think this is God’s or Jesus’ or whoever’s idea of being merciful. 

The second – and you have to take this with a grain of salt, since I couldn’t make it through the whole film – is how absent the fathers are from the scene. So much shame, guilt and responsibility are thrown on the shoulders of these women, when we all know they didn’t miraculously knock themselves up. At some point, there where two people in the equation when the condom broke or that 14th shot of tequila was poured. So where are the men in this dialogue? Why are only the women held accountable in this debate?

The name of the documentary, if you’ve got the balls to watch it, is 12th and Delaware.