cosmo ate my sense of self
Jesus Christ, Cosmopolitan just needs to go.
I can't even begin an insightful or witty prologue for this blog entry, tonight, because I'm just too tired after baking for twelve hours, and I just want to get this out. My friend Taryn and I have had the same conversation a couple of times while at work, that we could see ourselves ruining our own lives if we actually read Cosmo. And, basically, what I mean by that is that Cosmo just makes me feel downright awful about myself.
I can't ever imagine plucking my eyebrows more than every other week, I don't bleach anything, I own no styling products (unless shampoo and Burt's Bees Milk and Honey Lotion count), and I just don't want to "know what he's thinking" if it's always going to be something like, "I love it when she takes control" or "I'm not worried about your thighs (unless they're huge)." But, of course, if I even just glance at the cover of Cosmo (or any of the other swill available in the "Women's Interest" section of the newsstand at the bookstore), then I invariably walk away feeling like the Seacoast's Most UnFeminine Homely Pariah. And I can't stand it!
I know. I know this is exactly what they're trying to do so that you'll buy the magazine and feed into its cyclone of self-hatred and then rush right out to buy products and shave every last hair off your body and then buy more of their magazines. I get it. And this isn't a feminist political rant. You know I could write that if I wanted to, but this is more about a woman feeling totally inadequate when in the mere presence of a 150-page rectangle of post-consumer waste reshuffled into the same dating advice as last month.
Honestly, I'm embarrassed that it even has this kind of power over me. It vomits the same information out in every issue (seriously...how many times do we have to read about the Kegel exercises?), and OBVIOUSLY it's about as intellectually or emotionally or spiritually stimulating as the celebrities it interviews (Paris Hilton, this means you). And it really irks me that just when I think I've reached a new pinnacle of self-awareness, I walk by Cosmo and I'm fourteen again. "I'm so scared of the 'Inverted Swan Suck' and I know I'll never be able to do it, but I'm pretty sure HE wants me to try and I don't know how to tell him how scared I am of it." or "Oh nooo big boobs are out, little boobs are in! Maybe I really SHOULD be thinking about a breast reduction." Or whatever.
I mean, it doesn't last long. I can usually snap right back out of it again. But it happens.
And guys don't escape this treatment either. I mean, these magazines tell you that no guy is really worth it if he doesn't have a killer job, a huge dick, and a shark's sense of ambition. I don't think kindness is ever really discussed. Honesty is, supposedly, very important, but only as long as he says the right thing always, and apologizes for anything you need him to apologize for, and only as long as his apologies are always heartfelt. Anything else is just a waste of your time, honey, and really, you're worth better.
Aren't we just worth the right kind of love for each of us? Even if it comes, as Joni Mitchell wrote, "to my door, with a sleeping roll and a madman's soul"? Even if it comes to us kind of rundown and confused, but sincerely hopeful? Silly and emotional and hectic? Nervous and aching to please?
I don't know how else to say it...I just get really sad. I'm just sad at what we've done to ourselves. We have this sweet capacity for real love. This gentle, warm, tender freshness, and we deny it all to pieces in favor of silicone and lies, and it just puts me at my wit's end. I know you know what I'm talking about. It takes so much energy to resist and to force thought patterns in a different direction. To dance and laugh and be real with each other. To speak honestly. To stop judging. To love sincerely.
In the most recent issue of Utne, I read a quick article about phone sex workers that really blew me away. At Wheaton, the Women's Studies department had a lot to say about sex workers, and I was always really interested in that particular worldview--something so alien to me, so I read this piece, totally absorbed in the lives of people who live such decidedly different lives from mine. The thoughts of one phone sex operator, a gorgeous young black man named Ray, really resonated with me:
"My name is Ray. I've been having phone sex off and on for 14 years. I was 19 when I started to embrace my sexy self. I see myself as a love doctor, or even a psychiatrist. I am a Venus, goddess of love. I create a sense of community for my regulars, including the closeted and married bi or gay men. I'm constantly soul-searching. I see a reflection of myself in all my callers. I help bring out their inner light. I try to heal the wounds that our closed-minded society inflicts. It may sound weird, but it's true. We as people should learn to talk and listen to our neighbors and share out inner light. Be aware of what makes us the same, what makes us one. I wish the world was run by phone-sex operators."
I just want us to get back to a place where we are real with each other. Where we are trembly and cautious and therefore brave in our loving. Where we're not reading magazines for "Tips to Make Your Butt Look Smaller When You're Getting Out of His Bed in the Morning" or "Make Him Think You're the Sex Goddess You've Always Wanted to Be"; but instead, reading books that make us understand our world and ourselves, listening to music that moves us, working hard at jobs that make us feel good, dressing in clothes that make sense to our own style and our own lives. Because we're so lovely, even in our fear, and we have so much to offer each other if we could just get past that fear. Aren't we supposed to be "resplendent avatars"? Aren't we?
I can't even begin an insightful or witty prologue for this blog entry, tonight, because I'm just too tired after baking for twelve hours, and I just want to get this out. My friend Taryn and I have had the same conversation a couple of times while at work, that we could see ourselves ruining our own lives if we actually read Cosmo. And, basically, what I mean by that is that Cosmo just makes me feel downright awful about myself.
I can't ever imagine plucking my eyebrows more than every other week, I don't bleach anything, I own no styling products (unless shampoo and Burt's Bees Milk and Honey Lotion count), and I just don't want to "know what he's thinking" if it's always going to be something like, "I love it when she takes control" or "I'm not worried about your thighs (unless they're huge)." But, of course, if I even just glance at the cover of Cosmo (or any of the other swill available in the "Women's Interest" section of the newsstand at the bookstore), then I invariably walk away feeling like the Seacoast's Most UnFeminine Homely Pariah. And I can't stand it!
I know. I know this is exactly what they're trying to do so that you'll buy the magazine and feed into its cyclone of self-hatred and then rush right out to buy products and shave every last hair off your body and then buy more of their magazines. I get it. And this isn't a feminist political rant. You know I could write that if I wanted to, but this is more about a woman feeling totally inadequate when in the mere presence of a 150-page rectangle of post-consumer waste reshuffled into the same dating advice as last month.
Honestly, I'm embarrassed that it even has this kind of power over me. It vomits the same information out in every issue (seriously...how many times do we have to read about the Kegel exercises?), and OBVIOUSLY it's about as intellectually or emotionally or spiritually stimulating as the celebrities it interviews (Paris Hilton, this means you). And it really irks me that just when I think I've reached a new pinnacle of self-awareness, I walk by Cosmo and I'm fourteen again. "I'm so scared of the 'Inverted Swan Suck' and I know I'll never be able to do it, but I'm pretty sure HE wants me to try and I don't know how to tell him how scared I am of it." or "Oh nooo big boobs are out, little boobs are in! Maybe I really SHOULD be thinking about a breast reduction." Or whatever.
I mean, it doesn't last long. I can usually snap right back out of it again. But it happens.
And guys don't escape this treatment either. I mean, these magazines tell you that no guy is really worth it if he doesn't have a killer job, a huge dick, and a shark's sense of ambition. I don't think kindness is ever really discussed. Honesty is, supposedly, very important, but only as long as he says the right thing always, and apologizes for anything you need him to apologize for, and only as long as his apologies are always heartfelt. Anything else is just a waste of your time, honey, and really, you're worth better.
Aren't we just worth the right kind of love for each of us? Even if it comes, as Joni Mitchell wrote, "to my door, with a sleeping roll and a madman's soul"? Even if it comes to us kind of rundown and confused, but sincerely hopeful? Silly and emotional and hectic? Nervous and aching to please?
I don't know how else to say it...I just get really sad. I'm just sad at what we've done to ourselves. We have this sweet capacity for real love. This gentle, warm, tender freshness, and we deny it all to pieces in favor of silicone and lies, and it just puts me at my wit's end. I know you know what I'm talking about. It takes so much energy to resist and to force thought patterns in a different direction. To dance and laugh and be real with each other. To speak honestly. To stop judging. To love sincerely.
In the most recent issue of Utne, I read a quick article about phone sex workers that really blew me away. At Wheaton, the Women's Studies department had a lot to say about sex workers, and I was always really interested in that particular worldview--something so alien to me, so I read this piece, totally absorbed in the lives of people who live such decidedly different lives from mine. The thoughts of one phone sex operator, a gorgeous young black man named Ray, really resonated with me:
"My name is Ray. I've been having phone sex off and on for 14 years. I was 19 when I started to embrace my sexy self. I see myself as a love doctor, or even a psychiatrist. I am a Venus, goddess of love. I create a sense of community for my regulars, including the closeted and married bi or gay men. I'm constantly soul-searching. I see a reflection of myself in all my callers. I help bring out their inner light. I try to heal the wounds that our closed-minded society inflicts. It may sound weird, but it's true. We as people should learn to talk and listen to our neighbors and share out inner light. Be aware of what makes us the same, what makes us one. I wish the world was run by phone-sex operators."
I just want us to get back to a place where we are real with each other. Where we are trembly and cautious and therefore brave in our loving. Where we're not reading magazines for "Tips to Make Your Butt Look Smaller When You're Getting Out of His Bed in the Morning" or "Make Him Think You're the Sex Goddess You've Always Wanted to Be"; but instead, reading books that make us understand our world and ourselves, listening to music that moves us, working hard at jobs that make us feel good, dressing in clothes that make sense to our own style and our own lives. Because we're so lovely, even in our fear, and we have so much to offer each other if we could just get past that fear. Aren't we supposed to be "resplendent avatars"? Aren't we?