Things I Think About - FMT
Well, the little lady just crossed the eight month threshold and I'm slowly but surely picking up some projects that were nothing but random flickers at the back of my muddled mind for the first few surreal months of the tether-baby stage of having a kid.
The mind has been abuzz the whole time, though alternately flooded and sputtering, depending on the level of sleep deprivation.
But the topic that has dominated my life for months now is boobs. I've always had a tenuous relationship with my own chestal region, and the experience of nursing has pushed personal boundaries to the point that I am flat out bored with my misnamed "fun bags". While I don't mind actually nursing, pumping is a whole different story. Regardless of the method, I am so very weary of the constant demand of time from the production of my tits. I have to plan to pump or feed, block off time for the tedious task of harvesting what TJ has so delicately titled "boob snot". Not to mention washing bottle nipples and pump parts and all sorts of amazing accoutrements that can't simply go in a dish washer without being shredded. I like to think of it as having a full-time boob job.
My discomfort with my breasts began in my very early teens when they just wouldn't stop developing. Not only did it become difficult to find clothing that fit me, the larger they grew, the more it changed how people interacted with me. And on some level, the bigger the tits, the more sexualized you become in our culture, whether you want it or not. This coming from a girl who was raised to be sexually repressed.
How the hell do you deal with sexual attention when you don't even realize you have a sexual drive of your own yet? I even went to a religiously affiliated college, in the hopes to play down my inherent sexuality while working in theatre. But even there, if you had noticable tits, you were cast as a mother or a whore. Ya know, the religious versions of being sexually active. And I know I wasn't the only girl there that dealt with this particular issue...
Through on-line discussions, I was recently introduced to some conservative feminine gender identity writing that literally claims that the ideal role of females revolves around being a "womb-man". I mean, the very word originates from that definition (or so they would have you think)! So keep those bellies churning and boobs producing, ladies, if you want to fulfill your heavenly identity!
As I get older, the more I realize that it's not my breasts' fault that being sexualized by the "male gaze" is reductive to me as a whole person. Their function is natural, valuable, healthier for my kid and actually less expensive than the formula alternative. But I absolutely despise the reductive nature of defining that function as my "role" in the world. I've spent my life fighting against female stereotypes in my own identity, to the point that as a teen I thought I simply failed at being a girl, 'cause the traditional definitions I was taught didn't fit who I was.
Let me emphasize that. Rather than attempt to conform to societal roles (and the extreme religious ones in particular), I assumed I was a failure at being feminine. For many years, I wasn't sure what that made me, 'cause I was still alienated from my own sexuality and completely uncomfortable in my own skin.
In my 20s I put a lot of time and energy into reclaiming those aspects of myself. During that time, I also rejected the idea of being any sort of mother or housewife, not because those things are inherently undesirable, but because I was terrified of returning to the false definitions of my female identity, of being locked into a role that was counter to who I knew myself to be.
But even sexual freedom and independence involved femininity traps. No matter what your approach to sexuality, there are methods of reducing women to physical appearances or function.
I was reminded of my favorite example of the other extreme of feminine reduction recently when I rewatched Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy. When this movie first came out I went on a trip to visit a guy in LA, that I will refer to as Jay. We'd been flirting for a while, and at the time I was free to get to know him better. That Saturday of the trip, we planned to hit the fashion district followed by joining friends of his for the opening weekend of the above mentioned film.
We spent the day walking from store to store and early on I found a pair of pants that fit me very well and I went to buy. At which point he takes them from me, insists on paying, and tells me that he'll spend the day buying me anything that "gives him a boner." And this is when the first red flag goes off in my peripheral sensors...
But I told myself to chill, this could simply be a fun and harmless game we play while wandering through stores. A while later, we hit this crazy leather and jeans store where there are gorgeous leather appliques to pretty much every item of clothing. I found a pair of fucking awesome and holy expensive pants, and he then insists on buying them for me along with this cute little tank top with it's own leather detailing. This made me feel a bit awkward, 'cause there's that whole "I spent major money on you" power dynamic that could come into play at any moment, even though it wasn't my idea or at my insistence.
A little after this purchase, Jay tells me that he wants me to wear this new outfit he bought me to the movie opening we were attending that night. I expressed hesitance as we were meeting his friends and it seemed I would be dressed inappropriately. Not to mention the fact that he and his friends are five to ten years older than me... He tells me "This is LA! Everybody dresses like that!". I doubted him, but agreed to wear the pants and said that I was going to look for a different shirt to go with them. He gets grumpy and petulant at this and spends the next hour or so bitching about any other shirt alternative I come up with.
Like a dumb girl, I try to placate him a bit until I discover we're almost out of time and realize I'm just going to have to find some shirt, any shirt, in this last store that means I don't have to wear the leather applique tank top out to dinner and a movie with his friends. And I'll be honest, I'm not convinced the long sleeve, fitted shirt with sequins down both sleeves really was an improvement, but at that point I had a serious case of fuck you and your controlling bullshit. I will not do as you say.
He was pissed at my purchase, informed me that I'd have to change in the car as there was no way we had enough time to go back to his place where my own clothes were... Shocking, that. Then we got to the movie theater, and walked up to his friends. Both ladies are in simple black shirts and skirts, and here I am in these crazy leather jeans, with a long sleeve, too tight shirt with strappy see through bits and rhinestones down the sleeves. I spent the entire movie and following dinner seething on the inside, sitting with my arms crossed and trying to show that I had a brain, and a geek one at that, to go with my young dumb trophy attire.
So yeah, something about Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy invokes feelings of fury, humiliation, combativeness and rebellion. How'd Tha Happan?
I know for a while there, there were a rash of posts that included the FML hashtag. Well, I want to propose a new hashtag just for us ladies. Any time some dipshit or stupid occurrence in life reduces you to the sum of your parts, rant about it and end the rant with FMT. Fuck My Tits.
Now, I've had ladies uncomfortable with this idea in the past, as it can read as a sexualized invitation vs. the means of venting that it's intended to be. I see that perspective, but honestly don't think it's avoidable to vent about such things without being sexualized. Hell, it's barely possible to walk through a public place without being sexualized or reduced to some feminine trope one way or another. Gentleman, at least the ones I know, just know this phrase is not meant in any way for your dicks, but I'll try to reduce the trigger effect by using the acronym...
What's funny is that becoming bored with my boobs has helped a little in demystifying their effect on the world, at least a little, if only for myself. Never before in my life have I whipped my tits out so frequently, with so little regard to anything other than their function and the need to attend to my full-time boob job. And I can be a mother, I can nurse, I can be part of a family unit without having to conform to anyone else's definition of roles I'm supposed to fill in some bullshit culturally idealized way. I am a person, married to a person, raising a brand new person. I'm comfortable with leaving the definitions at that.
But seriously, fuck Jay. Fuck that bullshit gender game. Fuck the Madonna/whore dichotomy. Fuck the belief that I must have a "gentle, quiet spirit" or fulfill the will or orders of men. Fuck the very concept of "womb-man". Fuck any asshole out there who thinks they have the right to tell me what to do or who I should be.
In short, #FMT
for those of you who may be new to this series of ventings, feel free to click the tag below to check out earlier ravings from my spinning mind.
The mind has been abuzz the whole time, though alternately flooded and sputtering, depending on the level of sleep deprivation.
But the topic that has dominated my life for months now is boobs. I've always had a tenuous relationship with my own chestal region, and the experience of nursing has pushed personal boundaries to the point that I am flat out bored with my misnamed "fun bags". While I don't mind actually nursing, pumping is a whole different story. Regardless of the method, I am so very weary of the constant demand of time from the production of my tits. I have to plan to pump or feed, block off time for the tedious task of harvesting what TJ has so delicately titled "boob snot". Not to mention washing bottle nipples and pump parts and all sorts of amazing accoutrements that can't simply go in a dish washer without being shredded. I like to think of it as having a full-time boob job.
My discomfort with my breasts began in my very early teens when they just wouldn't stop developing. Not only did it become difficult to find clothing that fit me, the larger they grew, the more it changed how people interacted with me. And on some level, the bigger the tits, the more sexualized you become in our culture, whether you want it or not. This coming from a girl who was raised to be sexually repressed.
How the hell do you deal with sexual attention when you don't even realize you have a sexual drive of your own yet? I even went to a religiously affiliated college, in the hopes to play down my inherent sexuality while working in theatre. But even there, if you had noticable tits, you were cast as a mother or a whore. Ya know, the religious versions of being sexually active. And I know I wasn't the only girl there that dealt with this particular issue...
Through on-line discussions, I was recently introduced to some conservative feminine gender identity writing that literally claims that the ideal role of females revolves around being a "womb-man". I mean, the very word originates from that definition (or so they would have you think)! So keep those bellies churning and boobs producing, ladies, if you want to fulfill your heavenly identity!
As I get older, the more I realize that it's not my breasts' fault that being sexualized by the "male gaze" is reductive to me as a whole person. Their function is natural, valuable, healthier for my kid and actually less expensive than the formula alternative. But I absolutely despise the reductive nature of defining that function as my "role" in the world. I've spent my life fighting against female stereotypes in my own identity, to the point that as a teen I thought I simply failed at being a girl, 'cause the traditional definitions I was taught didn't fit who I was.
Let me emphasize that. Rather than attempt to conform to societal roles (and the extreme religious ones in particular), I assumed I was a failure at being feminine. For many years, I wasn't sure what that made me, 'cause I was still alienated from my own sexuality and completely uncomfortable in my own skin.
In my 20s I put a lot of time and energy into reclaiming those aspects of myself. During that time, I also rejected the idea of being any sort of mother or housewife, not because those things are inherently undesirable, but because I was terrified of returning to the false definitions of my female identity, of being locked into a role that was counter to who I knew myself to be.
But even sexual freedom and independence involved femininity traps. No matter what your approach to sexuality, there are methods of reducing women to physical appearances or function.
I was reminded of my favorite example of the other extreme of feminine reduction recently when I rewatched Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy. When this movie first came out I went on a trip to visit a guy in LA, that I will refer to as Jay. We'd been flirting for a while, and at the time I was free to get to know him better. That Saturday of the trip, we planned to hit the fashion district followed by joining friends of his for the opening weekend of the above mentioned film.
We spent the day walking from store to store and early on I found a pair of pants that fit me very well and I went to buy. At which point he takes them from me, insists on paying, and tells me that he'll spend the day buying me anything that "gives him a boner." And this is when the first red flag goes off in my peripheral sensors...
But I told myself to chill, this could simply be a fun and harmless game we play while wandering through stores. A while later, we hit this crazy leather and jeans store where there are gorgeous leather appliques to pretty much every item of clothing. I found a pair of fucking awesome and holy expensive pants, and he then insists on buying them for me along with this cute little tank top with it's own leather detailing. This made me feel a bit awkward, 'cause there's that whole "I spent major money on you" power dynamic that could come into play at any moment, even though it wasn't my idea or at my insistence.
A little after this purchase, Jay tells me that he wants me to wear this new outfit he bought me to the movie opening we were attending that night. I expressed hesitance as we were meeting his friends and it seemed I would be dressed inappropriately. Not to mention the fact that he and his friends are five to ten years older than me... He tells me "This is LA! Everybody dresses like that!". I doubted him, but agreed to wear the pants and said that I was going to look for a different shirt to go with them. He gets grumpy and petulant at this and spends the next hour or so bitching about any other shirt alternative I come up with.
Like a dumb girl, I try to placate him a bit until I discover we're almost out of time and realize I'm just going to have to find some shirt, any shirt, in this last store that means I don't have to wear the leather applique tank top out to dinner and a movie with his friends. And I'll be honest, I'm not convinced the long sleeve, fitted shirt with sequins down both sleeves really was an improvement, but at that point I had a serious case of fuck you and your controlling bullshit. I will not do as you say.
He was pissed at my purchase, informed me that I'd have to change in the car as there was no way we had enough time to go back to his place where my own clothes were... Shocking, that. Then we got to the movie theater, and walked up to his friends. Both ladies are in simple black shirts and skirts, and here I am in these crazy leather jeans, with a long sleeve, too tight shirt with strappy see through bits and rhinestones down the sleeves. I spent the entire movie and following dinner seething on the inside, sitting with my arms crossed and trying to show that I had a brain, and a geek one at that, to go with my young dumb trophy attire.
So yeah, something about Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy invokes feelings of fury, humiliation, combativeness and rebellion. How'd Tha Happan?
I know for a while there, there were a rash of posts that included the FML hashtag. Well, I want to propose a new hashtag just for us ladies. Any time some dipshit or stupid occurrence in life reduces you to the sum of your parts, rant about it and end the rant with FMT. Fuck My Tits.
Now, I've had ladies uncomfortable with this idea in the past, as it can read as a sexualized invitation vs. the means of venting that it's intended to be. I see that perspective, but honestly don't think it's avoidable to vent about such things without being sexualized. Hell, it's barely possible to walk through a public place without being sexualized or reduced to some feminine trope one way or another. Gentleman, at least the ones I know, just know this phrase is not meant in any way for your dicks, but I'll try to reduce the trigger effect by using the acronym...
What's funny is that becoming bored with my boobs has helped a little in demystifying their effect on the world, at least a little, if only for myself. Never before in my life have I whipped my tits out so frequently, with so little regard to anything other than their function and the need to attend to my full-time boob job. And I can be a mother, I can nurse, I can be part of a family unit without having to conform to anyone else's definition of roles I'm supposed to fill in some bullshit culturally idealized way. I am a person, married to a person, raising a brand new person. I'm comfortable with leaving the definitions at that.
But seriously, fuck Jay. Fuck that bullshit gender game. Fuck the Madonna/whore dichotomy. Fuck the belief that I must have a "gentle, quiet spirit" or fulfill the will or orders of men. Fuck the very concept of "womb-man". Fuck any asshole out there who thinks they have the right to tell me what to do or who I should be.
In short, #FMT
for those of you who may be new to this series of ventings, feel free to click the tag below to check out earlier ravings from my spinning mind.