it takes roughly 63,000 trees to make the Sunday edition of the New York Times
I was seduced into buying a copy of Vogue today. This happens about once every three months or so; the siren call of artistic photo spreads and shallow, mindless narcissism becomes too much for me, and against my more thrifty upbringing, I buy and secretly revel in a supermarket glossy, generally Vogue (since it's more artsy, and makes you look classier than buying Glamour).
I wasn't prepared for my reaction this time, though. Usually I get that buzz of euphoria from the indulgence of a guilty pleasure; this time, as soon as I opened it and started glancing through the articles, a paragraph here and a caption there, I literally felt nauseous.
"This summer, nothing is chicer than the polish-free, flawless foot. But no-color nails don't mean the end of the pedicure: in fact, they're just the beginning." "The $900 Bra." "WHAT TO BUY NOW."
YOU ARE NOT GOOD ENOUGH. YOU WILL NEVER BE GOOD ENOUGH. The careful production of a constant state of unbalance and worry, a constant low-level neurotic hum in the back of your brain that your life will be inferior if you don't look a certain way, buy a certain product. And even when you do, that will only be enough to carry you through a season; in spring, unless you abide by our rules, you will be inferior again. An endless cycle of discontent & self-loathing.
And so bossy: "Forget dark lipstick. Don't even think about mascara. The look of the season carries with it the painterly signature of the Dutch masters."
Maybe it's because I've been immersing myself in Gandhi and monasteries once again (what is it about summer that makes me want to study asceticism?), and seeing how shallow my life is in comparison. Maybe it's the amount of time I've been spending bellydancing and around bellydancers, the total acceptance they have for their bodies, whatever shape, and the lack of insecurity-buying that that confidence produces. It's a subculture that draws self-worth from joy and sensuality and accomplishment rather than appearance or acquisitions.
It's amazing the amount of money you save when you become happy with yourself the way you are, externally. I'm not there yet, but I'm much farther than I used to be, largely due to dancing, and it's amazing the amount of things you're freed to do when your self-worth is no longer caught up in the shape or size of yourself -- the time formerly spent strategizing on how to reduce your thighs turns into time reading, or dancing, or learning to make custard. Just seeing your body as being for something more than decoration is a huge, huge shift that dominoes through the rest of your life.
You notice that actual designers never, EVER follow their own trends, preferring instead to deck themselves in either timeless, classic Frenchiness or quirky/funky/loudly colored thrift shop gear; to show how cool they are, they buck the system they create. All the while insisting to the rest of us that the only way to be Hip is to buy the ubiquitous thousand-dollar purse-of-the-season. Although -- is it really the designers? They're just producing clothes they deem beautiful; really, it's the magazines and the media that take that and subvert it.
It makes me angry because I so easily buy in to it, and it's such a waste. Looking pretty is one thing, and nifty new shoes can lighten even the deepest of depressions, but there comes a point where you cross the line into excess. I've crossed it many times over.
Therefore, I'm putting a moratorium on new clothes for the next six months, except for things I absolutely need for staying warm in the winter. I have yards and yards of fabric completely unused, sitting in plastic bags in the corner of my room, some of them for years; next time I get a hankering for new clothes, that will be my only option. Also, I want to get rid of at least half the clothes I own. The ones I never wear, that just clog up closet space.
This is my mid-year resolution. Vogue magazine, you have inspired me. I bite my thumb at thee. Fuck you.
I wasn't prepared for my reaction this time, though. Usually I get that buzz of euphoria from the indulgence of a guilty pleasure; this time, as soon as I opened it and started glancing through the articles, a paragraph here and a caption there, I literally felt nauseous.
"This summer, nothing is chicer than the polish-free, flawless foot. But no-color nails don't mean the end of the pedicure: in fact, they're just the beginning." "The $900 Bra." "WHAT TO BUY NOW."
YOU ARE NOT GOOD ENOUGH. YOU WILL NEVER BE GOOD ENOUGH. The careful production of a constant state of unbalance and worry, a constant low-level neurotic hum in the back of your brain that your life will be inferior if you don't look a certain way, buy a certain product. And even when you do, that will only be enough to carry you through a season; in spring, unless you abide by our rules, you will be inferior again. An endless cycle of discontent & self-loathing.
And so bossy: "Forget dark lipstick. Don't even think about mascara. The look of the season carries with it the painterly signature of the Dutch masters."
Maybe it's because I've been immersing myself in Gandhi and monasteries once again (what is it about summer that makes me want to study asceticism?), and seeing how shallow my life is in comparison. Maybe it's the amount of time I've been spending bellydancing and around bellydancers, the total acceptance they have for their bodies, whatever shape, and the lack of insecurity-buying that that confidence produces. It's a subculture that draws self-worth from joy and sensuality and accomplishment rather than appearance or acquisitions.
It's amazing the amount of money you save when you become happy with yourself the way you are, externally. I'm not there yet, but I'm much farther than I used to be, largely due to dancing, and it's amazing the amount of things you're freed to do when your self-worth is no longer caught up in the shape or size of yourself -- the time formerly spent strategizing on how to reduce your thighs turns into time reading, or dancing, or learning to make custard. Just seeing your body as being for something more than decoration is a huge, huge shift that dominoes through the rest of your life.
You notice that actual designers never, EVER follow their own trends, preferring instead to deck themselves in either timeless, classic Frenchiness or quirky/funky/loudly colored thrift shop gear; to show how cool they are, they buck the system they create. All the while insisting to the rest of us that the only way to be Hip is to buy the ubiquitous thousand-dollar purse-of-the-season. Although -- is it really the designers? They're just producing clothes they deem beautiful; really, it's the magazines and the media that take that and subvert it.
It makes me angry because I so easily buy in to it, and it's such a waste. Looking pretty is one thing, and nifty new shoes can lighten even the deepest of depressions, but there comes a point where you cross the line into excess. I've crossed it many times over.
Therefore, I'm putting a moratorium on new clothes for the next six months, except for things I absolutely need for staying warm in the winter. I have yards and yards of fabric completely unused, sitting in plastic bags in the corner of my room, some of them for years; next time I get a hankering for new clothes, that will be my only option. Also, I want to get rid of at least half the clothes I own. The ones I never wear, that just clog up closet space.
This is my mid-year resolution. Vogue magazine, you have inspired me. I bite my thumb at thee. Fuck you.