personal essay Mad Libs
I signed up for this online writing class at Narratively. Every day the instructor sends us a prompt, and we’re supposed to barf out 500 words. Yesterday’s topic was “How do you perceive yourself?” There were some example essays, which set me off, so instead of answering the question, I wrote the following rant. Knowing full well I’ve fallen into the same trap.
Enough already
I refuse to care about how Nora Ephron — or anyone else, for that matter — feels about her goddamn neck. Or her wrinkles, or her cellulite, or her age spots, or her perimenopausal chin hairs, or anything else the patriarchy has made my gender feel bad about, while capitalism offers us 800 ways to "fix" it.
Most of these essays read like Mad Libs:
I used to hate my ____(body part)____. My ____(friend/partner/parent/student/teacher)____ would tease me about how I ___(past tense verb)___ when I ___(past tense verb)___. For years I fantasized about what it would be like to be ___(name of perfect actress/singer/influencer)___ because it seemed she didn't worry about ___(flaw)___.
Optional paragraph to complain about your mother and/or fashion magazines.
But then one day ___(insert crisis or aha moment)___. My whole life changed. Where once I was worried about ___(superficial thing)___ now all I cared about was ___(non-superficial thing)___.
If only I had come to that conclusion sooner.
The women’s magazines cannot get enough of this shit. They know there are millions of women who will click and nod their way through these stories, oh-my-god-same-here-ing as they scroll. The editor at OldBitchesDotCom tells Accounts Payable to cut a three-figure check to the writer, while Mary in Ad Sales pitches a five-figure PowerPoint to a high-end skincare brand. The ad conversion rate will be through the roof!
Of course a woman's priorities change when she has a major health scare. Of course she hates that she hates what she sees in the mirror. And if she manages to get over those insecurities, to accept her so-called flaws? Well, congratulations. But why tell me about it?
Because I, too, struggle to accept and like what I see in the mirror, even as my feminist self rails against society's unrealistic beauty standards, which — I'm well aware — are designed to make us feel bad about ourselves and distract us from far bigger problems.
But until I have my own "aha" moment, until (god forbid) I get that cancer diagnosis, someone else's essay about How I Learned To Let Go And Love My Varicose Veins isn't going to do a damn thing for me, other than remind me that I'm not alone when I dislike something about my appearance.
These essays are a tease. They promise that if you keep reading, you too will see the light and come out healed. Brains do not work that way. When was the last time you read one of these essays and came away fixed? "I used to feel bad about my cellulite, but then I read this thing in Elle, and thanks to that writer, I learned to accept my body and now I love what I see in the mirror!"
A good essay is supposed to end with a pithy lesson-learned statement, but all I can come up with is "Enough already."
Links
Was late to this Caity Weaver piece on the tyranny of the penny. (NYT)
D.C. punks have been feeding hungry seniors citizens for 20 years. Go Mark!! (WaPo)
You know how people rush the gate at the airport, when their boarding group hasn’t even been called? Flight attendants call those people gate lice. (Boing Boing)
Speaking of airports, I just learned about this site that sells items found in lost luggage. I got an incredible wool and cashmere winter coat for $30. (Unclaimed Baggage)
As someone who had a “dumb job” for years, the grass isn’t always greener on that side of the fence. (The Cut)
Surprisingly fun profile of the guy in charge of a Georgetown cemetery. (Washingtonian)
The National Park Service has jokes! (Instagram)
Christianity in 60 seconds. (TikTok)