We have work to do.
The Instagram page “He’s So Mid” is revolutionary. In her brilliance, Becca Ann calls out online commenters who ridicule women’s appearance, casting an unflattering light on the hecklers. She flips the script with a subtle “You’re one to talk” reality check.
If you look at the He’s so Mid posts, you’ll see that women-on-women cruelty and hypocrisy are just as pervasive as men’s in this toxic, garbage soup. Women can behave as horrendously as their misogynistic counterparts. I know women who march in the patriarchy parade, seemingly unaware that they step on themselves as they step on their sisters.
We’ve been conditioned since, like, forever.
This morning, I saw an online photo of a well-known male TV personality with a woman who didn’t resemble his wife (years ago, she was frequently visible on his talk show and was drop-dead gorgeous). I Googled her name to find a recent photo and saw that it was, in fact, the same woman. She’s had so much “work” done that she was literally unrecognizable to me. I would never have guessed that was the same woman.
Why do we do this to ourselves?
Conditioning. We believe the lie.
I’m listening to Justine Bateman’s audiobook, “Face,” and she explains why. If you don’t have a sensitive stomach for cursing, I highly recommend it. We need wise perspectives and inventive contributions like hers and Becca Ann’s.
The culture is rife with double-bind, degrading comments about women’s looks. It’s our gross normal. It should be outrageous. (It is to me.) We call out “Mar-a-Lago face” while simultaneously insulting women for wrinkles and sagging skin, accusing them of letting themselves go. God forbid we age.
We can’t win.
The Les Wexners of our world dictate beauty standards for women. And we go along. Have you seen Mr. Wexner?
I’m in revolt, and I don’t exactly know what that means. I, too, have cognitive dissonance.
I sometimes catch my own reflection in the driver’s-side window as I approach my car—or I inadvertently bump the camera app on my phone and end up with an unflattering angle from below the chin up through the nose, and I shudder. And I’m ashamed of that shame.
I admit that, along with the reflection in the window and the accidental selfie shame, I’ve succumbed to North America’s cultural pressure. I rationalized that the curved line on the left side of my mouth—my parentheses—was asymmetrical and therefore unacceptable. So, for a time, I let my dermatologist inject a filler into the crack. Even that puppy out.
I now accept my lopsidedness (sort of).
When our president didn’t like the question, he ridiculed a young female journalist for not smiling, essentially telling her she needed to fix her face. For him. It was particularly egregious because the topic was survivors of pedophilia—hardly something to smile about. But even if the topic were benign, she didn’t owe him a smile. She was there to do her job, not to pretty up his view.
If you haven’t noticed, men’s entitlement has wreaked havoc. I want to say that twice.
If you haven’t noticed, men’s entitlement has wreaked havoc.
I heard someone say the other day, “She looks great for 35.”
T H I R T Y – F I V E
Last year, I got a few tattoos. Several months later, I revisited the tattoo artist (let’s call him “Squid”) when I accompanied John to his own tattoo appointment. Squid wanted to look at his previous handiwork on my arm, and when he did, he noticed the ink had bled slightly, creating a blurry effect. Eschewing responsibility for his work, he laughed and said, “Oh, you’ve got that old lady skin.”
I have old-lady skin, and he thought it was cute to point it out.
I did not smile for him.
Indeed, we have work to do. We all do.
If you’re a man, check your reflection—on purpose.
Fix your face.
“You do not have a soul. You are a soul. You have a body.”—George MacDonald