To jump into the trainwreck, or not to jump into the trainwreck? And, am I being dismissive and insulting by referring to it as a trainwreck? What if it really, really, really looks like one? These questions are the instruments of my torment.
Knowing myself I will probably jump in. What's life without a little risk, or something.
In the meantime, though, here's something from a woman who can actually get her shit together long enough to write well about it:
I wanted to comment on this post of Helen's back when it first appeared, but then I got distracted (see above). She's discussing On Beauty by Zadie Smith (which I haven't read myself) and, more generally, self-loathing in women.
Part of the reason I hesitated to comment at the time was because I got hung up wondering what factors enabled me to . . . well, I don't know that I should say escape the self-loathing thing, but I do think it's less an issue for me than it is for some, at least with regards to looks and appearance. Now that I think about it, I certainly do loathe myself for other things from time to time, some having to do with meeting the bullshit standards of traditional femininity ("Oh no, there's a ball of cat fur rolling around the kitchen floor like a tumbleweed across the plain; what would my mother say?") and some of the ordinary variety all human beings experience now and then, which in my own case usually goes something like, "Did I really knock back that much vodka last night? Did I knock back that much vodka and then get on the internet? Fuck, did I post anything? Please tell me I emailed no one, commented nowhere, and posted nothing. PLEASE."
But what's bugging me is that I feel like I should apologize, in a way, for NOT hating my body. Or: The line I had originally right after ". . . less an issue for me than it is for some" in this post was, "Keep in mind that it could just be that I am enormously conceited." I think I feel compelled to be self-effacing about it because deep down I recognize that I, me-myself-I, probably have jack-diddly to do with this fortunate circumstance. I got lucky and had some good role models, or my love of food just outweighs (ho, HO!) my love of chic size-6 clothing. I have no idea; I just doubt I can personally take any credit for it, and I don't want to imply to any of y'all that I think I deserve some.
Anyway, read Helen's thoughts about beauty and loathing, 'cause mine are clearly in a mess, just like the kitchen floor.
While I am recommending you some Helen, let me add that this is one of my favorite pictures of hers. That wig! How much do I want that wig? It is awesome, just like Helen.