Quodlibets

Why I Shave My Legs

A while back, a friend and I had an argument about this.  Her argument very much mirrors the argument being made in the linked-to blog post, while mine is slightly different.

I do believe that make-up, heels, and shaving (personal appearance as whole, as it were) are feminist issues.  But it's more complicated than saying "These things are bad, and if we are good feminists, we will fight our urge to do/wear these things and feel guilty when we do break down and use/wear them."  It is, I think, incredibly bad form to say "Do what you're comfortable doing even though what you're comfortable with is bad for feminism and isn't a choice, whatever you think."  The author of the piece implies she's not perfect--she shaves, god forbid--but maintains a tone of "No judgment!" (Ever seen the ep. of SatC where Miranda decides to obtain an abortion?  Then you'll get the "No judgment!" reference.  If not, the gist of it is that Miranda's doctor tells her she doesn't do them, no judgment!, and Miranda finds that pretty annoying.)  "Shaving isn't okay, but you can do it, no judgment!"  Even though, it seems clear to me, there is judgment being passed. 

Now, the author points out that it is ridiculous to demand conformity to a "feminist" code of no shaving, no bras, no heels, no make-up, etc, because it's only doing a 180 from forcing everyone to conform to a code of all shaving, heels, make-up in public, and bras all the time.  She's right.  But where does this leave us?  Damned if we do, damned if we don't?  Like I said in the above paragraph, I think the author is sending two messages:  Choose what you want, but choose my way.  We'll be suspect if we shave, we'll be suspect if we don't. 

Look, I don't have an answer to the conundrum, I really don't.  I do think that we're coerced  (socially) more and less than we think, if that makes sense.  I do believe that it's possible to choose NOT to wear make-up and not feel strange, going about in public.  I never, ever wear make-up, and I never, ever get any shit or flak for it.  Do I think society sends you the message to wear make-up?  Sure.  Do I think it's hard to resist that message?  Nope.  But I also think that it's possible to be aware of the message, ignore it, and wear make-up.  I do believe it's possible to wear make-up and have it be a true choice.  (This is only an example, and surely not the only one, but Goth make-up might be an example of the true choice--certainly it's not society's idea of beautiful, but there are plenty of girls and boys that CHOOSE to wear make-up thus.)  I think the same thing is true of shaving, bras, high heels, short skirts, etc.  I know that society makes it very hard to be a woman and go unshaven, and I shave.  My legs.  I only shave my armpits when the urge strikes; I've been known to go to the pool in a bathing suit (strapless, no less) with hairy pits.  Never bothered me, though it bothered my sister.  Yet, I always shave my legs.  I just like it that way.

What does that mean?  Have I only been coerced socially to shave my legs and missed the other message, the one about armpits?  Or is it possible that I know the message, and simply like the feeling of smooth legs on cold sheets?  To me, there is no better argument for true choice than a woman that shaves her legs but not her pits, or vice versa.  Surely, if I was at all concerned about society I'd shave both. 

I'm just saying that I don't think it's as dire as the author of the linked-to post makes it out to be.  I think we should absolutely fight against patriarchal notions of what beauty is; but I also think that the fight is elsewhere, and in some ways, more importantly elsewhere.  (And of course, prioritizing issues is a big bugbear in feminist circles because all things are equal.  Too bad that's only theoretically true, and that concentrating on some issues has a bigger impact than concentrating on others.  I'm a feminist that believes that we need to fight the big fights harder than we fight the small fights.  I'll probably get a lot of shit for that position--who decides what the big fights are?--but nonetheless, it is the way I feel.)  All I'm saying is that though shaving is an issue, weight might be a bigger one, as lack of or excess of can kill people. 

(And just for the record, I do wear bras, because if I didn't I'd have a perma-backache, and I do wear heels, but not to be taller.  I wear heels when I want, and flip-flops sans heel most of the time.  My feet do like to be comfortable, but they also like to look good.  I'll wear any shoe--flat, heel, whatever--if I like how it looks.  Not that any of this matters to who I am as a feminist.)

Loose analogy

I can't help but think that people who are offended at the immigrants who want to become Americans are just like people who are horrified at the thought of a gay person hitting on them.  It's flattering, you dolts, not insulting.

Just saying.

Self-aware?

Do you think people with really bad hairstyles know they're really bad?

I know this person who has the worst 80's bangs ever.  You know, those bangs that you curled under and tried to fluff up and spray with copious amounts of AquaNet (or whatever brand of crappy hairspray you used), so that when you were done you had this ruffle attached to your forehead.  The bigger, the better.  Anyway, bangs like that are long out of style, so I wonder when I see her--when she looks in the mirror, when she does her hair, does she know it's completely 100% out of style?  Does she know it doesn't look good?

Or how about pants that are too short?  I know someone else who terminally wears their pants far too short.  I don't think you should be able to see the sock protruding from the shoe, that's my rule--and you can see the socks on this person.  Isn't that a little strange?  But I'm wondering if she doesn't know that it doesn't look good.

And it's not that I'm a fashion goddess, or anything like that, but I like to think that I'm not making any glaring errors, like the bangs or short-pants.  I'm pretty sure my sister would tell me if I was doing anything so obviously wrong; I'm almost certain I can figure out if I'm making those sorts of fashion errors.  But you know, you see people making these sorts of mistakes every day, and you wonder.  (And I don't really think this is about preference.  Sure, I know all kinds of people who wear things that I never would, who do things to their hair that I'd never consider, but I think that's a matter of personal preference, and not what I'm talking about here.  You all know what I'm talking about.  There's someone in your life who looks like they just stepped out of the 80's, and when you see them, you don't think, "Well, that's an interesting choice."  No, you think something like this:  "Uh, are we on the set of a John Hughes movie?"  And then you wonder why they don't just go to a hairdresser who will change the problem for them.  In fact, what I wonder is why their hairdresser is letting them get away with the style.  I hope my hairstylist would tell me if I needed an update so drastically.)

Anyway, these bangs were all I could think about this morning on my way to work.  They astound.

Rapture

Last night, we went to see the Chicago Symphony Orchestra.  It was my first time, and I was a little bit apprehensive about it.  Would I be bored?  I'm not much of a classical music person normally, though I enjoy ballet music (specifically Swan Lake and Sleeping Beauty) a bit, and used to listen to it in my dorm room my freshman year, trying to fall asleep before my roommate Sherry got home.  But that's about all the exposure to classical music that I have.  I've never been to an actual ballet, or opera.  Live bands for me are either the rock bands I see in concert, or the smaller group of musicians that play at musicals.

Anyhow, I needn't have worried.  I loved the experience, and eagerly look forward to going back.  It didn't take me long to decide I liked it--the musicians started playing the first piece, and as the violinists took up their instruments, and readied their bows, I was gone.  I've always liked the way strings sound when meshed with rock music, so I suppose it's no surprise that I like strings when used in other ways.  I'd just never realized how amazing the sound of all those violins playing in the room would be.  It's incredible, the sounds that come out of those things.  It's beautiful even if the music isn't beautiful, if that makes sense.  I pretty much only focused on the violins, and it was even more of a treat to see Joshua Bell, who is a fantastic violinist.  (Though when he's not playing, he's very awkward-looking.  I can't exactly pinpoint it, but he only looks right when he's playing.  Very odd.)  The Orchestra and Bell played Tchaikovsky, which is somewhat familiar to me, only because of my previous ballet listening.

The other thing that was so cool about this performance was Mussorgsky's (apologies if that's spelled wrong) Pictures at an Exhibition.  Normally, I think pictures of 19th century Russia are projected during the 30-min piece, but last night, they projected pictures of Chicago, and it really worked for me.  In fact, it worked so well that the music was secondary, and I'm not sure if I like that or not.  I enjoyed watching the orchestra, and of course, I didn't do that at all while the pictures were being projected.  But it was very enjoyable, so maybe I shouldn't complain.  Like I said, I'll be going back.

Actually, Kate, S and I will be going back on Sunday, but that's to hear Lang Lang, alone.  S is kind of a Lang Lang fan (with limited knowledge), and he really pushed for us to go, so we're going.  Kate's a little worried about being bored, but I'm not.  Maybe we'll be surprised.  Maybe not.  Either way, I like this live classical music thing very much.

Question and Answer (or not)

What is an expectation you had as a child about being an adult and, now that you are grown up, you realize you were wrong?  (Stolen from Friday's Feast)

The only reason this question is at all answerable is because I've been thinking about this whole issue of being "all growed up" a lot.  Most of the time I feel like an "imitation" adult, cobbled together from various parts of baby, child and teenager.  (Digression:  S and I were talking about my work schedule during a week that I was trying to make up some missed hours, and I told him that I thought I'd go in the next day at 6:45-7:00.  He said something to the effect of shit, that's early, followed by "how are you going to get in the building?"  And I laughed and said that I was, in fact, one of the "adult" employees of the library, and as such had my OWN key.  And then I laughed at the absurdity of it.)  I never feel like I'm doing the things that adults should be doing, and sometimes when I walk into my apartment, I'm hit with this wave of strangeness, that I'm at the age where it is no longer appropriate or desirable to live at home.

So in essence, yes, being a "grown up" is incredibly different from what I thought as a child being a "grown up" would be like.  Because first of all, I don't feel grown up, and anyway, I was surrounded by families, so my idea of grown up was being a mom/wife or a dad/husband.  I don't really remember having too many adults around who weren't doing the same things as my mom and dad.  I have a crazy aunt who's always been crazy, ergo she was crazy when I was younger, but she didn't seem like a grown up to me then.  My idea of "grown up", then, apparently includes traditional things such as marriage and children.  Which is maybe why I don't think I'm "grown up".  Maybe I'm still clinging to that childhood definition of "grown up", even though I obviously understand that there are grown-ups in the world running around single and childless and they're clearly adults. 

I'm fairly torn about this.  I love the idea of never really being a "grown up".  That appeals to me, especially as I don't want those hallmarks of adulthood that I identified as a child--suburban house, marriage, kids--and in fact yearn for something very "other".  If that makes sense.  At the same time, I'm aware that I AM an adult, and that at least from the outside, that's how I'm viewed.  (With the students at work, I'm an adult, a boss.  Not a peer.  Very strange for me to realize.)  Which is, of course, 100% logical.  But I never said I was good at logical.

Friday Random Ten (The I'm-so-fed-up-with-everything Edition)

1. Who Will Save Your Soul -- Jewel
2. Every Ghetto, Every City -- Lauryn Hill
3. The Ghost Song -- The Doors
4. Liar -- Cranberries
5. Swing -- Ani DiFranco
6. Santeria -- Sublime
7. Pretty Friend -- Frente!
8. Noah's Dove (Live) -- 10,000 Maniacs
9. Freedom -- Blues Traveler
10. Murray -- Pete Yorn

I could henceforth bitch about all the things I am fed up with, but I won't.  It would just be drivel directed at various things that I seemingly cannot fix/control/do, and I'm sick of myself just writing that.  It would be more unpleasant for you, I assure you.

Holy Jeezy

I very possibly had the worst dream of my life last night.  I woke up at 3:30 to use the bathroom, and immediately feel asleep after.  At 4:30, I was back up, but this time, I was afraid to go back to bed. 

It wasn't conventionally scary--no one was chasing me, I wasn't naked in a public place, it didn't involve public speaking, there was no horrific plane accident/nuclear explosion/war--but it was terrifying nonetheless.  I'm even a little afraid to say what it was about in the blog, because it's that bad.  To me, it's that bad.

I killed someone.  In the dream.  It was someone who was a friend of my cousin J, but not a real person.  You know what I mean?  In the dream, I knew that it was a friend of his, and that's all.  It was self-defense, and I only knew that because my cousin Sketch said to me when he started helping me cover it up, "I wish you would have told me about this, because maybe I could have helped."  And I responded vaguely about being scared, and about my dad not being willing to help--except that in the dream my dad was a little old Asian man.  My mom and my sister were also there--I remember vividly the scene where Kate came upon me in a garden shed (empty) with the gun.  I also vividly remember opening and closing the chamber? (place where the bullets go, that's how little I know about guns) and taking out one bullet.  I remember cocking? (getting it ready for shooting) the gun and then playing with the bullet some more.  When Kate came into the shed, I was scared of something/one, because I aimed the gun at the door that was slowly opening.  I think when I saw Kate, I dropped the gun, but I can't be sure.  (Apparently, I shot this person, though I don't have any recollection of that part in my dream.  The dream sort of picked up after the actual shooting happened.)  Anyway, my mom, Sketch and Kate all helped me hide this dead person in a freezer/cooler, because we were on a dairy farm.  They were sure no one would discover what I'd done, and we made a getaway, Kate and I in my red car, and my mom and S (who suddenly appeared as we were leaving) in my mom's mini-van.  (Except that my mom doesn't have a mini-van.) 

I think the press/cops knew that there was a murder, and I think they were saying that this person had been hit lightly by a car earlier in the day, and shot later.  He wasn't a nice person, apparently.  But the kicker was that I had hit him with my car, and the cops knew because of a paint chip.  Except that the body wasn't yet found.  I'm not sure.  It was confusing.  I woke up as we were driving away from the press and the cops and I was TERRIFIED that I'd done something wrong and now I'd be caught and how could I do this?  I wasn't the murderous type!

After I woke up, I lay there in bed, my heart racing.  I considered reading for a little while to calm down, and stop thinking about the "cover-up" and what I had done--except that I hadn't "done" anything, and it was just a dream.  I think I just willed myself back to sleep, but when my alarm went off, I didn't feel well-rested, and I didn't forget the dream.  Clearly not, because I'm still thinking about it now.  I'm not very big on dream interpretation, because of the way my former therapist explained dreams, so I'm not really interested in how this dream translates.  Nonetheless, it was incredibly disturbing then, and I'm still slightly disturbed by it. 

I just want to wipe it from my memory.  I don't think that's going to happen soon, though.

Uh-oh, she's metablogging

Do you read Slate?  I do, every morning.  Though, I have to confess that I only read maybe 33% of the stories.  Anyway, today, there's an interesting column about why NOT to blog.  Or rather, why one person decided not to blog.  She felt blogging was keeping her from writing that book she'd been meaning to write, which is interesting, since many authors keep blogs.  It's not unusual to be able to write books and blog posts.

But it got me thinking, and the truth is, I blog because I don't want to write.  I mean that I have no ambitions to write books, or even have things published.  I don't feel like the "Great American Novel" is in me, and I certainly don't think that anything I say merits some sort of published book of essays.  I'm no Mimi SmartyPants, that's for sure.  I may know my way around language, and occasionally I write a sentence that's nice, but mostly that just makes me not-torture when it comes to emails.  I blog because I like language, and I like using it, but I can't ever imagine using it in any sort of way that leads to money.  Which includes book contracts, I suppose.

I probably, in all reality, started blogging because I needed an outlet, and I was on the precipice of a great depression.  Blogging became something that just might have pulled me back from the worst of that depression, and I know that however I felt, I posted nearly every single day.  That's possibly why I still do it, because it has some value in my life in that way.  Or more probably, I blog because I don't journal, and I've always wanted to.  I'm shit at journaling, however, and I don't seem to be quite as bad at this.  So it's stuck.

So I can assure you that I will never quit blogging because it interferes with my writing.  This IS my writing.

I'm sort of cheating

On the dinner experiment thing.  Because all I did was roast a big ol' bunch of asparagus with olive oil and lemon juice and sea salt.  I'd never done it before, so it was sort of a dinner experiment.  I should have cooked them for a minute or so less--it was a little done.  But pretty yummy, nonetheless.  And very filling.  I will absolutely be doing the asparagus roasting again. 

Take this pink ribbon off my eyes

So...homosociality. I have to admit that I'm not formally educated in Women's Studies, besides one intro course in college.  (I'd take courses at the college I work at, except that they don't exist here.  No Women's Studies Dept.)  Anyway, the point is, I'd never heard the word before.  Of course, we've all experienced the effects of homosociality.  Men and women.  In fact, I think the only men I've met who don't play by homosociality's rules are gay men.  I've had a straight male best friend before, and he was theoretically all about treating me as an equal and so on.  Except that I never felt quite up to par as part of his boys club when he moved in with a few guys.  Unless I was willing to objectify women along with them.  At the time, I could have never given it a name, or even put a finger quite on what I was feeling.  But I felt less sometimes, like I wasn't right.

And frankly, I see homosociality at work in most of the men in my life.  Even my boyfriend, who is, quite honestly, providing me with more of an egalitarian relationship than my girlfriend ever did.  Honestly.  S and I are in the process of building a true partnership, one that doesn't have some bizarre power inequality based on something as arbitrary as money or gender.  That's what I'm aiming for, and he knows I'm aiming for that and I truly think he's working with me to create that.  But he works with a rabidly misogynistic supervisor who constantly and overtly makes very disagreeable statements about women, and do you think S ever says anything about it?  Better yet, have I ever expected him to say something about it?  No, and no. 

Isn't that heinous?  I'm uncomfortable with the idea of S listening to such talk, but I've always just thought that as long as S didn't feel that way, it was okay.  But it's not okay.  If S really believes that women are not second class citizens, he should tell his supervisor that the talk makes him uncomfortable.  And then his supervisor would make some comment about men being men and the peer pressure part of homosociality would kick in.  What then should S do?  I mean, the right answer is to not play along, and to say that it doesn't matter what his gender is--talk of the rabidly misogynistic sort makes him uncomfortable.  But is that the real-world answer?  Especially when your supervisor is involved.  I don't have the answer.

But it's an interesting question.  What should I expect of S regarding homosociality?