Saying goodbye to self-doubt.

I have had really, really shitty self-esteem the past few days. I know it's partially hormonal and partially the post-super-party-weekend bloat, but I've been feeling like an overstuffed sausage casing with rosacea. Seth, of course, reassures me that I'm beautiful (as any loving husband would), but I look in the mirror and see a 5'10" brick shithouse with jiggly underarms, and I can't help but feel lousy.

And then I eat fast food and I hate myself. And I don't understand how all these other women can spend six hours a week at the gym and I can't even turn down a fucking chicken nugget.

These earworms of self-hatred have laid eggs in our female brains, and, save for a bleach scrub or a case of amnesia, they're unlikely to disappear. They hatch when someone calls someone else "the hottest girl they've ever seen." They writhe when someone tells you you look tired. They pinch when you see a less-than-flattering picture of yourself. They torment you.

What does it take to feel contentment with how you look? Why does the admission that someone else is beautiful feel like a dagger in the stomach? The devil's in the details. The devil's in the invariable comparison.

Because beauty, as we have come to know it, as society has dictated to us, is a zero-sum game. It is a land of winners and losers, of haves and have-nots. We assume that if someone else is victorious, we have lost. When we hear that another woman is beautiful, we assume it means we are ugly. We attempt to qualify what makes them beautiful, and we hone in on the differences between them and ourselves as a measure of all the areas we fail in. I can't count the number of times I've seen a petite wisp of a woman and instantly hated my broad stature. I can't express how many times I've thought about how much I hate my ruddy, freckled skin, or my thick thighs or my pudgy stomach or my fine, unruly hair. I want to cry just thinking about how much I've hated myself as a woman. I have let my insecurities enslave me. How much time have we wasted thinking, "If only I had a smaller waist," or a thinner nose, or a firmer ass? How much of our lives are we squandering in some pursuit of a beauty ideal that is neither definitively beautiful, nor ideal?

We allow the brightest, most honest voices – the voices of those who love us, who unequivocally think we are beautiful – to be drowned out by the voices of strangers. This is more than harmful. This borders on malicious. Not only that, but it’s backwards.

Of course, I am intimidated by those "pretty girls," their beachy waves and skinny ankles. I doubt anyone asked them at their 8^th grade semi-formal when they were expecting. I bet they never overheard two classmates talk about how they’d only be attractive if someone put a bag over their head. They didn't suffer through six years of orthodontic work and weekly prank calls telling them they needed Clearasil.

Or maybe they did. Maybe “pretty girls” don't exist. Maybe they're a tangible projection of our own insecurities. They're who we think we’d be, if we lost twenty pounds or had rhinoplasty. They're what we think we lack. They represent all the ways we tell ourselves we’re not good enough. We envy others and fail to see that others envy us. It’s a vicious cycle of self-doubt in perpetuity. And we’re better than that, as women, as people. We're fucking smarter than that.

It's time to realize that I shouldn't care if a man doesn't find me attractive or I can't get into a club for free. It hasn't got shit to do with how I should love myself. I can write and sing and make a fucking fantastic red velvet brownie and my eyes are deep blue and my tits are, well, the tits. I'm sick of crying when I go bathing suit shopping and I'm sick of wondering what other women have that I don't. I'm tired of the specter of comparison hanging its arms around my neck. I'm shaking it off.

I'm saying fuck off to the weight loss industry, fashion labels, any man who rates women on a scale of 1 to 10, tabloids that rate ‘beach bodies,’ and anyone who ever made me feel ugly or unworthy.

All of them can kiss the fattest part of my ass.

April 15, 2013.

What is terror?

It’s the white knuckles; the eyes girded on the screen. It’s the muteness that hangs heavy over our eyes and throats. It’s the tremor with each passing siren. It’s the moment of sheer ambiguity. It’s the sensation that nothing will ever be the same.

Until yesterday, I don’t think I understood terror. It was theoretical to me; a topic for one of my college courses, a social ill, a sociological concept to be discussed alongside ethnic conflict and democratic process. Terror was the emotion of war-torn nations, of unspeakable violence in distant places.

But I've learned in 24 short hours that terror is much more than that.

Terror breeds a community; a fraternity of sorrow. The sense that something you hold dear is destroyed. Terror is losing yourself to the fear of the unfamiliar in the very thing you know best. Terror is dreading the very pavement you've walked hundreds of steps upon.

I had never even seen the World Trade Center in person before 9/11. I felt a sense of loss, but only in abstraction. The kind of sadness that moves you, only so far as the moment can take you, until you reach the barricade that separates you from it on a personal level. It’s what haunts you about a sad movie based on a true story; a photo of Holocaust victims; a vigil for a child you never met. It inspires grief, but there is no terror there. The saddest song in the world can never truly hurt you, unless you wrote the chords.

Yesterday, a terrorist attacked the city that I adored from childhood, the city where I attended college, the city where I work and play. This is the place that I will call home until I die.

I learned that terror exists in the vulnerability of your streets, and the simple reality that the victims could be your neighbors, or your friends, or your family… Terror inhabits each ring of the telephone, as you place call after call after call, trying to ascertain that all the people that you love and need have not suffered. Terror is the burn in your stomach that lingers when they don’t answer. Terror is behind the tears in your eyes as the injured, the burned - your countrymen - are wheeled away on the television screen. Terror is the recognition that a tangible piece of the city you love has been bloodied forever.

I was about a mile away from the explosions, at a bar on Temple Place (if you’re uninitiated with Boston, it’s near the Common, in Downtown Crossing). My friends were drinking High Life and shots of Jameson. They were asking the bartender about his tattoos. We were talking about gambling on the Kentucky Derby. My husband and I had spent the afternoon at Fenway; I was full on beer and hot dogs and sunshine. I never saw it coming. I never thought I’d need to.

Boston is not New York, or Los Angeles, or London. We believed we live in an insulated capsule, feeling immune to the massive threats that seem so common elsewhere. Tragically, we were wrong.

It doesn’t matter who did it, or what their personal reasoning may have been. It matters that whoever it is, they intended to change us - to alter our assuredness in a monotonous ride on the T, in our delight of fireworks on the banks of the Charles, and the sanctity of our corner of the world. To take from us not just lives and limbs, but the security of our surroundings. While the wounds of the fallen may be proof that our bodies are not indestructible, the newfound unity in Boston is proof that our spirit is indelible.

Believe in Boston is not just a marketing slogan for a sports team. It’s a mindset. I don’t need to pray for Boston, because I believe it in. I believe in the beauty of this city. I believe in its communal power. I can hear the echoes of its history. Its bricks are held together not just by mortar, but by tenacity.

I’m not surprised that so many people put their lives on their line to save others. As I watched the footage of volunteers tearing down the barricades, tending to limp bodies, escorting young and old alike to ambulances, I am reminded of everything I love about this place where I grew up. I am reminded of our resilient spirit. I am reminded of our progress, of our collective elation, of the simplest things we accomplish for one another on a regular basis. We do not always greet each other with smiles, but that does not mean that there is not love in our eyes.

When it counts – whether it be times of great joy, or great sorrow – we are standing hand in hand. We embrace the best that life has to offer us, and we tackle the worst. The irony of the attacks on the Boston Marathon lie therein – the marathon is the greatest allegory for Boston. It is not without stress and strain that we lead our lives, but we are ever cognizant that it’s more about the journey than the finish line. And whether our ears are deafened by explosion or simple obliviousness, there is a cacophony of voices among this community, urging us all to persevere. Even in the dull hum of mourning.

To the victims, and to my beloved city, our voices are loud and clear for you. No amount of hatred can silence us. 

The best response to anyone, ever.

Me: God, that guy across from us on the train was so boring. Going on and on to his friend about his ski house. “Here, look at five hundred pictures of my SKI HOUSE. You can SKI right up to it.”

Seth: Yeah, he was pretty bad. And the other guy is like, “Uh huh, oh, very nice.”

Me: It’s like, who gives a shit? Nobody gives a crap about your stupid ski house. You just wanted an excuse to brag.

Seth: It sucks. I mean, what was the other guy going to say? “Fuck you, shut up.”

Me: You know what? I’m going to adopt that. The next time someone says something to me that I could not care less about, I’m going to say it.

Seth: “Fuck you, shut up.”

My husband is brilliant. And I apologize in advance if any of you get a “fuck you, shut up” in the future. Believe me, it isn't personal.

Crime and minimal punishment.

In the wake of the Steubenville trial,  I’m going to talk about something that isn't fun, nor is it funny: rape.

I’m going to talk about how it is NEVER OKAY to blame the victim. I’m going to talk about how it doesn't matter if you've had zero drinks or ten, NO ONE has the right to even touch you without your consent. I’m going to talk about the fact that one out of every six women in America has been a victim of sexual assault. I’m going to talk about how no one is talking about that.

WHY do women fail to report when they are raped? Because they will face ridicule, shame and derision. They will be told that if they were drunk, they asked for it. They will be told that because they decided to wear a short skirt that day, they asked for it. They will be told that because they were in the wrong neighborhood, they asked for it. (Never mind the fact that some women have to LIVE in these dangerous neighborhoods, because they’re poor). They will be forced to have their entire sexual history discussed and put upon display in a courtroom – as if the victim previously consenting to sex with ANYONE has any bearing on the guilt of the other person. If they’re married, they’ll be told by their religious leaders that being a wife means automatically submitting to sex whenever their partner wants.

Based on this, why would any women subject herself to such scrutiny, when the odds are so clearly stacked against her, if she was lying? That’s the argument quite often made – “Well, she woke up the next day and wasn’t too proud of herself, so she decided she’d start saying the guy raped her.” No. This does not fucking happen – the numbers indicate that falsified rape accusations occur no more frequently than other phony accusations of crime. I don’t think many women would choose to be ostracized, derided, and humiliated, with have the chance to be outed as a liar. Most women won’t do it even when they’re telling truth.

Men need to learn not to rape. We live in a society where the onus is placed on the potential victim, rather than the perpetrator, to keep safe. We’re telling women that they should tone down their behavior or not go places alone because they may be assaulted. Instead, we should be telling men that they do not have the right to assault anyone. We should be teaching our sons that they should seek some form of consent every time they have sex. We should be emphasizing that women are to be respected and treated as human beings, and we should be informing men that if they choose to rape, they will pay dearly for it.

We need stricter penalties that err on the side of victim rather than the perpetrator.

We need to stop victim-blaming and slut-shaming.

We need to reinforce that no means no means no. You can consent to kissing someone and then say that you don’t want to get naked. You can consent to being naked but refuse to have oral sex. You can consent to oral sex but not intercourse. You can consent to vaginal intercourse but not anal intercourse. You can have sex with someone one time and then refuse to do it another time. You can stop doing anything, at any time, with anyone, if you don’t want to. If they force you to do it, it’s rape. Plain and simple. It doesn’t matter what you wore or what drugs you took or if the person’s your spouse. It is not your fault.

What filled me with rage about this particular case was the way the media painted the two young men who were found guilty. Talk of dashed dreams and destroyed football careers abounded. Yet not a single person raised their voice to lament on the long, hard road the victim will face, as she attempts to rebuild her life and deal with the trauma that will no doubt plague her for the rest of her life. All anyone could talk about was these two boys and their exemplary athletic prowess which will now go to waste. It just explains how endemic this toxic thought process is. We empathize with the men. We empathize with the men even when they are the ones who have done wrong. We idolize them because they are athletes. We refuse to even consider that the girl – who was sexually assaulted, videotaped without her consent and openly humiliated when the videotape was distributed – might go places and do things more important than playing a game of football. We care little about her future. We claim it’s a tragedy for all involved – as though have someone physically violate you while you’re unconscious is akin to potentially losing a college scholarship because you committed a crime.

It’s not a tragedy that these boys’ lives are ruined. They should, at age 16, have the capability to understand that what they did was not only wrong, but cruel. It’s a tragedy that we still live in a society where things like this happen.

It’s a sad day when you realize that a man who abused dogs (I'm not defending him, of course) received more public derision than this man who raped someone. Or this one. Or this one. Or this one. Or this one. Or this one. Or this one.  Or this one.

Maybe we think athletes can do no wrong. Maybe we think dogs deserve more respect in our society than women. Maybe we have our priorities all fucking wrong. Maybe it’s time to change.

No. Not maybe. Definitely.

Ruminations on winter and the New England way.

My street, post-snowmageddon. Thank god I had stocked up on beer.

I am about as New England as lobster rolls, misplaced vowels, and Dunkin' Donuts. I've lived my entire life within a 45-mile tract of Massachusetts. Call it isolationist if you will - I've never really had the inclination to travel far and wide - but I simply can't picture myself anywhere else. That is, until the calendar pages fall to March.

Fuck March.

March is when my seasonal affective monster rears its ugly head. March is when I reach my limit of driving past filthy five-foot tall snow/ice piles in parking lots. March is when I can no longer hold in a stream of obscenities when hit with a 35 MPH wind gust. March is when my favorite pair of black wedge boots and my will to live decide they can no longer go on.

If you've endured a winter as a Yankee, you'll know what I mean. It's fucking COLD. And WET. And every jerk on your Instagram feed is hamming it up in a pool in Florida, Corona and self-satisfaction in hand. And every memory of sun-drenched beach days, backyard barbecues and sundresses feels further  away than your recollection of what you learned in middle school. Every day melts into the next, an unending stream of precipitation and Netflix and pants (God, I'm so tired of wearing pants).

I recognize, however, that this desolation and misery is so intrinsic to what it means to be Northern. To rue the days of sanding and shoveling and revel in warm nights, fireworks and sandals. It's no coincidence that we New Englanders are often called "cold." Yes, we are fucking cold. Seven months out of the year.

This coldness, this stoicism, is engendered by our surroundings. We have to be cold. A sweet smile isn't going to drag you out of bed when it's 10 degrees out. Call it "Northern Inhospitality." We're forced to spend half the year indoors, devoid of sunlight, kept warm by expensive heating systems and booze. (Not that I can complain about the booze part, obviously). Outward sensitivity doesn't suit us - no one, least of all Mother Nature, is doing us any favors.

I can't count the number of times I've trudged through city sidewalks caked in ice in a mostly weather-inappropriate outfit - some act of defiance that is nearly always punished - screeching "WHY DO I LIVE HERE?" The question is rhetorical, however.

Where else would I go?

For all the suffering, for all the days I peer at my iPhone's weather app with disdain, for all the moments I think of the song "California Dreamin'" begrudgingly yet almost instinctively, for all the times I've yelled "FUCK SHIT CUNT" at no one in particular after soaking my shoes or destroying another umbrella, there is nothing like a summer in New England. There is nothing as beautiful as a rocky coastline buffeted by a soft breeze. There is nothing as magical as laughing in the grass with your friends on a humid night. There is nothing that compares to calling the land that tended you, that raised you, that delighted you in its warmth, that saddened you with its annual hibernation, your home.

My boss told me recently that his niece, who had moved to the Bay Area several years ago, has decided to plod back home to the Northeast. Her reasoning? She claimed to want to be around people whose lives were complicated. I had never considered it before, but we are nothing if not complicated.

Sometimes we are as full as brimming tidal pools, overflowing on a summer night at the wax of the moon. Sometimes we are as barren as the fields scorched by frost. We ebb and wane; we fluctuate; we are beholden to the seasons. They give and they take away. Our only choice is to live in flux, ever anticipating the future, ever remembering the past, ever acknowledging the present as it chills our bones or sets us alight. We are of this land. We belong to it, and the land, whether fertile and verdant or slumbering and brown, belongs to us. We are as much of it as it is of us.

And, of course, there's always May.