women

I was watching some makeover show last night (I know, I know) and the activity that the makeover woman chose to help her loose weight was cardio stripping.

Now, before I become completely enraged, let me say that I’d heard of cardio stripping before and thought that it made at least a little sense. The first time I saw it, there was a pole that the class utilized to promote upper body strength. But in this women’s class, there was no pole! As far as I could see, everyone in the class stood in one place, swung their hips around a little, and pretended to unbutton imaginary shirts. I read online later that this is par for the course - there is no real, actual stripping in cardio stripping (that might make people uncomfortable) just as there seems to be no real cardio in cardio stripping (that also might make people uncomfortable).

In my mind, then, cardio stripping lets women live two fantasies at one time: 1) that they are sexy women who are edgy enough to strip and 2) that they enjoy going to the gym and exercising. Cardio stripping allows them to strip without actually stripping and take an exercise class without breaking into a sweat.

Let’s talk about stripping first: stripping is something that you traditionally get paid to do and not the other way around. Why is this so? Because as much as we all enjoyed that scene from True Lies, we all understand that stripping is not fun. In fact, it’s kind of icky, which is why it pays well and why your dad doesn’t want you to do it. Sure, stripping can be fun and empowering if a long-term partner was involved and if it took place the privacy of your own home, but could it possibly be fun in a Lucille Roberts with 20 strangers? Do you really think that any real, actual strippers would ever take a cardio stripping class for fun? Of course not. They are too busy crying softly, dating the wrong men, and doing coke.

And if stripping really were a fun activity, why are they not really, actually stripping during the class instead of miming it? If you were really edgy, wouldn’t you be doing the real thing?

What’s next on the cardio [blank] trend of women’s fantasies? Cardio two firefighters in love with you at once? Cardio kidnapped baby that is eventually returned to you after a blitz of media attention? Cardio eat the whole gallon of ice cream? (Don’t worry, you don’t actually eat the whole carton of ice cream, you just pretend to.)

The second part of the problem seems to be that we as a country are trying way too hard to make going to the gym really fun. Now, don’t get me wrong, I love going to the gym - it improves my mood, it motivates me, it relaxes me, it empowers me, it energizes me, and it gives me an awesome sense of accomplishment. Even with all of these positive feelings, though, I wouldn’t call going to the gym fun, just as I wouldn’t call my job fun even though I love it.

But it seems that, mostly due to advertising and the media, that people are demanding that their gym experience be nothing but good times - like a Friday night or a birthday party. They don’t seem to realize the sad fact that really fun things usually aren’t good for you, and that the most rewarding things that you can accomplish aren’t as simple as a cakewalk or a series of hip gyrations. Pushing yourself at the gym can be fun, but it will never be fun in the same way that the fantasy of stripping will be.

Cardio stripping has given me a great idea for a business, though. It will make DOUBLE the money of any gym or strip club because it will be both. Women pay me to come in and cardio strip and men pay me to come in to leer at them! Everybody wins! I’m taking suggestions for names.

My friend Nora Rocket brought the following article from Philadelphia Magazine to my attention: Pretty Babies by Carrie Denny - a report on a new trend that is honestly terrifying to me. Like, worse than puppy mills.

The article focuses on the new phenomenon of pre-pubescent girls - some as young as eight - showing up with their moms at the spa for treatments ranging from manicures to eyebrow plucking to Botox treatments to dye jobs to bikini waxes. These girls may never see their awkward stage, may never understand that not being perfect is okay, and may never feel comfortable in their bodies unless they are tanned, waxed, and made up.

Now, I don’t want to sound like a grandmother here, inching along in her walker and commenting on kids these days, but I’m pretty sure this is a serious problem for women. I’m not going to quote from the article - it’s too quotable for that - but you should read it, especially if you have kids or are even considering reproducing.

I’ve seen the same types of things in New York, which is probably the world’s motherhive of utterly ridiculous consumerist culture. Just last weekend, as Ben and I were eating at a restaurant, a girl at the table next to us threw a temper tantrum about getting her “mani and pedi.” I’m guessing this girl was seven. And although I know I’m not supposed to judge people or tell people how to raise their kids, but that ain’t right. At seven, your kids should only be throwing temper tantrums for popsicles.

I’m not sure what is worse about the scenario: the fact that these girls are learning to be utterly self-involved and self-conscious or that these treatments are so out-of-this-world expensive that they are learning pampered lifestyles that they won’t be able to support if mom and dad ever disappear. We might be raising a generation of girls that will continue to be dependent on their parents far after they should be and perhaps until they can find another viable source of income to pay for their spray-on tans.

Of course, I’m not exactly a poster child for “taking care of myself.” I don’t wax or pluck or dye, but on the other hand, I don’t brush my hair or require a bra. I might do more if I had the cash, but I’m guessing I wouldn’t do much. I think my awkward phase was an important if not pleasant time in my life when I learned that you should work on being things other than pretty, because pretty doesn’t always show up when you need it. And I think that altering our bodies to look like an airbrushed magazine covergirl and consuming expensive things as a major facet of entertainment in our lives is a slippery slope of emotional and financial troubles that won’t disappear with an hour-long massage.

I know these are old ideas and I know I’m preaching to the choir, but damn. What is even the point of giving an eight year old a bikini wax? The only thing that will accomplish is fucking that girl up for life.

Here’s what I hope: I hope that like all the generations that have come before us, these girls will rebel when they hit 18. That they might realize that looking natural and aging naturally is pretty great (and easy) and that there are scientific and evolutionary reasons that we have hair where we do. They might also realize that they are drowning in spa bills and wasting hours a week on the state of their blonde highlights. They might run rampant in the streets with no eyeliner and no bras, without blow-drying their hair or pumicing their feet, like a new generation of hippies.

And their mothers, who tried so hard to train them to be beautiful, will be horrified - only no one will be able to tell from their faces because of the Botox treatments.

In my ongoing attempt to capture and sustain female friendships, I attended a coworker’s party this weekend - she and a few of my other coworkers are pretty much the only reminders I’d like to have of my office. She’s a few years younger than me and recently graduated from college. She was also in a sorority.

Now, this all works out great - I’m hopelessly immature for my actual age and she has all the qualities that I look for in a buddy - slightly mean sense of humor and a positive, whole-hearted attitude toward doing fun things and going to sketchy bars.

However, we do kind of come from different cultures, as evidenced by the housewarming party this weekend - As much as I wanted to fit in and have a good time, I was caught without a party shirt.

Everything else was great - they were playing jock jams, which I openly enjoy, they were serving vodka from a bottle bigger than my torso, and I met several nice, funny, intelligent people right away. But really, deep down, I knew that everyone was staring at my lack of a party shirt. I hadn’t thought things through upon leaving the house - I had on a ratty t-shirt with the collar cut out that used to be my dad’s.

You could see it in their eyes - where is that girl’s party shirt? It was like one of those dreams where you’re naked, expect in this case I was unexpectedly caught wearing cotton.

In the cab home, I realized that I’ve never even owned a party shirt - something that shows off my arms, back, and boobs - something shiny and sequined and tight and sexy that involves tubes and halters and things. Something that says, I am dressed specifically to party, whether or not it happens to be the dead of winter. Something that says, breathing comfortably isn’t as important to me as having a fabulous time.

It might have also helped if I had put on makeup or brushed my hair. I suppose most of the problem stems from the fact that I attended a hippy college, where I would describe people’s party shirts as “sometimes clean.” And the other part of the problem stems from the fact that my less than ample rack makes it hard for me to find fitted shirts that aren’t geared toward Dora the Explorer fans.

I find it happens more and more these days - how I feel doesn’t match how I choose look on the outside.  Even though I felt in a party shirt mood and was engaged in party shirt activities (yes, I took a picture of me holding the vodka bottle that was almost too big to pour), I’m afraid people don’t understand that I’m wearing a party shirt on the inside. I can only hope that people get to know me well enough to understand that, metaphorically speaking, I have a closet full of them.

I’m feeling a little stressed today - although my freelance load is picking up, I’ve still got to show up at work during the day. It makes for some close deadlines and this constant feeling that I should be doing something other than what I’m doing. And so today I found myself “pulling Hilarys” at even the smallest things.

Here are a few things that made me well up today - things that I would usually ridicule someone else for almost crying about:

1. A commercial about a hospice. Violins and the fragility of life were involved. Fair enough.
2. Ordering New England clam chowder and receiving Manhattan clam chowder. While this would normally be seen as a simple misunderstanding, especially considering we were in Manhattan, tonight I treated it as if the waitress was being an unfeeling regional-ist whore. Fair enough?
3. Ben teasing me.
4. Ben saying something neutral to me.
5. Ben saying something nice to me.
6. Ben asking me if something is wrong.
7. Looking at the falling snow. It was so beautiful! Sniff, sniff.
8. Looking at a picture of an email forwarded to me that featured a dog with a heart-shaped brown spot on it.
9. Not looking at a picture of an email forwarded to me that featured a dog with a heart-shaped brown spot on it, but merely thinking back on it.

(These are some adorable and hilarious candy hearts  my friend Hilary made for me to help me get through my last week - what Ben is calling my “victory lap.”)

Coming in at #6 in our Top Ten Countdown of things I won’t miss about my office job is… not having any control.

And mostly, I’m talking about my paycheck. There it is, every two weeks: the same amount of money, down to the cent. While people with families or other responsibilities might find this comforting, I find it really unmotivating and stifling.

Because the thing is, I could do a really, really crappy job this week - come in late, leave early, long lunches, shoddy spreadsheets, etc. Or I could do a really, really awesome job - stay after hours, skip lunch, be meticulous, not make personal phone calls, etc. And either way (or somewhere in the middle, where I usually end up), I get paid the exact same amount. Down. To. The. Cent.

There’s simply no reward for doing a good job. You could get a promotion (unlikely for my position) or you could get a raise (we saw how that went) or you could get some praise from your boss (praise pays exactly 0% of your rent). A smart person in my position would do the least amount necessary to keep their job. But that’s no way to live.

By freelancing, I get to make my own decisions about how much I make. If I want to work a grueling 12-hour day and make $500, I would be free to do that. Or, if I wanted to take a day off, I could, keeping in mind that I wouldn’t make a dollar. Even though I’m giving up the luxury of knowing exactly how much I’ll make in a day or a month, I’m also getting the luxury of being in control of how much I make.

The bottom line is that my actions will be reflected in the results. And that’s pretty important to my mental health and general outlook on life.

In the Top Ten Things I Won’t Miss at My Job, I present #7: Authority.

I’ve always had problems with authority - I’m one of those people that, if I were ever thrown into women’s prison for a month or two for some minor offense, would keep getting myself into trouble to the point where I was in solitary confinement with a life sentence without parole. I wouldn’t necessary shiv people because I wanted to, but because someone with a uniform on told me not to.

Now, I understand that this is my problem and than respecting people who are older and wiser and smarter than me is generally a good and wise thing. However, I can’t help but notice that the structures of authority in places like offices are often… not accurate.

Or, to be more exact, I hate when people wield their authority in the wrong ways or use it too often as an excuse to treat people badly. My good boss (one of the few things I’ll miss about my job) treats everyone in the office the same, from the mail guy to the president. She asks peoples opinions, thinks about how projects or assignments affect each person, and thanks people when they do things for her, even if doing those things are part of their job. In short, she earns people’s respect. I’m more than happy to do a good job for her and go out of my way for her.

On the other hand, other people in the office seem to think that their title or corner office entitles them to treat me like I’m some other species - because I’m assistant I have to be dumber than him, to have fewer aspirations, to not deserve the things that they have. There seems to be these ideas that assistants have to be babysat, that they can’t be trusted with anything, that their math has to be checked, that their opinions don’t mean anything. They never seem to stop and think that maybe I’m simply in different circumstance they are.

These things drive me crazy on a daily basis - taking comfort in the fact that over the last year I’ve secretly been building up my own business has been the only way to suppress my outbursts. It’s such a small difference: between being told to do something and being asked. Between being part of a hierarchy and being part of a team.

In freelancing, even though you’re still working for someone, there’s an immediate built-in respect on both sides: I am providing them with a service that they can’t do themselves, and they are providing me with work. Going into the first meeting with a client means an equal exchange of information: they tell me about their company, and I tell them about the best ways to express their ideas and products with words. And the best part is, if they don’t like my stuff they won’t ask me to do another project and if I don’t like working with them, I won’t accept another project.

In the end, though, I can’t tell you how awesome it was to have this conversation with my least favorite authority figure yesterday:

“So I heard you’re leaving us. What company are you going to?”

“I’ve actually started my own business.”

“You’re what?”

“It’s going to be way more awesome than this company.”

A year or two ago, I saw a show on Animal Planet about a man who had a degenerative eye disease that made him slowly go blind. At the time of the filming, he was about 40 and 99% blind. Not only had he lost many of his friends, but his self-worth and will to live had plummeted. He was ashamed to use a walking stick and was receding further and further from society.

Then Cuddles, the miniature helper pony, came into his life. With his golden, flowing mini-mane and tiny, adorable miniature helper pony shoes, Cuddles not only allowed this blind man to venture out into the world safely and comfortably, but also allowed him to come to terms with his disease and begin to love life and himself once again.

Now, when I watched this before, I thought, “miniature ponies are useful and intelligent companions for the disabled. That show was interesting and informative.”

Last night, though, as I was up as usual, from about 3 AM to 7 AM, a slave to my type-II insomnia, the program came on again and I watched it again. This time, with tears welling in my eyes, I thought, “Cuddles, you are a miniature miracle! Who needs sight when they could have you, you teensy-hoofed phenom! If only I had a Cuddles to prance ahead of me, warning me of dangers and guiding me safely through life!”

What was the difference between these two viewings? Apparently, I think, miniature ponies are the best litmus test for me when it comes to my emotional stability. Better even then how I react to new magazine pieces on sports figures overcoming adversity.

I’m thinking I should even carry a picture of a miniature helper pony with me always, so that I can tell whether I’m capable making rational decisions or not. You know, say I’m about to start a fight with Ben about something stupid, and I’m not sure if I’m overreacting. I’d take the picture out, look at it, and evaluate my response. If I think, “That animal is a surprisingly small wonder of science,” then I could go ahead and voice my concerns to Ben. If I think, “Oh, Cuddles, if you were only here, I could hold your tiny hooves and look into your black, shining eyes! I might even buy you a miniature saddle, and then perch something like a cat on the saddle, and then take pictures!” Then I might let things go.

I’m even wondering if miniature helper ponies are a universal emotional litmus test for all people, across all cultures. I mean, what do you feel when you see a picture like that?