The Bridal Shower

“It is no measure of health to be well adjusted to a profoundly sick society.”

― Jiddu Krishnamurti

It starts with obvious whispers behind manicured nails.  The giggles and lips pressed together to muffle repressed hostility.  Furtive glances at thigh jiggles, spider veins, plunging necklines, contracted abdomens, shallow breaths, too much blush.  Female vanity, built on the shaky foundation of socialized insecurity is nowhere more rampant than at the bridal shower.  Who has been chosen, who hasn’t.  Comparisons of diamond cuts and weights.  Talk of upgrades and settings.  Who has gained weight, lost it, gone off the gluten, gotten a boob job, who is too old for those booty shorts, who has worn the wrong shoes with that outfit.  There are no discussions of politics, world events, art, literature.  I have one solitary conversation about planting asparagus with an aging lesbian.  I suggest someone start a craft-based home business.  There are a few polite inquiries about jobs, but no one cares.  Everyone eats too much cake.  Almost everyone expresses their guilt about it.

I know we are more than this.

We are thankfully past the era where the cruel fate of being born with ovaries sacrifices your mind and talents to a lifetime of manipulating your aging body and neglecting your soul in an attempt to catch or keep a man who can protect you, feed you, shelter you, clothe you, and on a rare occasion, even love you.  Theoretically we can care for ourselves.  Right?

So what is this ambition, this game of superiority where women, like hens in a pecking order, rank themselves (and each other) according to height, facial symmetry, hair length and texture, tooth whiteness and straightness, breast perkiness, dress size, skin smoothness, ability to walk in heels without looking like a teetering giraffe on methamphetamines?

What does this superficial brutality matter compared to our warmth, our friendship, our intelligence, our empathy, our creativity?  Why does my self-esteem soar when I realize I’m the thinnest woman in the group and they all make a fuss about it?  Why does it plummet when I stand naked in the mirror and stare incredulously at my chest, home of two sad, shriveled, deflated-looking balloons, once the source of rapture for men, babies, and myself, and now a source of shame and concealment.  Surely these are first world problems.  Surely if I was scrambling to find food for my family, my lack of skin elasticity would be a non-issue.  Instead of abundance making me peaceful, generous and content, it has left me greedy, insecure, and dissatisfied.  I can’t be the only one.  Perhaps we were rightfully rejected from the metaphorical Garden.  I suspect God knew hardship and lack make us kinder.  Less entitled to Eden.  Less unwilling to share or let anyone else in the gates. 

In an era where I can buy myself beautiful, what is the value of it?  Once having a post-pregnancy boob lift (or let’s face it, a sweet sixteen set of knockers from daddy), becomes “normal body maintenance”, along with the full-body hair removal, hair color, mani/pedis, teeth-whitening and straightening, laser skin imperfection treatment, daily workouts, and severe calorie restricting, where do we go from here?  As Mindy Kaling said, “It takes a lot of work to look like a normal/chubby woman.”  How much time and energy are we, as a gender (because I can’t speak for the others) willing to invest?  How far do you want to go in the “one-upmanship” game?  Men seem to need to constantly upgrade their stereos and TVs and cars, women need to upgrade their bodies.  Why is our source of life also such a huge source of our pain?  No TV has ever cost a man a dance with a surgeon’s knife and $10,000.  Is this because our bodies, while life giving, are also unending sources of conflicting emotion and sensations.  Giving birth is humbling, empowering, rewarding, and excruciating.  Menstruating, like our sexuality, is both a source of pride and shame (and sometimes relief!).  There have been many great books written on these subjects (I’m looking forward to reading Naomi Wolf’s Vagina next), but no one at a bridal shower (or lunch date or shopping trip) is talking about them.  Instead they are talking about Vanity Fair.  I’m not going to pretend these are easy questions to ask ourselves, but that’s why they are so important.

No amount of beauty will save you from heartbreak.  You only have to glance at the tabloids to confirm that riches and double DDs won’t stop a divorce in its tracks.  To borrow from Cheryl Strayed, love is not a competitive sport.  But I often suspect, that even if men were removed from the conversation, the competition for attention and status would remain.  When our very sense of self-worth, our right to exist as people, is based upon a variable (our outward appearance) that is subjective at best, and doomed towards complete annihilation at worst (the reality TV show we don’t want to watch – There are no Survivors), there can never be contentment.  There is no winning in the war against time and gravity.  So judging how other people are playing the game when no one wants to admit the outcome is irrelevant seems, frankly, delusional.  Then again, delusions are often a coping mechanism for distracting ourselves from a painful reality we don’t want to see.  A closet full of perfect outfits and a facelift won’t save you at the emergency room.

I’m not suggesting we stop throwing parties or celebrating life events.  I’m not going to be able to change thousands of years of female socialization.  I like buying shoes.  I want to fit in with my peers.  I’m not about to ruin someone’s wedding shower by standing on the couch and yelling, “What does it all matter anyway, we’re all gonna die and he’s probably going to cheat on you by Christmas!”

I just think it is important to stop and question what it is we are doing.  To be mindful of how profoundly fucked up we are.  That is the crack in the wall.  The tiny, almost imperceptible fissure that will let in just enough light for something new to grow.  And maybe, just maybe, that tiny bit of room is enough for me, or any of my beautiful, talented female comrades, to let ourselves be more than what we’ve become.  And to not be afraid to talk about it.  To brag about our professional achievements instead of openly criticizing our lack of willpower towards limiting bread consumption.  To celebrate one another’s emotional strengths instead of rolling our eyes at skirt length.  We are all, every single one of us, guilty of it.  We blame men and the patriarchy for treating us like objects (and they do, and that is a rant-filled discussion for another day), but I've never met any woman who doesn't fiercely objectify her own body, and those of everyone around her, right down to the littlest stretch mark.  I have never spent more than a few hours with a woman before the subject of her weight comes up.  Often it is in the first ten minutes.  I know more about most of my friends’ and family’s body hang-ups than I do about their career aspirations or political leanings.  I have no idea how my best friend votes but I know she waxes her toe hair and upper lip.

I can’t control what anyone else does.  But I want to stop talking about my body (including that horrid internal monologue) and all the things it can’t do, or isn’t going to be, and instead celebrate all the things it can do and its triumphs.  I birthed two healthy boys vaginally.  I breast-fed both of them, despite complications.  I’ve survived trauma and ill health.  I can run and swim and jump (even if I pee myself a little) and teach yoga and give a really really good head rub.  I want to live happily IN my body instead of criticizing it as an outside observer with an agenda.  My body isn’t a project.  I’m not a project manager.  It isn’t a building I live inside and I’m not its architect.  It’s a home.  I want it to feel safe.