day 28
Women are the most feral people I know. And that’s just a fact.
Sometimes it can feel like my body is this uncontainable thing that I’m constantly trying to put restraints on, to smell good, feel soft, hairless, motionless, quiet, smooth like a strange seal statue that’s lost its ability to clap. Women’s bodies are these leaky vessels: periods, discharge, sweat, tears, the occasional accidental shart and I really, truly revel in it. Sometimes there’s no better feeling than staying in my pyjamas for 2 days straight, transitioning into a pair of jeans that I pull out of the dirty wash, febreeze real quick and scrape my greasy hair back into a (sneakily) chic bun to head to the corner shop when the snacks run out. The “wet look”. You can tell my hair is dirty because I’ve done something weird with it. Plaits. Little braids. Half up, half down. It’s the ultimate distraction. Honestly, next time your hair is dirty, bang a plait on there and you’ll have them dazzled, bamboozled.
My body is constantly misbehaving. I’m perpetually surprised by my period, despite having had it for over 13 years, there’s always a moment of shock when it happens. Inevitably in a random bathroom stall, expletives abounding, sans any period products and occasionally even when wearing white trousers! Because God likes to f••• with you like that. It’s that moment where you see the blood, and the last week suddenly makes so much sense. Ah YES, that’s why I’ve inhaled every carbohydrate under the sun, cried listening to Phil Collins and had a pretend argument with my best friend in my head. Although, to be honest I would probably cry to Phil Collins anyway. Period apps are also completely terrible which is infuriating. It never sends me a reminder. It manages to tell me when I’m ovulating FFS, but not if I’m going to have to panic stack toilet roll into my knickers because I brought the wrong bag with me.
My period sometimes incapacitates me entirely. Sometimes, I won’t be able to get out of bed, I’ll lie stock still, perfectly aligned with two hot water bottles on my back and stomach, or I’ll throw up and have to perform some strange groaning ritual, catatonic in bed. Think it’s something to do with the vibrations, but it works. Also, side bar, but isn’t it such a sick joke that you’re the horniest when you’re on your period? You don’t feel sexy, and yet…. It’s like your body is fighting the fact that your womb is shedding. It’s a lot how I imagine feeling pregnant and horny feels. You feel bloated, ugly, are often even in pain and yet, SOMEHOW, the feeling of frustration persists.
Constantly feeling like our bodies are falling short of this unobtainable standard, can be exhausting. I often think of that quote, “If tomorrow, women woke up and decided they really liked their bodies, just think how many industries would go out of business.” All of this messaging around us tells us to tame ourselves, hair removal, face rollers, moisturizers and that’s as a blonde, white woman with privilege, where bodies like mine and faces like mine are seen frequently are more often than not held up as the “desired standard”. Not to even begin on the bombardment that black women face to “tame” their natural hair to avoid looking “unprofessional” and other thinly veiled racist remarks. (See “Don’t Touch My Hair” by Emma Dabiri for someone who has written extensively on this and other aspects around black, female identity and its relationship to hair).
Even the body positivity movement in is its own brand of toxic in its own way and can make you feel even worse. Influencers, actors, musicians all tell us to love ourselves, love our bodies and embrace our curves, scars, cellulite. It’s an acute kind of failure, like a failure as a feminist if you don’t want to post the photo where you look a bit chubby. If you’re not out there, shouting to the sky how much you love your love handles, it can just feel like another impossible standard we’re failing to achieve. On the daily, I settle for feeling pretty ambivalent about my body. Ambivalent is good, it’s better than hating it, or loving it even, in some ways. It fluctuates daily. Hourly even. I suppose what I’m trying to say is that, you don’t have to feel anyway about your body. It’s up to you. If you feel good, own that, if you don’t, own that too. A friend once said to me, imagine that your body can hear all of the things you say about it. Like it were a child you were babysitting, who was eavesdropping in. So be kind to it, take care of it, or don’t. Treat it badly, stay feral and fucking fabulous. It’s entirely up to you and all yours my love.