Theorizing Thin

I know that no one has sympathy for the skinny girl. American culture has taught us from an early age that skinnyness is a physical attribute both to aspire to and to despise; like anything we desperately want, our feelings for it are a contradictory mix of lust for and repulsion of the desired object(ive). It is not us, so we want it. It is not us, so we distrust and mock it with humanity's unique xenophobic psychology. In most people's troubled attempts to become united with their potentially thin selves, they realize the inevitability of imperfection and so begin to loathe skinny. Call it superficial Lacanianism. Or the Freudian haute couture.

The thing is, being skinny has a few marked disadvantages. I'm starting to experience these disadvantages more frequently as I get older, because clothing is designed for women with at least a modicum of curvaceousness. In my current search for clothing that doesn't look like it spends 8 hours a day in a book warehouse, particularly a few pretty pre-wedding pieces, I've spent hours trying on dresses in stores that range from the nice to the Forever 21 to no avail. Either they sag in the front, or they droop in the back, or they make me look like an underdeveloped whore. I'm beginning to think that I either need to learn to alter clothing or start stalking fashionable Japanese exchange students.

What skinny seekers don't realize is that it's as depressing for a woman as tiny as myself to shop as it is for someone who's a little overweight; both of us leave stores feeling a little less feminine than when we went in, a little less pretty and alluring.

A Clinton supporter would point out right about now that it is foolish for women to pin some fraction of our self-worth on appearance, but I believe that doing so is hard-wired. Before women were social beings we were biological beings, and being attractive aids survival. You don't see any Neanderthal ladies prancing around, do you?

Okay, poor, anachronistic, and pseudo-scientific reasoning. Nevertheless, I think I'm correct to suggest that superficial qualities impact the way we feel about ourselves and the ways that others view us. As a result, when nothing fits I feel un-gendered and ill at ease. There are women all around me with boobs and hips, and men with penises, and then there's me: skinny bones jones with no easy physical allocation in the world.

Am I exaggerating? Well, yes. Theorizing about something always imbues it with more dire significance and bullshit than it deserves. There are good things about being skinny, too. For instance, I can fit into my fiance's grandmother's wedding suit, and a lot of other cool vintage items. I can squeeze past slowpokes on the sidewalk without appearing brusque. I can eat dessert twice a day and tell myself that it is all part of the the great Breast Cake Plan. I am sleek and muscular and lithe like the Arctic fox.

It may sound trite and impossibly difficult, but it is genuinely best to feel comfortable in your own skin and to love your body. I find this easier to do when I don't go shopping, which goes a long way toward explaining my wardrobe. Do I wish I had a bosom that required a bra and hips and that made my 24-inch waist look impressive? Yes. Do I have a pang of jealousy when my voluptuous goddess of a best friend shows up looking like the Marilyn Monroe to my prepubescent Gabbie Hoffman? Yes. But I try to desire the things and experiences that I am capable of attaining without plastic surgery.

Besides, no one likes a whiner. Especially a skinny one.

F is for Fabulous

This should be brief, because it's past my bedtime and I haven't yet undergone my extensive preparing for bed routine. I assume most women have such a routine: wash the face, apply toner and any special creams; brush and floss; remove contact lenses; pluck errant hairs; contemplate one's image for a moment; moisturize hands; fold and put away clothes; crawl into bed to read for a bit. It's markedly different from the male routine, which is oblivious to facial and dental hygiene. T-money is of the opinion that "sleep happens" without needing to ready oneself for it; while he is logically in the right, I maintain that this phrase was funny four years ago and its humor is now long past its expiration date. Besides, I have minty fresh breath and a clean visage when I slide into bed. He doesn't have to kiss the evening's enchiladas goodnight.

Old enchiladas aside, I'm a bit bummed out on the teacher front tonight. It looks like 3-4 students from my morning class are going to fail, just for lack of trying, and about half of my evening class, for lack of showing up. I ran into a past student at the bookstore today, who reassured me (without prompting--art students are really weirdly attuned to professorial ego) that I'm a good teacher and my students are to blame. Ah, who knows. I appreciated the sweet words coming from his bepierced lips. I've just never failed so many students. Not even the quasi-illiterate Samoan football player, who I passed out of pity for his sports scholarship (I know, I know. These kinds of favors to athletes are unethical and are leading to the dissolution of higher education. But you look a giant boy-man in the eyes and tell him his dreams of going pro are about to be dashed by his poor understanding of pronouns.). It's disheartening. To paraphrase one of my best friends (and loyal blog reader), if everyone just did what I told them to do when I told them to do it, the world would be a better place. Certainly the writing classroom would be!

I'm going to have to lay the smack down in my summer course. No late work! No emailed papers! No sob stories about cats falling from third-story balconies! No being a punk ass pain in my butt.

The butt that now is going to pack herself off to bed. After a 20-minute cleansing, of course.

Like Lightening, I Strike so Quick

Several things irritated me today.

My co-worker, B---, whose bad moods cast a pall over his immediate environment, in which I often have the misfortune of being located. B---'s crankiness is a contagion that infects the rest of the "team" (let's pause to mock the corporate world's ironic and futile attempts to mimic natural social conditions). But my irritation runs deeper than that. I hate the sight of his squirrely face squinched up in type-A agony deep in the root of my being, in the churning seat of my passionate liver. I detest his narrow cranium and upturned-but-not-in-a-cute-way nose, his scrawny biker calves and his shaved head. Actually, B--- shaves off all of his hair, probably to elicit more speed from his already frenetic body. Being near him increases my blood pressure and induces murderous fantasies.

Oooh. Yes. B--- is numero uno in the day's irritations.

Number two would be my boss, also a B---. He's just fat, lazy and incompetent. I mean, really. Fat. Lazy. Incompetent. He also smokes, and while I accept people's freedom to engage in self-destructive habits (maybe his addiction is proof of natural selection working in our favor), it just adds to his grossness. There's nothing worse than a large smelly idiot giving you poor instructions for activities you can do quite well on your own.

To be fair, I tend to resent authority figures who are less educated than myself. Which is totally pretentious, I know (I mean, look at where all that schooling's brought me). Nevertheless I stand and listen to one B--- drone on, while the other B--- does his best impression of an angry human tornado, and I ponder the uselessness of my life. How did I reach this point? Why am I such a failure?

Being around the B---s is really bringing me down.

Since I'm targeting people for slander, let's move on to Hillary Clinton. She LOSES the primary race. She throws a completely illegitimate hissy fit about counting ballots that she'd previously promised not to be on. She actually courts votes based on racism and ignorance, and uses passe first-wave feminist rhetoric to woo women of a certain age. And now, when she could gracefully say, "I have run a phenomenal race. I am proud of myself, and disappointed by very narrow defeat. But it is time to unify the party and stand behind the winner," does she do so? No! Instead she makes incendiary remarks referencing the popular vote debacle in 2000, inferring a situational corollary between herself and the far more dignified Al Gore, and then announces her desire for the vice presidency. How, in the names of the founding fathers, can Obama now select a different running mate without provoking the ire of millions of Clinton supporters?

Who may comprise my final beef of the evening. All those people who say they'll sit this election out or grant victory to McCain--our jowly, war-mongering Republican contender--rather than vote for Obama? Yeah, they may be worse than the B---s. They're definitely worse than Clinton, although I think she encourages their behavior. They are so small-minded, so critically un-attuned to what is at stake in this race both domestically and for the U.S.'s global standing, that they are willing to relinquish their democratic IMPERATIVE (and I don't mean party, I mean political right) to vote. And that, imaginary readers, is really irritating. Think for a minute of all the Zimbabweans suffering state-sanctioned violence and the curtailment food and health aid right now because they deigned to elect a new leader. Why don't we do Mugabe a favor and send all of the Americans who don't want to vote there, and trade them for people who appreciate political privilege?

And let's send the B---s with them. Mugabe can have them.

Eggplant Parmigiana

YUM. I'm too drained from reading student papers to say anything of substance, but I wanted to share my new eggplant parmigiana dish, courtesy of Gourmet Magazine. I should preface this by admitting that I usually find eggplant disgusting. But it was a good price at the market, and I believe in trying new things (or old things different ways). And what a lucky thing that I do, because this parmigiana is savory, salty, spicy, rich and healthy all at the same time. I served it with a lemony Caesar salad (minus croutons).

Peel and slice two large eggplants (or however many small or large eggplants you desire) into 1/4 in. slices and brush both sides with olive oil. Place on an aluminum foil-lined baking sheet and roast for 20 minutes at 450 degrees F (flipping once). Set aside.

In the meantime, get a lovely tomato sauce bubbling. (I actually did this first, but I like to let sauces simmer for a long time.) Make it a tad bit on the salty side to compensate for the blandness of the plain roast eggplant and mozzarella. Start by adding a healthy amount of red pepper flakes and 2 cloves of minced garlic to a nice slug of olive oil. (One of the secrets to an amazing, rich Italian tomato sauce is a liberal slug of olive oil.) After a minute or so, add a 28 oz can of diced organic tomatoes and let it simmer until it thickens. Then add 1/4 C Parmesan cheese. Set aside.

Make individual parmigianas by layering: a slice of roasted eggplant, spread with some sauce, topped by fresh basil and a slice of mozzarella, followed by another slice of eggplant. Etcetera. Repeat until you have a well-sized eggplant tower (I found three slices sufficient). Keep the cheese layer moderate, to prevent greasy pools of dairy from mucking up the glorious acidity of the tomatoes and the gentle sweetness of the eggplant.

Pop the parmigianas back into the oven until the cheese melts and starts to brown in places.

Enjoy!

postscript: I find the current Michigan-Florida delegate debacle horrifying. Why don't we just save Bush the trouble and make the democratic process entirely obsolete?