Or, And This Is Mommy’s Snatch.
I make a point to walk around the upstairs of my home (we have far too many uncovered windows downstairs!) naked.
Yes, I’m reading Scary Mommy, where exclamation points abound, and where ladies of a progressive leaning share their political radicalism. In this case, Ms Kate Auletta, the publication’s editor-in-chief, is thrilling us with tales of her domestic nakedness:
I hold my weight now in my hips and upper legs, and my large breasts have not defied gravity in the slightest. All this to say, I have far from the perfect body. Which is exactly why I walk around naked.
It seems, then, that the nudity is not so much shared, a gift to the world, but more something inflicted. Specifically, on the author’s two small boys. I’ll spare you the lengthy description of Ms Auletta’s various physical imperfections – the rolls of excess flesh, the big, sagging bosom, and the whole Fat Upper Pubic Area thing.
I was and never will be one of those women who walk around naked at the gym.
I’m assuming she means naked in the changing rooms, though any observance of such boundaries is not made clear.
In other words, it’s not because I love my body; I don’t really. It’s because I want my kids to see reality, self-love, and body positivity come from one of the people they trust most.
At which point, sharp-eyed readers may be attempting to reconcile this,
I want my kids to see… self-love, and body positivity
With this:
it’s not because I love my body; I don’t really.
Come to think of it, I’m not entirely sure what loving one’s body might mean, beyond the obvious off-colour jokes. But apparently, it’s something that one is supposed to proclaim as an accomplishment, a credential of progressivism. I have, however, noted that it tends to be announced by people whose declared triumph in this matter is not altogether convincing, and whose basis for doing so is generally much slimmer than they are.
Still, there are the obligatory noises to be made, and empowerment to invoke:
My show of feminism, of empowerment and acceptance… comes in the form of being literally naked with my imperfect body.
There we go. Because, clearly, it’s a blow to the Patriarchy, a radical act. A feat of progressive heroism. Not just some incongruous crack and badger. Come up onstage to collect your certificate and enamel badge. Everyone applaud.
Instead of covering up with a bathrobe — which always makes me hot and sweaty post-shower anyway — I just walk around in all my unrefined glory.
That’s quite enough. You can stop now.
To me, it’s showing my sons what a real woman’s body — one that has birthed two kids and has its flaws — looks like, and how to stand proud in it.
No, really. We have everything we need, madam.
It’s showing them that while, sure, I like air-drying, bodies come in all shapes and squiggles, that bodies aren’t a “problem” to be dealt with, even if I have a hard time with it on most days myself.
So, again, it’s all about empowerment and “body positivity,” you see. Oceans of self-love. Or at least the intermittent appearance of such. Something done “without a care,” except “on most days.”
It must be quite strange to go through life feeling a need to boast in print of some pointed behaviour – specifically, “showing my sons what a real woman’s body… looks like” – as if this feat of not wearing knickers were somehow radical, empowering, and a basis for applause. And to then have to justify this lifestyle affectation in ways that are somewhat contradictory and not particularly convincing. As if no-one would notice. It seems a lot of effort.
When not treating her small boys to the sight of her arse and undercarriage, Ms Auletta offers other educational experiences:
As a parent, I spend a lot of time pointing out gaps in thinking about race or inequality in media or books or on the street when I see it.
Those lucky, lucky kids. How the time must fly.
Previously in the world of Scary Mommy:
Empowered woman dreams of Donald Trump, has panic attacks.
Empowered woman, user of Xanax, suffers from internalised capitalism.
Another empowered lady and her mood-stabilising medication.
A tale of laundry and resentment.
On auras, emanations, and paranormal parenting.
Empowered woman, who is in no way unhinged, teaches her small children to scream profanities at random people.
There’s more, should you want it, if you poke through the archives.
Update, via the comments:
Regarding the six items linked above, Aitch adds,
Where the hell do they keep finding all these mad women?
Not an unfair question. What with the recurring motif of mood-stabilising drugs, the existential trauma of hearing differing views, the lurid fantasies regarding Mr Trump, or the obsessive thoughts about babies heads spontaneously falling off. To say nothing of how often these preoccupations bedevil ladies who are employed, or have been employed, as public-school educators.
I should add that the links at the end of the post are but a small sample. I can’t monitor Scary Mommy around the clock. And frankly, I wouldn’t care to.
It’s rather like the now-defunct Everyday Feminism, a publication once very popular among the super-woke, with over four million monthly visitors, had an extraordinary number of articles, several every week, on the subject of living with mental illness. From delusions of witchcraft to serious Cluster-B personality disorders.
But among progressive women, there is, I think, a pattern. One that’s fairly hard to miss.
Though doubtless many try.
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