Or, And This Is Mommy’s Snatch.
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:
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’m assuming she means naked in the changing rooms, though any observance of such boundaries is not made clear.
At which point, sharp-eyed readers may be attempting to reconcile this,
With this:
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:
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.
That’s quite enough. You can stop now.
No, really. We have everything we need, madam.
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:
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.
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,
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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