I opened my email this afternoon and was flooded with a
bazillion ways to lose weight. I could
describe a thousand ways that I’m SO beyond tired of people wanting to talk
about my weight. Or my hair. On the verge of my 40th birthday,
and having returned from an amazing conference titled “Conversation with
Exceptional Women” put on by the Sun Valley Institute, I’m seriously pondering midlife, my size, my worth. What have I accomplished?
An older lady in the audience asked a question that got me thinking--dangerous. She asked why
we put old women on the shelf and how to avoid becoming invisible. It gave me goosebumps.
I immediately thought of Amy Schumer’s skit, “The Last
Fuckable Day.”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XPpsI8mWKmg Because it really, truly
seems sometimes that when we are no longer deemed ‘fuckable’ in this society,
we have somehow lost our worth. A poignant
question came to mind—the superpower question, “Would you rather be invisible
or be able to fly?” I don’t want to be
invisible. I’ve always wanted to fly.
Not in the I-want-to-fly-in-sky kind of fly.
Fat girls don't get that luxury.
I want to fly in the successful metaphorical sense.
I want to do good in this world. I want to learn, and read, and cause great
waves of change. I want justice and
peace and love. I want to be good at the
things I choose to do. I want to be
valuable to the world.
I considered all the times I felt my sense of self-esteem soar
and a sense of validation at the word “pretty.”
All the hours spent in front of the mirror getting the mascara to
unclump, waxing, hating my hair, loathing my nose. Cussing at the scale every.damn.morning. All the aunts telling me I could be ‘pretty’
if I just did this or lost 15 pounds.
Now I laugh at 15 pounds.
And I thought about being invisible.
I thought of my grandmothers, and I started noticing the
older women I passed on the street. I
wonder about their friendships and loves.
The people that held them when they cried. I looked at their laugh lines, and wondered
about the times that made them laugh. I
looked deep into the furrows of their brow, and pondered the worries that were
carried there over the years. I want to
sit down with them over a Black Velvet and coke, and have the kind of conversations I
used to have with my grandmothers. Those
soul-searching conversation when the wisdom and caring of women who have
struggle give us so much hope and faith and just an overwhelming sense of being loved.
We all struggle.
Everyone. Struggle is gender neutral. But, women have it different, and older women
truly understand that.
Someone had the balls to tell that woman that to avoid invisibility, she
needed to volunteer. “Go read to
children,” they said. A group of radical
feminists tells her to “enjoy your grandchildren.” And all I can think is, “WTF? THAT’s invisible.”
Invisible is thinking I have to look 20 when I’m a month
from 40. It means I have to be a size
10. It means I have to be ‘fuckable.’ Because, let’s face it, when a woman is
fuckable, it means she’s meeting someone else's standard of what a woman
needs to be. It means that when I
retire, I’m supposed to smell like rose toilet water, make great cookies,
volunteer to read at the museum, and goddammit, know my place.
I’m supposed to grow big dahlias and wonderful
roses and wear purple hats with red shoes.
Wait a second. WTF?
On the edge of 40, my great epiphany, that I should have
known, but never really believed, is that my worth is not tied up in what
anyone thinks is good to look at. That
silences us. It ignores us. It invalidates our feelings and thoughts and
actions that have the possibility to really make the world a better, safer,
more civilized place. When a woman is sexualized, and her worth is about her
shell, that’s when she is really, truly invisible.
Invisible is thinking the size of my ass is more important
than my intelligence. Invisible is silencing
myself, because someone else will eventually say what I’m thinking. Invisible is being polite and not getting
uppity, or upset, or passionate about things that fucking matter. Invisible is not eating when you’re hungry,
so that, God forbid, you don’t take up too much fucking space.
Invisible is not getting angry.
And maybe, just maybe, the scariest thing about being an
unfuckable woman is being like the Cinderella team that makes the final—you don’t
have one thing to lose anymore. You get
wrinkled and stretch marked. You
belch. You pee when you sneeze. No one is looking, so they might as well
HEAR.
I read the papers. I
look at the past and the fights older women fought so I could have the
opportunities I have had. I look to the
future for my daughters, and I tear up. People
still believe, actually BELIEVE with every atom in their bones, that my daughters don’t deserve bodily
autonomy. My daughters aren’t supposed
to be able to decide when and how to have children. Or how many. Certain people think my children should not
learn about Henrietta Lacks, because a cervix is pornographic.
On the edge of 40, invisible is being silent about things
that really matter. I can’t tell you the
times I have embarrassed my daughter for speaking when she thinks I shouldn’t. “It’s not a big deal,” she would say.
On the edge of 40, my proudest moment was when she said, “Mom,
you’ve always stood up and not backed down for what you believe in.”
On the edge of 40, I refuse to spend the next half of my
life invisible. I might not reach my
dream of making sure everyone has clean water, or saving the world like I
thought could at 25. Hell, right now, I’m
doing good to save homework and get the laundry done. But, I won’t be invisible.
On the edge of 40, I’m going to be loud. I’m going to take up space. I’m going to call bullshit when I see
bullshit. And, I’m going to do it, so
that my daughters know they are worth so much more than being fuckable.
They deserve to be visible.
Transparently visible.
And they deserve to be heard. They deserve a listening ear.
They are worth so much more than the mask of 'lookability' that hides who they are and what they think and value.
The world needs them visible.
