Let me complete this phrase: I suffer, therefore I am…a rather useless, self-absorbed asshole. Which officially makes me middle class. Well it was bound to happen one day, given my relentless pursuit of cultural capital. Continue reading
‘I’m back!’ I greet the lovely young woman at my gym as she swipes my card, for the second time that day. ‘You look more alive every time I see you,’ she sing-songs in response. ‘Do you mean that I look fatter every time you see me?’ I inquire, unplucked eyebrows raised. ‘Well … yes,’ she admits somewhat sheepishly, like that towel-wearing locker room guy on TV who makes fun of his teammate’s volumized hair. I’m not sure why, for I like long hair on a man. Let me specify that I mean scampish, carefree, tousled hair on the verge of needing to be cut, not greasy hair in a ponytail draped down the sloping spine of an otherwise bald man. So you will no longer be surprised to hear that in Quizzaz I chose Severus over Lucius:
His menacingly alluring hair fills me with a desire to obey.
Even a threatening cane can’t save Mr. Limp Locks.
[This one’s for you, G-Smash, even though your Lelo is named Ralph.]
Returning to Continue reading
During my birthday dinner a work colleague asked me what it felt like to write so much. This question gave me pause. Most people question me about the physical challenges of becoming Feminist Figure Girl. In previous blogs I have addressed the embodied experience of working out, considering endorphins, muscle failure, and the sensation of health, but I have not analyzed the literary side of things. And I should. Feminist Figure Girl is, after all, a writer.
In an early entry I mentioned my sore back and the tendonitis in my wrists, conditions produced by the repetitive stress of using a keyboard and mouse (the latter is now in the garbage). These bodily traces of writing were not caused by blogging; they resulted from past academic projects. These days I don’t write more than I used to; I write differently. While I continue to produce scholarly texts–I sent a book manuscript to a publisher in May, an article to an editor in July, revised a book chapter yesterday, am currently working on another that is due by the end of September, and must complete a chapter for my writing group which meets in early October–I now also blog for pleasure, potentially addressing a broader audience. I love writing this blog, and I am getting positive feedback about it. Don’t get me wrong, I thoroughly enjoy writing for more formal venues as well, particularly when I interpret contemporary art. I have never understood professors who dread writing or find it difficult; for me it is the best part of this career and I feel uneasy if I don’t do it on a regular (ie daily) basis. To summarize: I won’t be jumping off a ferry because I can’t finish a manuscript like John Goodman in Treme. Actually, I think he simply stepped into the Mississippi River, otherwise there would have been a noticeable splash. Continue reading
I sense that you are excited by the title of today’s post. Perhaps you are thinking that it refers to that special encounter you once had on a crowded bus in Rome. Or maybe you are recalling, with a certain thrill, the time you tried on a bathing suit at Filene’s basement in Boston. It was a busy Saturday afternoon in the group changing room, wasn’t it? That’s just sad really. Still, as you know I am not one to judge. While you are welcome to your memories of public indecency, I am going to write about something else: accidental intimacy at the gym. Continue reading
‘So exactly when did I start to be an asshole?’ I asked my partner the other day. ‘Was it last year?’ ‘Yes,’ he immediately responded, ‘you have been an asshole for about a year.’ Ah he is so dear to me, so honest, so practical, so non-complimentary. By that I mean only that he does not give compliments, for he is in many ways a complement to me. Indeed we are essentially opposites. He does not work out. He thinks beer tastes good. He can watch multiple episodes of BSG in a row, without moving. He is a night person. In contrast, I am a leap out of bed in the morning, scotch drinking, workaholic, fitness addict who can’t bear more than one hour of TV without cleaning or baking something. Biscotti anyone?
He is also a very tolerant person who can be friends with almost anyone. I, on the other hand, have become increasingly judgmental, especially within the last year or so. I am nevertheless ashamed of my behaviour, so that’s something isn’t it? Basically, I find it hard to comprehend why people would want to be weak. Continue reading
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