This is the fifth edition of Obsessions by moi, RBG. For those who are new to my writing and what Iām doing here, Iām a queer femme writing about the body and culture. Iām an Aquarian sun, Libra moon, and Pisces rising which means Iām a lot of eyes and cranium with a bit of fluid running through. Soon, there will be a paid subscription version (free posts + special posts only for paying subscribers) so look out for that. Artists deserve to be paid, and I appreciate any and all support. The best way you can help me right now is to send this to all you friends and encourage them to hit the subscribe button. Send this to your popular friends in NY and Paris; and to Lena Dunham or the next queer woman that may be famous. Definitely send it to Rachel Maddow.
Dear Obsessions Lady:
Iām a 37-year-old femme lesbian who hates her body. Now, during better times, I hate my body very little or not at all, or so little that no one would know but Ursulaās scorpionic ghost. Yes, I have a copy of The Body is Not An Apology, and yes I started TBINAA book group and then lost interest because Iād rather be exercising, and yes I was also afraid that hosting a book group that was fat positive might make me fat.
Iām a strong brain in a jar kind of a lady. Like most fit, ambitious women in their 20s, I thought my triceps would lightly round along my arms like dolphins for forever more. I thought my tummy would remain flat until at least sixty. I was always complaining about the 6 pack that was growing on my abdomen like moss in the Pacific Northwest (I feared looking like Rosie OāDonnell, but good God, I didnāt want to look like my lesbian sister Jillian Michaelās either). Granted, my entire adult life Iāve been stalking the perfect body from a distance while playing the good queer girl; fat-positive, anti-heteronormative, and pro body hair. Becoming a yoga teacher did not help anything; my first mentors in New York were former professional dancers with the bodies of Sarah Jessica Parker and the movement of cool girls. The yoga teacher who changed my life and my entire relationship to movement was 5ā4ā and on a heavy day may have weighed 90 pounds.
Oh and then there was this. There was the year I did an exceptional thing and quit drinking and stopped driving other peopleās precious lives around in drunk cars.
That year my body changed and my triceps were definitely Madonnaās dolphin triceps. And every cis woman yoga teacher I knew was telling me shit like, āWow, youāve been studying a lot with our 90 Pound Guru. I can see the lean lines on your body and your silhouetteā¦.ā
This woman went on as she stared at my lean lines. I canāt say I felt attacked, more like I temporarily belonged in this straight space with lean lines and dolphin triceps. I couldnāt do the giggle, giggle, giggle like I noticed women did when Saul David Raye walked in the room, but I almost belonged.
I loved my 90 Pound Guru. It might sound like I hated her, but I loved everything about her. She commanded a room. She was smart and wildly passionate about yoga. She was a yoga teacher at the American beginning in the 1970s where only three dozen weirdos were really studying it. But there was one moment that fucked me up. When she said in front of a room of about 50 teacher trainees, āSusan has a normal body, and my body is not so normal.ā There are twists and wraps and things I canāt do to this day because I am not built like an Indian boy or a modern NY dancer. And this has been true even when fellow cis women were devouring my worthiness with their eyes. I think the problem was she communicated something we all are taught in different ways; being this way is better than being this way.
Iāve been hesitant to write you this letter because Iām a great talker and I fear that
you too are a great talker and you will quote Brene Brown or somehow relate the winter season to my soft belly. You, I predict, will be annoying. You will want me to take a deep breath in and look in the mirror and appreciate myself just as I am because even this is temporary. And then you will tell me to do this every day, and to surround myself with women who love their bodies. And lemme guess, you know these women who love their bodies? They go to your TBINAA book club, and they eat cake, and they embrace their irritable bowl syndrome.
What I fear: what you will give me will be empty one-sided great talking where I can drill holes in the colander of your shapes and let everything just pour through like rain. Meaning, rain is rain is rain, and unless you are going to explain the rain to me like a climate scientist, Iām going to be majorly disappointed and just watch that colander run.
I need love in this house of neurons. I donāt know if the brutality of this last decade is finally allowing for a wide swath of beings to look for beauty rather than chew and crunch and twist around post-modernism***, but I donāt want to be left behind with the leaves and the sticks of a philosophy that looks to break apart everything. I want something I can roll around in and be safe for a little while.
I know I didnāt mention it at the beginning but I stuff my face to stop my God damn mind.
Love,
Susan
As your curator, I highly recommend clicking on the link to post-modernism where Natalie Wynn of Contrapoints explains post-modernism and modernism.