The Body Stories: Trailer and Website!

I am so excited to share this! It is my heart's work, my baby, my medicine, and my gift to humanity.

My project, created from scratch alongside Jeanne Joe Perrone, with Victoria Bennet, Melinda Graham, and Breanna Noel, has a beautiful trailer and website now!

Watch, learn, share, like, comment, and be inspired!

website: http://thebodystories.weebly.com

trailer: 

Thank you to Yvonne Yu, our videographer, and John Wyffles, our designer.

Thank you to all who have supported us! Come on out on January 22nd to see our first rendition of The Body Stories!

A Feminist Christmas

Men and women are both in the kitchen. Everyone serves, sets, collects, and cleans.

No one talks about how little they ate for a month in order to fully enjoy those three potatoes on their plate.

Barbies are banned. Unless someone has invented a Barbie that has a real woman's body.

There is dust, because no one spent the whole day sweeping, mopping, swiftering, scrubbing, and waxing. The world is made of dust, after all, and everyone understands.

Blow-dryers, flat-irons, curling-irons, and hairspray are all left untouched.

Little girls savagely rip wrapping paper. Ladylike behavior is absolutely not allowed.

Heels? They make for very unique tree ornaments.

Women scratch their eyes. Eyelashes are not paralyzed by mascara.

Gift tags from married couples read, "From Ms. Barbara Dell and Mr. Barbara Dell." 

And even though it's Christ's day, everyone remembers to celebrate his mother, Mary, who gave birth to him. (No one calls her The Virgin at this party.)


Happy Holidays!

The Body Image Project

I made this collage today for my Body Image Project. If you have any reactions, I'd love to hear them. It's a theater piece in development.

Femininity and Feminism Meet for Coffee

In my head, Femininity and Feminism meet at a cafe to talk every once in a while. They need to clarify some stuff. Here's how it usually goes down...

Feminism: Hello, Femininity.

Femininity: Hello, Feminism. I admit I'm scared to have this chat.

Feminism: Really? Why?

Femininity: I'm scared you hate me.

Feminism: Why would you think a thing like that?

Femininity: Because I shave my legs and blow-dry my hair straight and pluck my eyebrows and wear make-up and high-heels.

Feminism: And you think I disapprove of such behavior?

Femininity: Well, yeah... I mean, at the very least, you disapprove that I do it to fit in to social standards of female beauty.

Feminism: Is that what you do?

Femininity: Not always, but often. Like, sometimes, I wear a skirt, and it's just because I want men to look at my legs. I do want to look good for my sake, of course, but I also care about what other people think, and I care about being attractive to men. And not scaring people.

Feminism: So you think I don't care what people think, or about being attractive to men, or about scaring people?

Femininity: Yeah. Isn't that the case?

Feminism: Not always. I wear skirts too. And I like to be admired. And I worry about scaring people.

Femininity: You do?

Feminism: No one likes being compared to nazis or being asked if they've burnt their bra yet. As far as I'm concerned, all females are feminine, and all females are feminists, whether they know it or not. A woman with short hair who wears flats and doesn't pluck her eyebrows can still be feminine. A woman with long, blow-dried hair who gets a manicure every week and wears heels can still be a feminist.

Femininity: But there are stereotypes...

Feminism: Sure, they make it easier for us to talk about each other.

Femininity: But you don't wear things in order to fit into social standards of beauty, do you?

Feminism: Sometimes, I do, yes. Just because not shaving one's armpits works for some women, doesn't mean it works for all women. On the same token, just because wearing a dress works for some women, doesn't mean it works for all women. Once upon a time, women didn't get to decide what worked for them or what didn't. What we fight for is a world where no one feels obligated to look a certain way.

Femininity: How do you know if you feel obligated or not?

Feminism: You are conscious of the choices you make regarding your appearance, aren't you?

Femininity: Yes.

Feminism: And you're conscious of when you do things because you feel you have to, or in order to get a certain result or reaction?

Femininity: Yes.

Feminism: Then there's no reason for me to hate you. With consciousness, we have a choice. Without it, we are robots. As long as you're not a robot, we're not rivals.

Femininity: So you don't think it's bad that I spend an hour and a half on my hair every morning and hundreds of dollars on beauty products every month?

Feminism: I think it's bad if you think it's bad. If it bothers you, then it bothers me.

Femininity: I'm not sure yet if it bothers me or not.

Feminism: Then I'd say it's your responsibility to find out.

Femininity: Okay. So we're cool?

Feminism: Yeah, we're cool.

They smile at each other, sip their lattes, and live happily ever after.

Image from here.

Royal Wedding Chat

Conversation between a Teenage Girl and a Bubble Buster:


Teenage Girl: OMG! I'm soooo excited about the Royal Wedding!

Bubble Buster: Really?

TG: Totes! Kate is like our Diana!

BB: I sure hope not.

TG: Huh?

BB: You know Diana was bulimic and suicidal right? And that she, like, died.

TG: Whatevs! She was a princess, she was beautiful! Everyone loved her!

BB: Everyone except her husband and his whole family.

TG: Yeah but like, Will loves Kate, you can totes see it in their eyes.

BB: You can?

TG: Uh, yah.

BB: You know Kate will have to walk three steps behind Will when in public from now on, right? And she can't wear ankle boots or dark tights or too much make-up anymore?

TG: Who cares, she's going to be a princess!

BB: Clearly that's a bigger selling point for you than it is for me. We'll talk in ten years and see where we're at with all this, ok?

TG: (rolls eyes) Uh-huh.

BB: (rolls eyes) Enjoy the wedding.

TG: I will! (updates facebook status to: OMG, I never want to be old.)


image from here.

The Big Bikini: A Lesson in Being Larissa

Last week, I updated my facebook status with the following post:

"For the first time in 15 years, I wore a bikini at a Brazilian beach and, not only did I not feel fat, I actually felt GOOD about my body. Thanks to Alexandra for introducing me to affordable yoga at Laughing Lotus, Sarah for introducing me to Shaklee, and my brother for teaching me his work-out as well as living with me and buying me yogurt and soy milk. =)"

The post got a bunch of comments, likes, and private messages. A lot of so happy for you's and tell me more's. It was a true statement. I did feel good about my body, and it registered as a completely new feeling. I attributed it to the things I mentioned, but there was also a smaller factor that played a part in how I felt. It seemed like a little thing, but it was actually tied to something so big I decided it had to be a blog post rather than a facebook status update.

This small thing that made a difference in how I felt about my body was a big bikini.

When I planned this trip, it involved going to the beach with my then-boyfriend. As I thought about going to a beach in Brazil with him, I felt my stomach sink. Going to a beach in Brazil has always been a really intimidating experience. I was faced with not only my own insecurities about my body, but also the comparison to hundreds of near-perfect beautiful female bodies in tiny bikinis all around me. I hadn't gone to the beach here with a boyfriend in many many years, and now my insecurities tripled at the thought of it. So, when I was here in December, I went shopping for a bikini that might hide some of my cellulite and help mask my love handles. I always wore pretty small bikinis here (never thongs! just small), because that's what girls my age wore, and because I knew that most men thought smaller tan lines were sexier. Those small bikinis, however, tended to leave my cellulite exposed and cut at my waist-line, accentuating my love-handles rather than minimizing them. I figured that if I starved myself until March and had a bikini that helped me hide my "flaws," I wouldn't spend my whole time at the beach wondering if I looked like a whale next to all those model-like bodies, and fearing that my boyfriend would be turned off by my body. I was furious at myself for having these thoughts and insecurities, but I couldn't help it. They were bigger than me. It was actually easier and took less energy to try and "fix" them than to tell myself how absurd and unreal they were. I started losing weight and I bought a new bikini.

I never thought I'd actually feel good about my body. Feeling good about my body seemed like a far-off fantasy. A land I'd never ever reach. While I strove to reach my "ideal body," I always believed it would never be possible. I would never be thin enough. I would never feel good in a bikini. I only ever thought I'd feel less bad.

But I did lose weight. After my break-up, I lost my appetite, so it was easier. I dove into yoga, started a nutrition program, and focused on my body. It did feel good. When I got to Brazil a week and a half ago, I felt better about my body than I had in a long, long time. But if I had worn one of my tiny bikinis, I would still have felt uncomfortable. The realization dawned on me as I took my dress off at the beach. For the first time in my life, I didn't immediately start adjusting my bikini as soon as I was exposed. I didn't fuss with the top to make sure it covered my breasts in a way that didn't leave any fat hanging from the sides- this bikini was big enough to hold everything in. I didn't keep pulling the back of my bottom piece out in a futile attempt to cover up more of my butt- this bikini was already in place. And I didn't pull at the strings on the side to make sure they were as loose as possible so as not to cut into my sides- this bikini didn't have strings, and it didn't divide my mid-section into top blubber and bottom blubber. I was actually comfortable in this bikini. And I realized, This bikini is so me! All those other tiny bikinis weren't me! They were me trying to be someone I'm not, someone who's comfortable in small bikinis and exposing a lot of skin. I'm not comfortable with that! It's so simple! I just have to wear a bigger bikini! How amazing!!!

It was an amazing feeling, and it lingered for days. It seems like a small feat but it's actually tied to a much larger triumph. It was the first time I actually understood the overstated phrase, "Be yourself." Instead of wearing what I thought I should wear, I wore what I wanted to wear. I gave up caring if people would think I was conservative or had chosen a bikini that was more appropriate for older women. I gave up trying to get tiny tan lines that other people thought were sexy. In wearing this bikini that I was so comfortable in, I was being Larissa. I discovered that being Larissa meant wearing a bigger bikini, one that allowed me to move freely and enjoy the beach without the usual body-paranoia. I felt a huge relief.

What propelled me to buy the bikini was a desire to look a certain way for someone else. He never got to see me in my new bikini or new-found comfort and ease, though. And I never got to imagine that he thought I was attractive and hot anyway, even in comparison to other beautiful women at the beach. Instead, I discovered something about myself that was really important. It has inspired me to look at all of my actions and identify whether I'm Being Larissa or Being Who I'd Like To Be.

I've always been a person of particular and consistent tastes. My favorite color has always been purple. My favorite animal has always been the koala. I've always preferred solid prints. I've always liked the same music (folk and country), try as I have to adapt to modern tastes. I've never liked sports. I've always liked sad movies. I always loved sleeping in nightgowns. Still, with all this knowledge about what I most definitely like and don't like, I still tried to be someone other than myself, a lot of the time. I thought that holding on to what I know I like meant I wasn't open to new things. I thought it would make me grow as a person to live outside my comfort zone. Now I realize I actually grow the most when I'm true to myself. As soon as I found this bikini that made me feel so much more like myself, I was able to be present. Much like when I'm in a theatre, a setting where I feel instantly at home, I didn't have to worry about looking like I was comfortable and belonged. I simply was. The experience was exhilarating.

It's ridiculous that I was trying to hide my "flaws" from the person I was romantically involved with, and that I was trying to influence how he thought about me. People will think whatever they want to think, and there's very little I can do about it. I see that now, more than ever.

It isn't easy not to care about what other people think. It takes a lot of conscious effort to "be myself," and a lot of confidence to trust that that's what someone will fall in love with. The bikini was a big step for me and, even so, I discovered it because I was trying to project an image of myself that I thought would be appealing to someone else. I didn't really do it for myself, but it served me nonetheless. I learned something about myself, and now I can honor it.

Wear a bigger bikini. Be comfortable. Be Larissa.

Lesson learned.

Compartmentalizing Women: Response to Wombat

As I read Wombat's post today, "Never Look a Gift Babe in the Brain," I got really really angry. As he relaid how men compartmentalize women, I felt my stomach turn. Although I know he probably meant it much more lightly than I took it, I found it unsettling and offensive. Here's my response.

I've heard people say, "Compartmentalizing is just what men do. It's how their brains work."

Well. I think compartmentalizing women is not only sexist, it's cowardly. Especially in this day and age. If you keep a woman in one compartment- say, the "not a girl you bring home to mom" compartment, then you absolve yourself of the responsibility you have over her feelings. If you established that this is "just" about sex (I'm still trying to figure out what about sex is so "just"-y, but okay, that's not the point right now), then you're off the hook- if she develops feelings it's her fault and she has no right to hold you accountable for them. How convenient! And if you're with a woman who is "girlfriend-material", well then she better live up to those expectations, always. If she does something that's "un-girlfriend-material"- say, fantasize about being a naughty nurse or wear a skirt that's too short for someone who's in a relationship to be out wearing- then you get confused and start wondering if you really love her.

I have touched on how limiting it is for women to be compartmentalized in my post "Sexuality of a Woman." But I'll say it again: Compartmentalizing women is an ILLUSION. That woman at the bar who's wearing a skimpy dress and goes home with you on the first night- believe it or not- that woman still wants to be loved. And that woman you can imagine being the mother of your children- that woman still wants to be fucked. And both women are capable of playing each others roles. We choose- or shift instinctively- who we want to be for the different men we meet, usually based on who they let us be. We either put on the "good girl" act or we unleash the "bad girl". We rarely let both co-exist because we know that men compartmentalize us. (Not all men, and not all the time- I am aware I am speaking in general terms here- but I'm responding to a particular train of thought.)

Men and women have brought up that women also compartmentalize men. "He's a jerk, I don't wanna date him." or "He's dating material." To which I say, guilty as charged. We absolutely do that. The difference is that the guy who sleeps around does not usually want to be seen as "dating material" or wish to fit into that category in any shape, way, or form, whereas the woman who sleeps around is rarely happy to remain in that category forever. Even Samantha in Sex and The City settled down with someone in the end, and it was always pretty clear that her rejection of intimacy was the survival technique of woman who had been hurt too many times and couldn't come to terms with denying her sexual self in order to be seen as datable. There doesn't seem to be a male counterpart who struggles with these things in the same way. Similarly, even when women compartmentalize, it is mostly a defense mechanism against being compartmentalized first.

Categorize women and you are limiting who we are.

Let us be ourselves, all of ourselves, and we will grow.

And I bet you, too, will feel much more like yourself, encounter a new sense of empowerment, and find much deeper happiness and pleasure.

Sounds like a good deal to me. Why don't you try it out?

Letter to Hugh Hefner

Dear Hugh Hefner,

I won't beat around the bush. That's your specialty. Here's my request:

Please die.

I think you've lived long enough, and I know you've done enough damage in this lifetime. I am amazed that you didn't get chopped to pieces and pasted on the doors of sexist men who get off on objectifying women as an example of what should happen to your type of creature. I suppose women just aren't violent enough to go through with actually eliminating your existence.

I must admit, I have fantasized about you. Oh yes, Hugh. I think about kneeling in front of you and while you say something degrading and inherently sick to me, I castrate you with my teeth. Oh, I get hot just thinking about it.

Seriously, though, don't you think you've made enough women feel like their bodies (their young, undernourished, photoshopped bodies) are all they really have to offer to the world? Haven't you published enough issues of your miserable excuse for a magazine to make enough women around the world wonder if they're worth lies anywhere other than their cup size, thus encouraging (too many) women to get breast implants they didn't need or weren't even sure they wanted? Haven't you had enough fun on that absolutely sickening TV show of yours, parading your three girlfriends who were not even ideas when you were already old enough to be their grandfathers?

I think I speak for a lot of people when I say yes, Hugh, you've had enough.

Now please, go ahead and die.

I'd really love to know how the hell you got away with all this sexist behavior for so damn long. See, this is something that makes me mad at the whole world. If there were a magazine out there or a TV show about straight white men making fun of, degrading, and objectifying people of color or gay people, we would not stand for it! Imagine a magazine that had a photo-spread of white men- excuse my explicitness- coming all over black men. Or straight men physically hurting gay men. The world would stop it immediately.

So why is it that we put up with these venues where it's okay to turn women into objects in service of men?

I don't know Hugh, and World, I really don't know. And since it doesn't look like it will stop anytime soon, well then I really just want Hugh Hefner to die.

Look Hugh, I'm sure you have some quality somewhere along the line. I know you're a human being and I'm picking you out of a (sadly) very large pool of men who do what you do. But see, you make it okay. You just parade your pimped-robed self around and say, "Hey, it's okay to use women for their bodies, to have several girlfriends at a time, to have sex with women born centuries after us, to exploit their sensuality and beauty." You normalize sexism, and you profit from it.

I know what you're saying to yourself right now, Hugh. I mean, it's a free world, right? No one's forcing these women to do anything, right?

Right. But that doesn't make it right. Nor does it justify sexism. So just shut up with that argument. I'll write a letter to the women who willingly pose for playboy and as your girlfriends later. Right now, I'm focusing on your behavior and my desire for your death.

I know you fell in love when you were young and your wife cheated on you and you never recovered and lost faith in love and all that. I feel for you. That's rough. I know men love deeply, and I know it takes them a while to recover. But dude. You're old. You're a fucking old man. Go to therapy. Get over it. Or, as I have stated would be my preference, just die already.

Listen, I think the female body is beautiful too. I think my body is a wonderful part of who I am and my sexuality and my appeal to men. I understand that men hunger for women, and that getting your penis inside us is very important to you. But you, Hugh, you take it too far. You disrespect our sensitivity, grace, and love of admiration. You hurt us by turning us into bodies and sex symbols for other men to enjoy. You cheapen our sexiness. You empower yourself and other men by limiting what we have to offer as individuals.

I think that if you bothered to look past the double D cups you so love, you'd be stunned by the beautiful hearts that live behind the silicone. If you took the time to see how much we can love, how much we want to be loved, and how beautiful life is when you respect us, you might actually learn that women are incredibly strong, sensitive, graceful, caring, and soulful. We're also nicer and have better sex when we feel respected. But I don't suppose you know anything about that.

But I have no hope for you, Hugh. I have hope for other men, though. I have hope that men in the world, who grew up with Playboy and who worship you, might come to their senses. Might have an enlightening moment one day where they think, "Golly, I wonder what it'd be like if I treated a woman like a human being! That sounds like a life-expanding and soul-filling opportunity. How exciting!"

So, Hugh, I beg of you.

Please.

Die.

Die, and may your reputation and everything you created- or should I say destroyed?- die with you. Die and be forgotten. Die and leave behind the women whose souls you've cut. Let them have a chance at seeing that their self-worth lies beyond their bodies and youth.

Die, Hugh Hefner, die.

With all the best of intentions,

Larissa Dzegar

image from http://www.paddy-boehm.de/karikaturen/gross/Hugh-Hefner.jpg

Masculinity vs. Femininity

"Be aggressive. Really strong. You know, tap into your masculinity."

If you're an actress or if you have ever played a sport, you've probably heard something like that and know what I'm talking about. As soon as I hear that, I get uncomfortable. Mostly, I get uncomfortable because it works. I channel in whatever socially constructed understandings of masculinity exist in me and I am suddenly more aggressive. My voice drops. My shoulders tense just slightly. My hips roll forward. But why, I ask myself, do I need to be told to be more masculine in order to come off as aggressive and strong? Clearly, if I can do it, then those qualities do not belong solely to men. Hm.

Yes, women can be aggressive and strong too. But not only are those qualities that are normally associated with men, they are of greater value when they are present in men. When we say of a woman, "She's really aggressive," we don't usually mean it in a completely positive way. We're not likely to get rewarded for punching someone- we'll probably get labeled as crazy if we do that. But an aggressive man is just being, well, manly.

Now, women have a lot of nice qualities associated with them too. Sensitive. Nurturing. Emotionally Open. Loving. But here's the thing: AGAIN, when those qualities are displayed in men, they are valued more. When we say, "He's so sensitive and nurturing," it's most likely a compliment. Whereas in a woman, very often, even qualities associated with femininity can be seen as a negative. For example, I read an article the other day where a working mom said something like, "If I dare to say I have to leave a meeting because my kid broke his arm, I get glares and eye-rolls. If a man says he has to leave a meeting early to watch his son's little league game, he's met with oh, how cute!" We usually get rewarded, actually, for "overcoming" our feminine traits- for leaving our kids at home and going to work, for detaching ourselves from commitment, for becoming immune to sex, and the list goes on. This does not apply, however, to more practical aspects of "being a woman"- it's still okay if we do all the cleaning and cooking and wear push-up bras, for example. A woman can be the CEO of a company now, but it's better if she does it in heels, never yells, and, when her husband volunteers to feed the kids one night, she rewards him by wearing a school-girl outfit the next time they have sex.

So when do we win?

I don't actually have a problem with aggression and physical strength being masculine traits and sensitivity and nurturing being feminine traits, I think that's pretty much in accordance to our human nature. The problem, for me, is that certain traits are valued more than others, especially in men, and we don't acknowledge that every human being has both masculine and feminine traits within them, in varying degrees. A woman who is a boxer but still wishes to be attractive to men shouldn't feel like she has to overcompensate for her aggression and physical strength by wearing loads of make-up and covering her bulky arms. On the same token, men shouldn't be given an award every time they do a house-hold chore or know the name of a flower.

It seems that there's a whole lot of focus on getting us in to the man's world. But how about valuing a woman's world? If house-cleaning paid as much as investment banking, men would learn the tricks of the trade quite quickly, I'm guessing. If you've never read Gloria Steinem's famous 1978 article, "If Men Could Menstruate", you should. I highly recommend it. In it, she says, "Whatever a 'superior' group has will be used to justify its superiority, and whatever an 'inferior' group has will be used to justify its plight."

So, ladies, here's my suggestion: How about we start saying, "Yes! How great that I get to feel something for the men I sleep with." and "It's amazing that I actually want to stay home and raise my kids! (And yes, I should get paid for it)." and "Oh, I don't want to start a bar fight, that's what makes me awesome."

Because maybe if we start to value some of our feminine traits, the rest of the world will eventually follow suit.

What do you say?

Image from "Porn for Women" http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3171/2884131572_92796377ed.jpg

A Tribute to Sex and the City

The series had already ended when I was introduced to the four fabulous manhattanites and the show that changed television history. I wasn't interested in the show when it was aired, it seemed vulgar and silly. I thought it wouldn't speak to me, I thought I was too young to really get it. I was actually going to be one of those people who never watched a single episode of Sex and the City.

But then, at 19, I went through a devastating break-up. And as I told the story of the relationship over and over again to different friends, I kept hearing, "Oh my god. You're totally like Carrie! He's your Big!" I started to get a little annoyed. I didn't want my personal life compared to a TV SHOW. Especially since, by the way they were all saying it, I had clearly made some bad decisions and was being compared to a lunatic. I decided I would most definitely never watch that show.

But, one day, amidst a wave of depression while visiting my friend Divya, a sex and the city-devotee, between drinking Godiva chocolate liquor and eating baked cheetos, I was convinced to give the show a shot at cheering me up. The very first season was popped into the dvd player, and we started with the first episode, which happens to be when Carrie met Big.

Before I knew it, I had watched the entire first season in one sitting and was hugging the couch cushion intensely, my face bloated and pink from laughing and crying and gasping.

This is amazing, I thought, I can identify with these women so much it's insane. I've only known them for about four hours, and I already love them. I want to know more. How were they allowed to do and say these things on television? And what is Carrie wearing? Oh my god, where's season two?

I didn't get to watch season two that night, but I came back a few weeks later for it. And over the course of the following six months, I would watch every single episode of Sex and the City at least once. I was completely converted. I had never expected men and women of the world to allow a show that exposed, with such exaggerated honesty, these truths about women:

1. We think about sex. We talk about sex. We like sex.

2. We don't all want to get married. Some of us may, in fact, get allergic reactions to wedding dresses. But then, we may change our minds. Just don't try to change our minds for us.

3. We eat.

4. We fart.

5. Yes, we do analyze everything men say, do, and think, and we take it all personally.

6. Having babies is hard.

7. We can be independent and still be insecure about whether a guy's going to call us or not.

8. We like the wrong guys.

9. We hurt the nice guys.

10. We can be friends with each other.

Those are just a few. Sex and the City normalized so many things that the CRW (Committee for the Repression of Women) had controlled and thwarted for centuries, no wonder it spoke to women of all ages, around the world, for years. The show was a hit because we, women of the world, needed it. We were thirsty for something that spoke to all of us, whether we were dying-to-get-married-Charlotte's or psycho-dramatic-about-relationships-Carrie's or sarcastic-and-cynical-no-bullshit-Miranda's or horny-as-rabbits-Samantha's, or a combination of them, or all of them. They were us, and we loved them for their courage and their honesty.

I am, of course, bringing all of this up because I saw the second movie two nights ago. And I have to say, I loved it. Not only the movie, but the whole experience. I got dressed up- pulled out the Dolce & Gabbana and the Prada, met three girlfriends for cocktails (I had a champagne cosmopolitan, yes I did), bought chocolate and popcorn, and sat in a PACKED movie theatre on the upper west side with another hundred or so groups of dressed up women who were doing the same thing. It didn't even matter if the movie was good or not, we will always want to know what those four women are up to, we want them to live forever. We all had that in common at that movie house- we had been changed by Carrie, Charlotte, Miranda, and Samantha. They nursed us from our break-ups, brought us closer to our own girlfriends, started new friendships, indulged our passions for shoes, helped us discover what we really wanted from men, and told us that being dramatic, crazy, needy, sexy, powerful, romantic, horny, successful, confused, lonely, indulgent, silly, feminine, and forever hopeful was OK. Oh, and Carrie alone told us that wearing the most outrageous outfits around manhattan was perfectly OK too, changing New York City's boundaries for fashion permanently.

The girls were received with loving, open arms all around the globe, because we still need them. We still want to know what to do with our relationships, even after we're married. We want to know if anyone else thinks motherhood is insanely hard. We want to know that it's okay to wear purple and yellow. We want to know what to do when we run into our ex-boyfriends. And, of course, we want to watch women bonding over fabulous meals and searching, together, for the truth about love and relationships.

I hope they keep making movies, because I will always love those four fabulous women and cheer for them. They are icons and, to me, they are an immortal source for the study of women, love, sex, relationships, friendships, family, and, of course, myself.

Me, at the movie theatre, about to watch Sex and the City 2.

Bringing Down Princess Days

I don't get the whole "TREAT" yourself to a salon day. The whole "Be a Princess For a Day": get waxed, get a mani-pedi, get your hair deep-conditioned for three hours, get your eyebrows tweezed, bond with your girlfriends over nail polish trends... all while reading useless gossip magazines, and all for only $200!

Seriously.

I've been doing all that stuff for over a decade now, and it has never felt like a treat nor did I ever feel like a princess. It felt more like an expected obligation and I felt more like a slave.

I tried to like it, I did. Because I felt I was supposed to. All the women around me were always looking forward to their vanity days, and women are expected to brag about how they like to "take care of themselves"- it's supposed to equal self-love, so I played along.

But there was something wrong with the picture.

I had one of these "salon days" today, for example. I avoid them nowadays, but eventually, if one wants to look *socially* acceptable at important social events, one has to go through the primping parade. As I lay on the waxing table with my right leg on my left shoulder and waited for my Iranian waxing lady to unkindly pour the hot wax on the back of my right thigh, holding my breath as I anticipated the next step, I thought, "Well. If this is a Princess' day, I don't ever want to get promoted to Queen status." After the never-comfortable-always-painful waxing session, I was nice and smooth, as is expected of women. I did, in fact, feel like I fit in to society just a little bit more, just by having less hair on my body. Great.

Next: mani-pedi. They make it sound like so much fun, "Oh! Get a bunch of your girlfriends and go get your nails done!" Because of course! That's the safest way to get women to bond! Keep them focused on their vanity. I personally always find it quite boring, to sit there and not move too much so as to not fuck anything up, reading about how Sandra Bullock is following Madonna's and Angelina's footsteps as she adopts a black baby post-getting-cheated-on, feeling rather elitist, while a lady- sometimes kind, sometimes miserable- digs out my cuticles and files my nails so that they all look the same and make everyone else feel more comfortable- another woman under control, mission accomplished. And why yes, I do start to feel like my inner animal is a little more tamed, like I probably won't yell at anyone today. I mean, how could a young woman, so nicely waxed, smooth, and with such well-behaved nails actually raise her voice or demand anything? No, no. This young woman that is coming forth speaks softly, smiles, flirts, and eats only lettuce.

I don't get my hair or eyebrows done anymore, but if I did, that would be approximately another four hours of Princess Time, of taming and controlling, of willing me into being a well-behaved girl- a role I know all too well.

I walk out fairly exhausted from all the primping and forced interactions, but looking like what I'm supposed to look like. That's what I went in there for, after all.

People ask me what I did today, and I tell them, and they're jealous of my Princess Day. I want to say, "This was a Princess Day? If I were a Princess I'd ban salons from my kingdom. I'd ban beauty standards. I'd rather spend my day fertilizing soil for corn to grow on."

You may have caught on to the fact that I'm a little bitter about all this. I'm bitter about all the money, time, and effort I spent in order to look like something I have been told to look like. I'm bitter about the fact that femininity looks like a tamed fragile delicate little hairless puppy.

And most of all, I'm bitter about the fact that I'm still doing all this stuff.

I realize I'm starting to sound like an angry feminist, but I'm really starting to think more women should be angry about this.

At one point, I just did all the vanity routine without questioning it. But NOW, I question it, I disagree with it, I am completely self-aware as I go through the motions, but I STILL do it.

Why?

Maybe because, let's face it, sometimes -most times- complying is just easier than rebelling. We all get tired, we all want to fit in and be told we're pretty, we all want love and intimacy, and having hairy legs and uneven nails doesn't really seem to do a damn thing except turn people off.

Decades of feminism and here we are, self-aware but doing the same things we've always done.

For a while, women defied the standards of beauty. Short hair, no bras, no waxing, and other such physical rebellions that paralleled the actual changes they fought for: equal pay, value for housework, fair divorce laws, protection against sexism and harassment, etc.

But it's a difficult a battle. How do we get Vogue do to a spreadsheet with women who have not waxed or gotten their nails done or plucked their eyebrows? We can't even get them to do a spreadsheet with women who are above a size -4. And how do we get men to understand the illusion they buy into when they prefer women to look/act like meek shaved lambs? We can't even get them to take responsibility for having sex with 13-year-olds.

It's hard and it's up to us and there's no formula for us to follow. As Naomi Wolf wrote in her book, The Beauty Myth, "A century ago, Nora slammed the door of the doll's house; a generation ago, women turned their backs on the consumer heaven of the isolated multiapplianced home; but where women are trapped today, there is no door to slam. If we are to free ourselves of the dead weight that has once again been made out of femaleness, it is not ballots or lobbyists or placards that women will need first; it is a new way to see."

And what is this new way to see?

I don't know, but maybe it starts with undoing the little myths, like the "salon day = princess day" myth, and the "femininity is soft and small" myth. So maybe we still get waxed and get our nails done, but let's be clear about why and what we're propelling by doing so. The wrong things have been on pedestals long enough. Let's bring some of them down.

Let's bring down Unhealthy Beauty Standards.

Let's bring down Days Lost to Vanity.

Let's bring down Women are Soft and Small.

Let's bring down Women Enjoy Suffering for Beauty.

And, please, let's bring down the damn Princess Days.

The Long Skirt

I'm one of those people who can't throw anything away. I keep things I most definitely don't need, forever. It drives my mother crazy and drastically limits my closet space. The thing is, I don't enjoy buying new things, so most of the things I have were given to me, and therefore I have some sort of attachment to them. And, as an actress, I just like to keep things so that I can refer to them when I need material for my work.

One of those things is a long green skirt. It's made of a thin cotton and it wraps around my waist and ruffles just slightly in the bottom. It's very poetic and hippie-ish and old-fashioned. It's 7 years old now, and faded and hard to wear, but I still have it. I got it when I was 17, in Spain, on my first back-packing trip through Europe with my friends Marina and Gabi. I had just graduated high-school and, for the most part, wore whatever fashion magazines told me to (see blog post The Doctrine of Vanity on January 16th, 2010, for more on that). My friend Marina had been going through her free-spirited phase for a while now, so this wasn't her first long skirt or "hippie" item, but it was mine. I don't remember why I decided to try it on, but I do remember the feeling I had when I wrapped that delicate cloth around me. I had never really worn anything like that before. There was nothing gripping at my stomach, tucking my tummy in, or shaping my butt, or grabbing at my crotch, or restricting my knee joint. I instantly felt supremely feminine- and not in a mini-skirt-worn-for guys-to-look-at-my-legs kind of way, but rather a feeling-womanly-for-me-and-only-me kind of way, which was extremely empowering and new.

Wearing something for my own pleasure, without worrying about what guys, or even girls, would think? I seriously couldn't remember if I had ever known what that was like.

The skirt was slightly overpriced (80 euros for a piece of green cloth that wraps around you!), but I bought it without hesitation. It became my absolutely favorite thing to wear. And I wore it so much. When I got back from Europe, I wore it because it reminded me of the feeling of freedom and independence that I had gotten to know and love during that trip. Then, when I went to Sarah Lawrence, I wore it on my first day of school. I wore it the first time I went to central park by myself on that first fall away from home. I wore it to my first Women's Studies class. I wore it to my first rehearsal of The Vagina Monologues. I wore it, essentially, all through college, and it became part of my memory of special times. It was the first of many long skirts I would own in college. It became my signature look: long flowy skirt, flip flops or sandals, no bras, long hair dyed red at the tips, and ray-ban sunglasses. I guess I thought I was in the 1970's, but all of us at Sarah Lawrence did, so it was okay.

And then, when I graduated from Sarah Lawrence, I put all my long skirts away in a bag. I was no longer living in the woods/suburbs with 800 powerful, free-spirited women, I was going back to city-life, and my skirt was no longer appropriate. The freedom and openness I felt when wearing it weren't exactly safe for a big city. I learned that when you have an open and sensitive heart, you have to be really careful in urban cities- you have to protect yourself. If you're too vulnerable, you might get hurt. And I wanted to be taken seriously as an adult now, so I had to dress like one. It was time to go back to pants and shorter skirts that made me feel integrated, in control, and slightly closed off from myself- which was my way of becoming an adult now living in New York. My skirts went off to some mysterious corner of my closet and I transitioned into city clothes fairly seamlessly.

I tried to wear one of my long skirts again one day, not long ago, and immediately felt the relief of having all that space and freedom in my body. As soon as I had that much space, I wanted more space. I wanted to put on shoes that didn't restrict my feet or the space between my toes, I wanted to wear a shirt with gentle built-in support so I didn't have a bra rigidly holding my breasts into place, and I wanted to let my hair out of it's controlled pony-tail. But that would have been too much. I wore the skirt, but put on tights and boots and a blazer and kept my hair up. I went out in the city and felt normal. This was a manageable way to wear my skirt. But before I could get to happy, the skirt let me know it didn't want to be worn anymore. It kept coming undone and falling apart on my slippery tights. New York City wind kept messing it up and making it fly open. I was having a hard time walking at my usual city pace. It just didn't fit. And it wasn't really me anymore. It was, but it wasn't. I had the feeling that it might still be me, but in a different setting, some day. I went home, took it off, and put it back in the bag.

But I won't get rid of them, especially my long green one. Not even if my mom offered me a Prada bag in exchange for it. I can't let go of it. And I like having it around, looking at it sometimes, letting it remind me of womanhood, power, strength, independence, and freedom. It makes me happy and I worship that.

I know that it was a big deal when women started wearing pants. They are practical, after all, and they signified a huge leap for women's independence and equal rights. I know there's power in that too. And there's power in mini-skirts as well, for a woman's flirtatious sensuality can be really beautiful and empowering. But for me, nothing feels quite as unbinding and holy as a long skirt, especially if made with a light fabric and not at all gripping in the waist. I love the musicality of it, the sweetness and inviting yet mature femininity of it.

And there's hope yet that I'll come back to my long skirts. When I meditate and envision my entelechy- my realized potential, my future self in ideal circumstances- she is very happy and free. She lives somewhere near nature, where it's safe and spacious. Her inner peace and warm heart are tangible. She is very connected to her womanhood and femininity. And she is always, to my complete delight, wearing a long skirt.

Pictures of me at Sarah Lawrence, 2003-2006, with my long skirts...

Bitch

I have been thinking about the word Bitch a lot lately. In general, I see it as a negative word- even when used playfully, I feel it is rooted in anger. More specifically, rooted in anger towards women.

So I've spent a few hours tracing my own personal history with the word. I can not remember the first time I heard the word, but I remember it becoming a familiar part of my vocabulary in the 7th grade. It seems like that was the age and time for cursing to become popular, and I started saying words that didn't feel comfortable in my mouth because, well, everyone else was saying them. As I sought to sound like my peers, I was also practicing the common teenage act of defiance. Saying "Fuck this shit," in reference to my algebra homework seemed to defy something, something that remained ambiguous, but I think it had to do with the feeling of obligation that pre-teens become aware of and instinctively resent. Obligation to do well in school, obligation to make our parents proud, obligation to take certain classes we have no interest in, obligation to fit in- so much overwhelming obligation, coupled with an equally overwhelming desire for independence, and suddenly rebellion seems extremely appealing. Since most of us were not about to drop out of one of Latin America's most expensive schools or run away from our parent's mansions, cursing seemed like a small way of showing the world, and ourselves, that at least we were in charge of our language usage.

I had a click of girlfriends at that time, and we used the word bitch quite often, usually lightly, but sometimes in reference to some girl who was dating a guy we had a crush on (How dare she! Bitch.). But eventually, as we got closer, I think we all sensed it was too heavy a word to use with each other and, although we never talked about why, we sought to make up a word that would sound more playful so that we could use it loosely with each other. We came up with "Slitch", a combination of Slut and Bitch, and eventually created our catch phrase: "Slitches Rule!". The word felt truly playful, and because it was ours, it felt rooted in love, not hate.

But Bitch would come back to me, in college. I think I really learned to curse comfortably in college, actually. It seemed like everyone at Sarah Lawrence was angry about something, and since we were a bunch of hippies who weren't going to go around punching each other, cursing was a particularly delicious- and necessary- outlet. I was doing so many things that felt outside of my comfort zone, cursing seemed like just another to add to the list. At one point I even bought t-shirts for me and my housemates that had the word BITCH printed on them- thinking, I imagine, that if we wore the word, it was ours, and no one could do us harm. It seemed to work for a while. I thought I had the word under control, I thought it was my weapon.

Then my little brother became a man, and went to college and bonded with other men. And in their world, which I have been exposed to only a few times, all women are referred to as "bitches". Even in casual conversation, "Tell the bitch we'll be right there." They are comfortable with it, and it seems to be integral to their male bonding time. Such conversations are probably not meant for me to hear, but I have heard them, and their use of the word Bitch, over and over again, in reference to any woman in any situation, started to make the word feel like their weapon, and started to make me feel like I didn't have Bitch under control at all. My reasoning for this is that their use of the word is stemming from hatred and anger towards women, making the word a violent gesture that is capable of doing great damage, and this is frightening to me. I don't want men hating women.

I talked about this with a friend last night, and he kept asking me why I don't want men hating women. It forced me to think about it, and I realized I don't want men hating women because it kills the possibility for beautiful, rewarding, and fulfilling relationships, where both parties' visions of life are expanded. When men are supportive and understanding of feminist points of view (and when women, too, are willing to take in men's perspectives), an opportunity is born where two people can really communicate, learn, and grow.

I realize that my being bothered by their use of the word Bitch has more to do with me than with them, but, and I also said this to my friend last night, I don't want to not be bothered by men calling women bitches. Aside from the fact that I can't help it- it bothers me, period.- I want these young men, and all men, to respect women and to be open to women's worlds. While it's important to acknowledge the hatred that may live inside us, I'm a believer of doing so with consciousness, so that others are not harmed. Being open to another person's view of the world has usually opened up my own understanding of myself and, on the same token, when someone else is willing to see my perspective, I also grow. So when I hear young men calling all women bitches, it breaks my heart, because as far as I know, there are no possibilities for real communication when hatred and anger are present. Love and respect create space, whereas hate and disdain, without awareness, create only limitations.

As always, I am an advocate for love and awareness. My request today is this- Please, to anyone this reaches, think twice before you use the word Bitch again, know that it is a weapon, and while a weapon can be vital for survival, it can also do a lot of unnecessary harm.

A Tribute to Women

I am blessed to have had many powerful, talented, incredible, generous, beautiful, intelligent, and loving women in my life. What better day to honor them than today, International Women's Day? Since there is too much to say of each one, I will write about only one thing they've each contributed to my life, though I am sure they know their values are immeasurable.

Thank you to....

My mother, for forgiving me for being a completely impossible teenager who hated her, and thus allowing us to become best friends as adults.

My godmother, Valderez, for watching all of my plays and coming to all of my major events, even when she couldn't understand a word of it.

My Aunt Susie, for never questioning and always supporting my dreams, sharing my love for literature and art, and helping me to believe I am worth everything I dream of.

My Aunt Vera, for holding me when, at 13, my mom caught me kissing a boy 7 years older than me in front of a church, and telling me I hadn't committed a sin.

My much-more-than a cousin Gugs, for all the times I made her act out little plays with me for our parents, even though she didn't want to- and for making up countless imaginary worlds with me, over and over again.

My cousin Ju, who took me to watch plays and movies- gestures that made an unbelievable difference in my life.

My cousin Fer, for pulling me aside when I turned 15 to tell me the truth about drugs and sex.

My cousin Grazi, for making me watch "Free Willy" every time she babysat me and therefore helping me develop empathy for whales.

My paternal grandmother, Baba, for letting me do her make-up when I was a child, and then for never washing it off afterwards but rather wearing purple eyeshadow on her nose when she went to the grocery store and proudly saying, "My granddaughter did my make-up today."

My maternal grandmother, Alzira, who I never met, for raising my incredible mother.

Marina, for a 20-year-friendship, for reminding me of who I really am, and for letting me love her.

Melissa, for 16 years of letters.

Tati, for my childhood. I'm sad we've lost touch.

The BSG's (BackStreet Girls), you know who you are, my middle-school "click", for holding my hand through the hardest years of a girl's life.

Marina B., Diana, and Manu, for sitting with me in lunch for four years of high-school.

Gabi, for my first back-packing through Europe experience, an unforgettable trip.

Maria, for nights of chocolate milk and french fries with mayo at the pub in college, and for all the times you took care of me when I was sick.

Starsha, for your contagious smile.

The women at Brebner, for a year that taught me more than I was prepared to handle.

Divya, Preetha, and Andrea, for a summer through Turkey and Greece that I will never forget.

Olivia, A.J., Kate, And Kioko, for being wonderful housemates in Andrew's Court 10 and teaching me that women CAN live in harmony.

Laura, for Top Girls.

Fan, for being my mother in college.

Gina, for the times we did share. I'll forever regret losing your friendship.

Moe, for reminding me of my roots.

Ker and Ash- I have to put you two together, because the three of us are like a trio of beauty and talent, for so many conversations at starbucks' around new york that simply changed my life.

Deema, for your talent and drive.

Rena, for unforgettable memories in Extremities.

Thesa, for your grace and courage.

Susan M., my teacher and friend, for being a brilliant teacher, and for seeing me.

Susan A., for, quite simply, teaching me to act.

Regi, my Italian love, for bringing out the feminist in me and for teaching me to cook.

Sal, for never judging me.

Whitney, for trusting me.

Julia W., my internet friend, for being so open and friendly with someone you've never met.

Ellen Burstyn, for giving me the book "Forgiving your Parents".

And to some women I've never really met, but who have had a huge impact on my life,

Gloria Steinem, for writing "Revolution From Within", and for making it ok for 'beautiful' women to be feminists.

Meryl Streep, Kate Winslet, and Cate Blanchett, for inspiring me over and over again.

Eve Ensler, for writing "The Vagina Monologues".

Ruth, my diary, whoever you are, for hearing my soul's cries all of my life.

And for every woman who has touched my life in any way, I am grateful.

Marriage & Kids & Life's Equations, Oh My!

In exactly four months I'm going to turn 25. Ok. No big deal so far. I mean, it's the quarter-life birthday and I'll officially be in my mid-twenties, but it's not exactly a big deal. And in New York City, it's certainly no big deal to turn 25. It's no big deal to turn any age here, really.

But I'm Brazilian and I'm a woman. And I'm single. Very single. So single I haven't shaved anything in over a month. (I know- TMI- but I have a point here). And that thing is starting to happen- that thing that all women loathe, that thing that makes us avoid family gatherings and picking up the phone altogether- that thing is: people are starting to ask the questions.

Actually, let me be really specific. People are starting to replace the questions. "How are you?" is now "Why don't you have a serious-boyfriend-soon-to-be-fiance?", and "How's your career going?" is now "When are you going to produce off-spring?"

Being happy, single, and in pursuit of professional success is about to stop being charming. I mean, it's all good, but you know, I should be dating someone. I should be moving in with someone soon. I should be showing someone that I'm very good wife-material so that he'll propose and we'll have a wedding so that everyone can know that he married me before doing the absolutely most important thing in this whole ordeal: impregnating me before I turn thirty.

Yes, even in the year 2010, even after women have fought for centuries for their right to be seen as more than just baby-makers, that is still what is expected. And even though everyone knows I'm a feminist, even though everyone knows I have a passion that drives my life, even though I am not even twenty-fucking-five, that is still what is expected of me.

They may have even stopped saying it as much, they may have made TV shows and movies around the world about women who are over 30 and still single and possibly even happy about that, but things haven't really changed. Yes, it is theoretically and practically "Ok" now if you're a woman over 30 and single and childless and doing things that are still completely about you. But when a woman gets married and has babies before she turns 30, she suddenly feels like she belongs in society. Society looks at her approvingly, people treat her differently, there's a certain relief: one more woman in the world has fulfilled her duty. It doesn't matter if she ends up divorced and her children end up fucked up because their mother was unhappy- she still made it, she crossed the finish line.

So when we turn 25 we have a choice. We can give in to our need to belong (and we all have that need, there's no use pretending we don't), and look for a reliable responsible mate with whom we can get married to and have children with in the next five years.

Or we can say fuck fitting in to the conventional mold, fuck society's expectations, fuck my family's questions, fuck it all, I CHOOSE ME. It sounds empowering. It sounds kind of wonderful for someone like me, who wants to live life exactly as I wish to and never because I'm supposed to do anything. I don't really see the appeal of a five-year-plan being: marriage and kids. I want my five-year-plan to look something like: get a lot of acting work, learn another language, travel to at least five places I've never been to, throw dinner parties for my friends, write more, read a hundred new books, look into getting a doctorate, start a book club, do more yoga, meditate daily, flirt with more strangers, learn more about wine, draw, paint, and dance every week.

But there's a little problem with the equation: I care about what my family wants for me. I want to have kids, and I want my parents to be able to watch them grow up. I don't want to give my mother a heart attack by getting pregnant out of wedlock. I would actually much rather answer, "Yes, I'm madly in love and in a relationship with someone I'd like to have kids with one day" than "No, I don't have a boyfriend and I'm ok with that right now." The latter statement is not false, but I can't pretend I don't want to able to say the former someday, and maybe even someday soon.

As the infamous tv show "Sex and the City" showed people around the world: It is fabulous to be a glamourous single woman over 30, until it's not and all you want is a man to settle down with. In the end of the show, all those gorgeous, smart, funny, financially successful, sexually free and happy women had settled down with a man, and were happy to do so. And I actually think that was somewhat realistic. In the end, we don't want to go to nightclubs and hip restaurants every weekend with our single girlfriends for the rest of our lives. We can still do that, of course, but isn't it nice to also have the option of staying home with your significant other, or going to the restaurant you always go to with them, or even going to that new nightclub with them? If we're single, we don't have that option. We can stay home alone, we can go out to eat alone, we can go to museums alone, and all of that can be great too, but we have one less option in our lives, and that is the option of sharing our lives with someone we love. And, in my opinion, it happens to be one of the most delicious options in the world.

So, society's pressure + wanting to make my family happy + desire to find someone to love and share my life with = planning to get married and have kids within five years. But wanting to live my life without ties + pursuing my dreams + enjoying my life alone = planning to not be getting married or having kids anytime soon.

It reminds me of when I learned in math class that 1/2 + 1/2 = 2/4, which was simplified to = 1/2. It seems I have to choose either one whole equation or the other, because if I try to take half of one and half of the other I won't end up with a whole. I can't get married and be single, I can't have kids and not have kids, I can't be with someone and be alone at the same time.

A very problematic set of equations, I would say.

Problematic because, well, I simultaneously want it all and am not sure I want any of it. Sounds like a Quarter-Life-Crisis, doesn't it?

What I know is that I'm going to turn 25, I'm going to have to deal with social expectations, with questions I don't want to answer, and with my own uncertainty regarding my future. This will never stop. On the heels of my 30th birthday or my 60th birthday I will be dealing with doubts and pressures as well, I'm sure. I know that I am affected by these things but I am aware that thinking about them ultimately changes or influences nothing. I can't know what's going to happen or if making a decision about what I want would even matter. All I can really do, it seems, is ease my way into the unknown and, like most 25-year-olds, hope that life will figure it out for me.

To Age or To Pretend Not To Age

I personally think that women like Meryl Streep and Helen Mirren, who let themselves age gracefully, are far more attractive, intriguing, and inspiring than women like Cher or Sophia Loren, who froze themselves in time and, to me, look completely artificial and downright scary.
But I know that aging is difficult for women- the world we live in, particularly the show business world, favors youth. I have nothing against delaying wrinkles and trying to look like the best version of ourselves at any age. I already use eye cream, for example, and I know I don't need it. I like to take care of myself and I certainly do not judge women for pursuing youth, but I do think some women go too far. When I see an older woman with a frozen forehead and mouth, excessively artificially tanned, and filled with scars behind her ears and on her scalp from countless face-lifts, it makes me sad. It makes me sad that women go to such measures to look like they have won the battle against time- and thus won the battle against society's prejudice against older women. It makes me sad to know they haven't- the world looks at them and, for the most part, thinks them ridiculous.
I read a book on beauty the other day (while in my dermatologist's waiting room- go figure), where the author interviewed hundreds of women on beauty. They all seemed to agree that what made a woman beautiful was confidence. And I have always agreed- what made Sophia Loren seem so sexy to me was her confidence. When I see her now- stretched out and orange, barely able to speak- I want to scream. Or cry. Where did the confidence go? Does it seep out of these women as aging takes its toll? Was it really confidence that made them beautiful, or was it beauty (the beauty of youth) that gave them confidence?
I know, even as I write this, that I understand very little about it. I haven't watched the face I'm used to seeing in the mirror change into one I don't want to recognize. I don't know what it's like to find fragile white hairs amidst my mane of thick black hair. I can still look at my hands without them accusing me of having lived more years than I care to remember. These are all things I can imagine, but I do not know them yet. And, like most young women, I think I'll be different- I'll handle aging with grace, I'll wear my white hair long, I'll sneer at botox, I'll find the beauty of every wrinkle. And I really do hope I will- but who knows? I think Meryl Streep is aging gracefully, but maybe she doesn't think so at all. Maybe she wishes she had taken the hormones Cher took, even if just to fool herself, for a little while.
We can't know how each woman is really handling aging- it's such a personal thing. Even Gloria Steinem, mama of Feminism, shocked people when, on her 75th birthday, she was asked about aging and, instead of answering that she was above that, she said, "Now, I look in the mirror, I see all kinds of age changes, and I think, 'Well, I expected that, but not THAT!' Beginning at around 50, I started to realize that our bodies lose what they need to support someone else, and keep what they need to support us. How smart is that!? It’s interesting to watch my body do something that it knows how to do but I don’t. (...) When reporters started to ask at about 50 if I would have a facelift, I used to say maybe after 70. Well, here I am and I still wouldn’t. I’d like to say it’s because I can’t imagine Georgia O’Keeffe or Eleanor Roosevelt or Rosa Parks with a facelift, but the truth is I’m afraid I’d become like the guy with a bad toupee; when you’re talking to him, you can’t think of anything else." (http://www.wowowow.com/politics/gloria-steinem-75-feminists-pro-choice-268505?page=0%2C0)
So what do we do? I don't have advice yet. Check back in, say, 40 years?

Sexuality of a Woman

Gandhi wisely said, "Be the change you wish to see in the world."
For someone who loves arguing as much as I do, it is not always so simple to follow his advice. Although I choose my battles as carefully as I can, there are some things that I can't just sit back and watch or listen to- I feel an immediate overpowering desire to fight it. One of those things is the repression of women's sexuality. As soon as I hear the words- usually coming from a man, but you'd be surprised how often they come from women- "There are two types of women in the world, the ones you marry, and the ones you fuck," or, "A woman who sleeps with a man too quickly is a slut who has no self-respect," I can feel the blood rush up to my head.
I'm in Brazil right now, where, in my opinion, this happens much more often- but maybe people just say it out loud more often, who knows, and last night I went out to dinner with some friends, among them an ex-boyfriend, and a huge discussion regarding this topic exploded. The aforementioned statements were presented as truths and, although the men at the table agreed that it was a cultural imposition of a sexist nature, they still believed in them. It did not end well, and I was very upset by it.

I wish the sex education I received in my life had told me that I would enjoy sex. That I would enjoy it a lot. That I SHOULD enjoy it, and that if I didn't, I should figure out what was missing, I should get to know myself sexually. Although sometimes in magazines I would read about how masturbating was healthy and sex (safe safe safe sex) was wonderful, that information paled in comparison to how rigorously I was taught that I needed to worry about pregnancy and STD's even before I took my clothes off with a guy, that I had to make absolute certain he was the right guy, the perfect guy, and that I shouldn't ever ever be too "easy". The equation was simple- if I turned into one of those girls who was "easy", I would never have a boyfriend again, I would not have many girlfriends, my parents would disown me, I would get pregnant and maybe even die.

So here's what happened. I turned 13 and started going to parties and kissing boys in dark corners, and it felt so good, I mean it felt so so good, that I found myself terribly, tragically confused. I was suddenly having thoughts like, "I hope he touches my boobs," and then when the boy tried I knew I had to slap his hands away and scold him otherwise I would be labeled a slut. I did my best, I did my very best, to be a good girl. To be the kind of girl guys want to marry. But it didn't make any sense, it felt like a complete lie, and I was secretly terrified they would find out how, in my head and when I was alone, I was not a good girl at all.
At 16, I met the guy I mentioned earlier (whom I had a huge discussion with last night- go figure), and he full-heartedly believed I was a good girl. He became my first serious boyfriend, and I figured he was the right guy to lose my virginity to. I played the part of the good girl to an exhausting extent- making sure to set limits in our sexual progression so that he wouldn't lose interest in me. At 17 I lost my virginity to this boyfriend who loved the good girl I had projected. The people I told seemed to approve. No one asked me if I was having orgasms, if I was enjoying the sex, if I was in love with him, if I felt good about it. They asked me if I was being safe and told me it was a good choice, he was the right guy to do it with.
The next phase came in college, when I tried to reject the good girl mask as much as possible. I was living in the U.S. now and attending Sarah Lawrence, so it was easier- maybe, again, who knows. But something wasn't right. I didn't want to treat men like they were disposable and I didn't want to be treated like I was disposable. I wondered why a guy thought he didn't have to respect me because he was "just" having sex with me. I was still confused, but felt a little less repressed than I did as a teenager in Brazil.
Then I started a fling with a wonderful man who seemed to get it (he was raised by a feminist and went to Sarah Lawrence after all); there are not two types of women. Every woman wants to fuck and every woman wants to get married! It was a gift. Through his understanding of women and sexuality, I started to understand myself as a woman and my own sexuality. Although we were monogamous, we were causal. And although we were causal, we were respectful. I could explore my sexuality with him without him ever disrespecting me or for a moment thinking I was not "worthy of marriage". He came into my life at the right time, and when he left, I met another man and I fell in love. Things got confusing again, because although I was in love with him, he and I never made love, and although he was much older than the other guy, he was way inferior in bed.
But that's just part of life. I see now that what I had to learn from him had nothing to do with sex. I would, later on, experience making love with someone I was in love with, and would learn that people in love can also fuck like pornstars and still want to spend the rest of their lives together afterwards. I met several more men who "got it" and treated me with the respect I demanded and deserved, whether we were in a relationship or not, while allowing me to be as sexual and impulsive as I wanted to be. I am always grateful to the universe for sending me these men.
But there are still a lot of men, and women, who don't get it. Last night I couldn't help myself and I tried, in vain I think, to shift the consciousness I was dealing with. I know that it's not up to me to change people, though, and I can only hope that one day life will teach them that repressing a woman's sexuality serves no one. Women can not be categorized. Women may be complicated, but in this area I present you the simplest equation, the "... us" equation:
Love us, Free us, Hold us, Fuck us, Need us, Marry us, Make Love to us and, above all, Respect us.