Go read a book or something

Mom was wrong with regard to Shakespeare. I'm not sure what she was misquoting from--I don't doubt Shakespeare once wrote something along those lines, and I don't generally disagree with the idea that one's reaction can be a reflection of one's own insecurities and fears. But, at least speaking for my self, my exasperation at mom's nagging springs not from my insecurity over content but from frustration at the form. Just because I don't actually believe that my hair is "too dark," doesn't mean I'm going to take kindly to being told that it is several times a day, starting with before I get out of bed. A few years ago, mom came into the guestroom in the morning, as I was waking me up, to lecture me about how "we" could not possibly have evolved from an amoeba. Then she told me I was fat. I can assure you that the lack of warmth of my reception to these words--at least to the first--had nothing to do with insecurity over content.

As I've written here, I prefer not having those extra 15-20 pounds on me, but I was never overweight, and more importantly, I refused to hate my body under any circumstances. I was certainly not in denial about the extra pounds (I was, after all, wearing them) but that's not why I didn't like being reminded of them on a minute-by-minute basis. Even when something is true--or, I should say, regardless of whether something is true--constantly pointing it out is not helpful. Even in the case of weight, my frustration at mom was a function not of content but of nagging.

One thing I hated about trying to lose weight (apart from the fact that it was futile) was that it came with a side of self-absorption, navel-gazing. It was being done with that that impelled me to be done with trying to lose weight (which is when I started losing weight). An excess of fat is analogous to a deficit of money: being fine on either count affords you the luxury of ignoring, or at least not obsessing, about the issue. And I was done obsessing. I'd never liked it.

I don't know about you, but I'm given advice on a regular basis on what's wrong with me, and not only from my mother. Well-meaning friends have also suggested I highlight my hair, but they've each told me once, so I thanked them for their advice and ignored it. It didn't make me angry. People have suggested I shape my eyebrows (no thank you), wear makeup (no thank you), and get regular manicures (no f*ing thank you). And then there's the slew of magazines we see in the grocery store, counting the ways in which we are apparently lacking. My response is well summed-up by the best-excerpt-ever from Jezebel, of which I'll re-excerpt just the second part here:

If you are single, it is not because your fake eyelashes are too bushy or Kevin doesn't like cucumber lotion. This shit is an oppressive waste of your time. Here's my new beauty tip for everyone on earth: Go read a book or something.