Dana asked today what we’re doing to recognize Women’s History Month. I have been thinking a lot. A lot of interconnected and disjointed things.
I am thinking about fat and blood. The substances behind two of what are probably the most complex relationships any woman will have with her body.
I am thinking about augmentation and reconstruction.
I am thinking about infertility blogs and mailing coat hangers to the governor of South Dakota.
I am thinking about It’s Wonderful Being a Girl and how the absolute best options women have for managing reproduction (from birth control to feminine hygiene) aren’t exactly good for us and don’t even come up as high as “okay”.
I am thinking about ex-roommates who are strippers and the guardian angel in the giant painting that used to be in my grandparents’ living room.
I am thinking about prayers possessing an intensity the pope would envy begging Aunt Flo to come SOON and about friends who spend several days a month incapacitated or deal with the joys of PCOS or endometriosis.
I am thinking about porn and how the Big Three religions all make reference to women and “uncleanliness”.
I am thinking about same-sex marriage and Britney Spears.
I am thinking of “true colours” initiatives and “loving the skin you’re in”, which are tiny, pale, weak messages behind the reigning beast that is blonde, blue-eyed, and emaciated.
I am thinking about the Linda Hirschmans of the world and about the mommy bloggers.
These things aren’t history only or specifically. But they will be. About the only two solid things that remain in my head when I think about these things are a soundtrack of Tori Amos (she sings honesty) and that I am wildly, desperately grateful that I do not live in the United States of America.