cupcake feminism and other inventions

I consider myself a cupcake feminist.

I dress like a confection, bathe myself in frosting, and tend to bask in the adoring glow of those who succumb to a proximity induced sugar high.

It’s not all sprinkles though.

I may be strawberry flavored, but I come with bite.

It’s like this: you’re drawn in by the thigh highs, and by the time I start spouting feminist vitriol, it’s too late- you’re slack jawed in awe at the sight of the gams and shall be a mass produced fembot of sorts in short order.

It’s simple: I refuse to believe that sexuality and feminism are mutually exclusive. Instead, I’m convinced they’re complimentarily.

But while I may subscribe to a burgeoning brand of feminism, one complete with elective sluttiness and brazen displays of cleavage, I am the first to admit that my world views are perhaps not yet echoed by the patriarchal hierarchy.

But I’m going all Ghandi: being the change I want to see in the world or something.

Living as an example.

An example of a world that includes mini skirts AND gender quality.

But I know that often my message, my intent, my convictions, are misunderstood, wrapped as they are in a package of plastic and push up bras.

And I’m called a slut, or a bimbo, or a bitch.

And usually?

Usually I don’t care.

Because I’m secure enough in my own femininity, aware enough of my own intellect that I feel no need to spout SAT adverbs in an attempt to PROVE my worth above and beyond my D cup.

But sometimes?

Sometimes I care.

Sometimes I am so blatantly horrified by how misconstrued the varying messages of female sexuality (or lack there of) are interpreted and internalized and expounded against.

By women.

Because we are our own worst enemy.

And while I yearn to celebrate broads- in all their forms, and flavors, whether they be sans sprinkles, or the glitter on top kind of wonderful- I ‘m wary.

Because celebrating women would mean celebrating this very special brand of enmity we have for each other. The kind that convinces us that to feel better about ourselves, we need to attack and belittle and mock and HATE each other.

Case in point? Case which incited this diatribe 400 words ago?

An article in Allure, a glossy I can’t say I frequent as I am usually absorbed by 1. a pumpkin spice latte and 2. a tattoo tattler, but none the less a respectable publication that doesn’t oft-pretend to be about more than cup sizes and mascara- except when it does.

Except when it makes my head explode.

Said cranium theatrics were as follows:

Exhibit 1: Aforementioned magazine’s attempt to eviscerate outsized images of femininity in their current issue by way of slut shamming a certain golfer’s mistresses who shall be NUMBERED instead of named and subjected to pseudo-psychology as explanation for their penchant to look perfect.

Exhibit 2: Chastisement by outside sources who have earned letters after their names for their ability to manufacture said bodies they mock.

Exhibit 3: Comparisons to cartoon characters, children’s play things, and animals of the fall of Eden sort.

Exhibits 4-40: Suggestive Pictures! OH MY GOD LOOK AT THE BOOBS!

Exhibit 41: Apologies for the boobs. Apologies for the lips. Apologies. Apologies. Apologies.

Exhibit 42: Ending quote from titled someone or other using big words arranged as such as to pretend to reiterate what your mom always told you: real beauty is on the inside, but in reality are saying: THESE WHORES ARE DUMB- YOU ARE BETTER THAN THEM.

In all honesty, I made it not a word past Betty Boop before one pumpkin spice latte wasn’t enough. In fact I had to shoot faux squash flavoring like a gourd obsessed junkie to make it through the rest of the pages long slut-shaming attempt at an attack on gender.

Because if they do need to apologize for anything, it’s not their racks.

Because they’re adults.

Because it’s their choice to do whatever they want with and to their bodies.

Because in spite of the antiquated opinions of the editors, girls shaped like them, girls shaped like me, we do exist, and regardless of the status of our racks, WE ARE REAL.

Because despite the warm fuzzies sci-fi incites in me- I am decidedly not animatronic.

And I have to wonder- after such childish comparisons are made, does anyone feel better about themselves? More womanly? More real? Does someone win?

No. No one wins. We all lose.

And we look ridiculous.

Squabbling amongst ourselves about what exactly is right and wrong when it comes to body part warfare. Our eyes are removed from matters of any import, our trajectory skews south of equality, we concern ourselves with waist-to-hip ratios of women WE’VE NEVER MET rather than the fight that’s in front of us- to live the way we see fit.

The distractionary tactics of woman-on-woman verbal hate crimes are nothing if not reactionary devices to appease the masses with fangless fluff- and while I’m usually a proponent of all things fluff, in this case I choose the fight over the frosting.


~ by rubylocks on September 8, 2010.

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