This morning I skimmed a blog I’ve never read before—let’s call it Morphing Into Mama, since that’s its title. I read only a few posts, so it is possible that I’ve misconstrued the gist of the blog (it wouldn’t be the first time), but I applaud the Morphing Mama as one of the increasingly uncloseted breed of saucy young broads who recognize that they had independent, autonomous selves before repurposing themselves as child-rearers, and who are now coming out to remonstrate that the virginmarial glow of new motherhood is a load of sentimental crap. She speaks authoritatively of sleep deprivation and nipple leakage, and of this indignity and that, and resents that, according to cultural narrative, she is supposed to be “in love” with her mewling infant. Which infant, if he looked when he was born anything like my newborn nieces did upon their natal days, resembled nothing so much as an undercooked brisket.
I can dig it.
Yet, according to this astonishing post, our Morphing Mama believes that if you gain a few pounds or cut your hair or in any way alter the physical appearance of your hot prenuptial self after you get hitched, you are guilty of “false advertising.”
Who might one construe as the consumer injured by this false advertising?
“Husband,” that’s who (that’s what the Morphing Mama calls the dude she married. “Husband.”).
Then the Morphing Mama drops the bomb that will cause the shitstorm that would eventually drive her to close comments on the post.
“Personally,” she writes, “I think it would be unfair to Husband if I gained a bunch of weight and did nothing about it.”
This remarkable statement reflects our heroine’s capitulation to the patriarchal feminine hotness imperative. Whereas she sensibly repudiates the absurd notion that she should be “in love” with her brisket-shaped kid, she cannot bring herself to reject the authority of the Male Gaze. For instance, the photo in her sidebar, presumably of the author, depicts a young woman in delicious contrapposto with a stroller, gorgeous shampoo-commercial hair, and a really hot ass.
The Morphing Mama (or “MIM,” as she is known on the blog) married a guy to whom she attributes this speech: “‘You’re not going to chop of all your hair now that we’re married, are you?’ he asked nervously.”
MIM believes that before she got married, she “advertised” herself to this hair-fetishist as a commodity: a weight-specific brand of sexy conformity to patriarchal hotness standards. Furthermore, she thinks it would constitute an ethical lapse if she were to relax her white-knuckle grip on skinny long-haired femininity. In other words, it is her wifely duty to maintain her hotness. “Husband” signed up for hotness, remains a big fan of hotness, and, as a male in a patriarchy, is entirely entitled to hotness. To deprive this hotness consumer of hotness would be “unfair.”
This is no mere Twistificational conjecture. Of Husband’s fascination with hotness there can be no doubt, for here he is, guest-blogging a “birthday tribute” to his hot wife: “Suffice it to say she’s proven to be intelligent, resilient, inquisitive, and loyal. Oh, and beautiful and hot, as the ‘butt shot’ confirms. And the best thing is, all this has only gotten better with age. So happy 35th birthday MIM. I’m looking forward to another 35 with you. By then you’ll be REALLY hot! Oh, and probably also still intelligent, resilient, inquisitive, and loyal. But at least hot.”
And, lard-jesus no! MIM, who says she “works” to maintain her figure “for myself and my husband,” goes on to suggest that a person’s weight is indicative, not, as a rational person might imagine, of how much she weighs, but of her degree of “self-respect.” Overweight people, MIM asserts, are probably “depressed.” She asks, “can you imagine still maintaining the same level of physical attraction for your mate when he’s depressed?”
So it’s not fat people who are unattractive, but depressed people?
Nice try, but it’s a well-documented fact that depressed people are among the world’s most fascinating. Some of the best sex I ever had was with my girlfriend who would soon shoot herself to death with a giant gun. I’m no psychiatrist, but it that’s not depressed, I don’t know what is.
The thing is, in a world where women are the sex class (by which I mean Planet Earth), even morphing mamas are expected to display themselves according to male standards of fuckability as defined by pornography, and those who fall short are subject not only to public censure and ridicule and fat jokes, but to the ultimate horror: not being hot enough for Husband.
Whether MIM and Husband find eternal bliss in their personal oasis of mutual hotness—and really, if it makes them happy, Â¡buena suerte!—is of little consequence to this patriarchy-blamer; it is the larger stupidity of the sexist beauty mandate illustrated by this pair that smegs me off. Check out this agonizing post at a blog called The Homesick Home, wherein author L. has put on a few pounds and now endures her husband’s silent disdain.
“Hub,” writes L., “didn`t want me to go to his office Christmas party, nor has he invited anyone from work to our house. When I joked that this was because I was ‘no longer a wife worth showing off,’ he got very quiet. Saying nothing at all was infinitely worse than anything he could have possibly said.”
L. has failed where MIM has triumphed, but the spinster aunt would implore all women, regardless of the degree to which they have been assimilated by Dude Nation, to extricate themselves with all possible speed from the prison of male fantasy. Feminine beauty is a load of pornographic crap.