Content Warning: mention of violence, rape, murder
To femininity,
Should I blame social media? Maybe. It seems like the easy, simple answer. Defined by a number of likes and comments with hidden meanings. Is my photo actually gorgeous or do you feel inclined to comment so I return the favor on your next post? Comparing my body, face, values, and actions to the limited knowledge gained from each post. How many times does an endless scroll end in thoughts of who I want to be?
I want to host dinner parties with a large group of friends.
I need to study harder.
I would love to own a dress like that.
Should I redecorate my space?
I won’t have kids in the near future, but I have to remember this as the safest way to care for them.
I cannot believe she has time to bake fresh bread every week.
I’m not sure if I have friends.
Do I go out enough?
I should work out more.
Do I need to revamp my skincare routine?
I might be happier if I read more.
Do I eat clean enough?
I need a new planner.
Am I expressing love in a way that can be easily received?
Is my life on track?
Actually, maybe I should blame capitalism. My worries seem to relate to the expectations of materialism, that overconsumption will bring me the joy I am lacking. If I feed into my shopping addiction, maybe I will find a collection of clothes that do not make me hate the shape of my body. Will I always question if my stomach looks fat when I sit down? Comfort over fashion. Fashion over comfort. Looking pretty will only get me so far, I have to continue to work hard, to prove my worth is more than just my appearance. Stuck in this endless cycle of working through exhaustion, worrying about where money will come from or if it will stay, and questioning if a sustainable future is even possible. We will all work until we die, that is what capitalism wants, and that is what capitalism has achieved. But I must not look disheveled while I work my days away.
When pondering the exploits of capitalism, I cannot ignore the feminist ideologies also swimming through my head. Am I failing the women who came before me as I dream of the day I get married? As I hope for future children? As I recognize that with the right person, I do not mind the idea of cooking dinner every night? Maybe I am not failing them because I still want to work. And, as a straight, white woman, the expectations of who I am meant to be are so minimal. I do not have to worry much about my sexual and gender identity. My body dysmorphia will never include the color of my skin. My existence is easier, it is privileged. My womanhood increases my chances of facing violence, fear of such is certainly valid, but I have to be honest in recognizing that my chances are lower than other identities. How disgusting it is that we are statistically ranked based on the probability of being murdered, raped, or mutilated.
Is this anxiety buttressed by existential fears? There is a very good possibility. But I am also extremely certain that I cannot be the only person who feels this way. Who is defining womanhood, anyway? Who is defining femininity? Every person, of every race, gender, age, class, every identity defines it differently. So who are we comparing ourselves to? Who is doing this perfectly? The only truths are collective uncertainty and self-imposed expectations.
Sincerely,
A woman who is not so sure she is good at this