I love my fellow women. Women are strong. Women are fierce. Let’s hear women roar! I support the women around me like the shiny warrior goddesses they are but there is one woman who is a disgrace to all of womankind and that is me! I’m a screw-up, an emotional monster, a clumsy fuck, a whoopsy puppet of a woman. If I were a living room piece, I’d be a dumpy rug! Which makes me wonder: if I love all women except for myself, am I still a feminist?
Feminism means loving all women unconditionally and being willing to work with their flaws. That’s why I continue to support Lena Dunham, Amy Schumer, and Snooki. But does being a feminist mean I am supposed to look past every single tiny little thing that’s wrong with me and hold my head high as a woman? If so, I think I’m going to have a problem.
Women are truly capable of anything!
When I look at Hillary Clinton’s career, I’m impressed by her accomplishments and I tell my many female friends that they have the potential to be just like that! At the same time, I know I could never be that great; I can barely eat spaghetti without getting a wet noodle on my jeans! How can I expect equality and respect when I’m such a pit stain? Ugh, fuck me, I suck.
Before you say it—yes, I’ve heard of self-love and self-care! I have a voice deep inside me that’s telling me to book a facial or get a pedicure or go for a run, but how can I do that when my bozo face is as sensitive as a Jewel album, my feet look like tree stumps, and I can’t run two blocks without my floppy tits ping ponging up and down my chest? Is this feminism? It isn’t very fun.
I want every woman to know she can do anything with her life, and I want someone to throw me off a bridge. I’m the worst!
I have three young nieces and I want them to know they, as women, can achieve anything they put their mind to. Unless, of course, they’re like me, the girl who lost her saxophone on the day of seventh grade band auditions. Who loses an entire saxophone? I do. I lose a saxophone. If I can’t keep track of a saxophone I certainly can’t fight for women’s legal access to birth control.
Maybe feminism just isn’t for me? So what if I’ve read bell hooks, Roxane Gay, and Gloria Steinem? I’ve split open the back of every nice dress I’ve had, left my dog in a taxi, and my body is not a temple—it’s a White Castle.
So ladies, if you see me on the street, please don’t say hi. I’ll be the fart face hate-eating a Twinkie and secretly dreaming of a glass ceiling becoming a glass floor. Just know that I’m rooting for you, even if I can’t bring myself to root for me.