Get Clucky!

Monday, March 07, 2005

Attractive; UnAttractive

Going on six week sans pill, I can report as of yet no signs of ovulation. This gives me daily moments of panic in which I am sure that I will in fact never ovulate, never have kids, never get to be cool and pregnant and powerful. I am fully aware these thoughts are crazy, but there it is.

Anyway, as if to comfort me, I have had signs that my hormones are changing, post pill. The signs take the form of:ZITS. Not too many yet, but a good medley of them. B searches for them gleefully, and pops them painfully. It is very irritating, and sadly (since several years ago I had to go off the pill for a few months for other reasons) I anticipate this zitness to continue for at least a few months more.

I feel very bothered by the whole thing. It feels so embarrassing and juvenile. Also it is public, which I don’t like—I’m sure people are wondering what I have done to myself.

Another thing: my hair has been noticeably more limp and wilty and, I think, oily. This might be my imagination, and it might be the weather. Regardless, it sucks.

I am told that pregnancy is often very becoming, that it makes one’s skin and hair “glow.” I hope this is true, and true for me: it seems like it would be a terribly indignity to be not only bloated and pregnant, but also zit covered.

I really have that worry; that is how small a person I am. Terrible!

I was thinking about all these things on Saturday night, because we went dancing at a club downtown (SoundBar, for anyone who keeps track of these things). Going to styley clubs is not normally my thing—they tend to offend both my wallet and my feminism.* But it was a friend’s birthday, and we thought that we’d get in free and we did not think we would have to stand in line for 45 minutes while girls-without-coats (one of my least favorite subspecies, historically) got whisked inside. We were wrong on both these counts, as it turned out, but we went in anyway and we managed to have a good time.

Clubs are, obviously, very much about looks on display, particularly women’s looks. At this moment of aging and anticipation, it is a weird thing for me to encounter that in such a gratuitous way. On the one hand I do still feel a little bit in the game—a little bit competitive with the looks and feminine displays of other women, other girls. I like that I can still get away with a mini skirt and halter top (my sister-in-law, younger and flashier than me, gave me a particularly naked one for Christmas) and I like to be desired, especially when I am dancing. It feels good and powerful. On the other hand, it’s clear that I’m not really involved in the scene there; I am too old and too married and I feel too parental towards too many of the participants. And I never can tell about what I think of that sort of display, despite the pleasure I sometimes take in it. It has always felt like a guilty pleasure.

At dinner, before the club, a couple at a table near us had a particularly darling baby (and it was not only darling because it was out for sushi, though I do find that a particularly compelling activity for a baby). The mother was breast feeding at one point: she was behind me so I couldn’t see her, but B kept me updated and assured me (this is another embarrassing thing I worry about) that despite the breastfeeding the woman had very nice breasts, not at all freakishly engorged. So I had that encounter, another feminine display, in mind while watching the girlies at the club.

I would like to say something wise here about the juxtaposition of the two, but I don’t feel fully qualified to do that. I will say that both seem to have an interesting sort of power, or rather make a sort of power out of the necessary embodiedness of women. It seems nice to say that one is healthier, more real, more valid. I think that’s probably true. But I must admit, reluctantly, that the other is not an empty category of experience for me yet…and although I have purposefully declared it bankrupt and tried, for the most part, to give it up, I will be sad when I realize that I no longer have the option of taking it back.

*Note that “my feminism” provides a useful sort of watch dog function; really, sometimes it does feel like it is its own personified thing, not totally within my control.


  • I really sympathise with you, ive had terrible problems with the pill.

    Good luck,

    Berry xx

    By Blogger Berry, at 5:10 PM  

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