Because even if your ethnic beauty doesn’t fit in, it is powerful and meaningful, and sometimes, actually, it’s just hot.
I didn’t get to eat the pizza until I was a mother, because my water broke dramatically and the contractions got much more painful.
When I found out I was pregnant, I didn’t really want to tell my friends. We’d talked about babies, over wine and second draft feature articles at a non-fiction writers’ group, and everyone agreed that if you’re smart, you wait until you’re thirty-five.
I’m not sure which is more embarrassing– that I thought our marriage was going to remain unblemished and preternaturally self-possessed, like a child model. Or that it isn’t.
As it turns out, being a mom is a lot like being me with a baby. And it’s also fantastically, intricately, sweepingly, deafeningly different.
But I think it’s better, when you begin, to know that you will fail. Not just a little, but constantly.
I want to be 45 and whatever that really looks like for me.
I’m beginning to have no idea what “feminism” means.
Interestingly, I, and other women who write about beauty, have been accused of being vain just for thinking about body image.
I’ve heard young women tell each other and themselves over and over “you deserve better!” When sometimes, honestly, it’s not at all clear what that means.