When did women start believing they had to be second best to everything?

I just watched this thing on the Tyra Banks show (and yeah let’s take a moment to get over the fact that I was watching the Tyra Banks show, of all things, but I feel like morning television is America’s way of punishing the unemployed for existing) about women who buy tapeworms to make themselves thin. Also known as “Women And The Tapeworms That Eat Them.”

I feel like shit like this just perpetuates the idea that most women are frivolous and self obsessed and care only about their own image in the mirror. Which made me stop to consider the age old question of “do we do this to ourselves or can we blame this one on men and society too?” And part of me wants to take the gung-ho feminist route and go all MEN ARE A BLITE ON SOCIETY AND VAGINAS EVERYWHERE but at the same time, no, I don’t really believe that. Because yeah, it may have started out with repression and subservience and all that shit that gets locked up in the Women’s Collective History Anthology: A Guide To Why We’re Like This but I feel like at this point in time we’ve at least grown past the capability to allow other people to do that to us. So what do we do?

We do it to ourselves.

I mean, sure society throws out images of wafer thin women with thighs the size of the crown molding in my apartment but at the same time, we’re the one’s accepting that as fact. We’re the ones that sit and read those magazines and somehow translate someone else’s body into what should be the ideal body. When it isn’t. There isn’t an ideal body and there isn’t an ideal woman and I feel like these should be the things that are obvious and direct and not the opposite, somehow universal idea that women constantly have to adhere to some kind of projected image of themselves. That is neither real nor at all attainable.

I mean I sound like some douchebag life coach or something here but I’m serious. Why the fuck do women do these things to themselves? And why do we keep doing it?

I feel like once we’ve resorted to willingly contracting a parasite as a means to lose weight, we’ve stepped way over the line dividing sanity and anything resembling reason.

When will it ever occur to women like that to just accept who they are and move the fuck on already? When you’re actually considering contracting what is essentially an illegal bio-hazard to get down to a size two I feel like there must already be something that’s snapped in your psyche and you can no longer be a reasonable and competent member of society. Least of all any sort of representative for the woman’s collective voice. I feel like when you’re that bluntly incompetent you have to somehow forfeit your claim to womanhood so we can just wipe our hands clean of you and pretend it never happened so shit like that can’t linger around like an impression, waiting to come back and bite us in the ass every time someone tries to make a point about women’s collective need to be desirable.

I feel like we as women have an ability, and a right, to get our own shit together. I feel like we as women have the right and the responsibility to stop being such complete mindless fuckwits about things like weight and beauty and the dimples in our ass and how all of this will relate to attracting a man. Because who gives a fuck, ultimately?

Yeah, relationships are great. Love is great. But nothing is ever or will ever be more important then the relationship you have with yourself. And your thighs. And that ben and jerry’s in your freezer because yeah, it’s necessary and a fixture of life, ok, so just eat it and be happy that you can eat it. That you can enjoy things and walk upright and breath and laugh and feel pain and exist as a human being and not some trophy exhibition for men to gawk at and then throw away.

They should dream about you as a whole not the size of your waist. They should dream about your physical presence, not the lack of it in size. And don’t you ever dare accept anything less because if you do, you’re a complete and utter fool and you’re doing the entire sex a disservice. And setting the women’s rights movement back about fifty years, while we’re at it.

It will always be as simple as this:

If you don’t like something about yourself then change it. And then immediately change it back because I can guarantee it’s the best part of you that you have to offer.

DEAR ANYONE THAT HAS THE ABILITY TO HIRE DESPERATE WORKERS,

I’m a cute 24 year old writer looking for a job. Any kind of job really, as long as it doesn’t involve the sex trade or fixing a copy machine. I have experience in the administrative field and don’t mind being your fax bitch or the girl who tries not to spill your latte on your newly pressed work shirt in the morning.

My writing experience is varied but involves mostly fiction and creative non-fiction, both of which allow me to make my life seem vastly more interesting then it really is. I dream of one day being able to write for DC comics just so I can have a legitimate reason to say “I’m Batman” in a dialogue panel. Also I look great in a cowl and cape.

So if you’re out there, mysterious stranger with the power to hire impressionable young writers with a penchant for coffee addictions and used copies of Jane Eyre, then please, please, PLEASE give me a shot. I can only linger on the unemployment list of doom for so long before what’s left of my cynical soul actually departs for better pastures. And by better pastures I mean I start reading Plath and updating my livejournal.

So c’mon, what do you say? I’m funny, I’m adaptable and I have enough pencil skirts in my wardrobe to keep me looking like the Pepper Potts to your oh-so-skilled Tony Stark. See? I’m all about the nerd references.

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Why is it that people always think they’re going to meet the love of their life in a bar? Or even anyone you want to date long term, for that matter. Because I’ve been to a lot of bars and so far the only people I’ve met are either over 40 and creepy or under 25 and creepier.

Has anyone ever actually met a decent guy in a bar? I mean a total random. Not someone who’s friends with your friends or a friend of your sister’s or something, I mean some guy that just walked up to you, sat down and said “Can I buy you a drink?” Did it ever turn into anything or should he have started, “Can I buy you a drink? And then sleep with you and never talk to you again?”

I’m sort of all about the full honesty disclosure program when it comes to introducing yourself in a bar. Hi, are you interested in actually talking to me as a person or as a guy who just wants to get in my pants? It’s ok, you can admit it. It’ll save us a lot of time and that whole awkward exchange of numbers where you’ll never call or if you do I’ll never answer and then we delete each other out of our respective phones. You know how it goes.

So if you can’t meet anyone in a bar, where are you supposed to meet them? And is where you meet them indicative of what type of datable person they’re going to be? Like if you meet someone in a bar he’s going to be a party animal that likes to pick up people in bars. Or if you meet him in Barnes and Noble does that mean he’s the shy sensitive type that likes biographies of past presidents?

And if there really is a correlation between where you meet someone and who they are, shouldn’t we all be picking each other up in Starbucks’ and the same movie theater? At least then you know you have things in common and can save the whole “What’s Your Favorite (insert subject here)” part of the evening.

So I’m wondering…is there really a right place to find Mr. Right?

Do you know what’s worse then being rejected by a guy? Being rejected by a job interview.

Especially when you get rejected for job you weren’t even sure you wanted in the first place. At least with the guy you know there’s a million of them out there and you’ll probably manage to snag one eventually (even if it’s not exactly the right fit) but a job? Not in this economy. I’d be lucky to find an ill-fitting one, let alone one I love.

In this economy, jobs have become like the guy you meet in a bar that takes your number and then takes his sweet old time to call you. Sure you hit it off, make witty and interesting conversation, impress him with your ability to smile winingly while talking about your past relationships (ie job experience), wearing your best skirt and cutest heels and all the while you’re thinking you got along so great and he just might be the one for you (or at least the next six months) and then you get—the no call.

Also known as waiting by the phone for him to call, even keeping the volume down on your tv just incase you miss the ring. You wait, convinced that he’ll call and ask you out and you’ll have a great time because you’re just so perfect together—he pays well, you have great computer experience and a willingness to learn. You remember all the good times you just shared—your story about your time in Europe and how you made him laugh about teaching your last boss how to open an email attachment. It was such a good time, he’ll definitely call. You had way too much in common for him to pass on you.

And then he doesn’t call. And then you get angry. You write a very precise thank you letter, mentioning how well you got along and how much you would love the opporunity to get together again. How you think he’s great and you’d be a perfect match. And when he still doesn’t call, hours and days later until you’ve finally decided you’re going to either track him down or give up, there it is. The rejection letter.

The Dear John of job interviews. Your lovely but you’re just not the right fit for this time. Maybe in the future you could get together. Or you’re just too good for the position. You couldn’t possibly want this job, you’re obviously meant for better things. And then the killer—good luck on your search.

And just like that, you lose another one. Is it even worth it to go on? Can you possibly handle any more rejection?

But before you know it, you’re off again. Standing in line at the bar (or in this case, the unemployment line) waiting to be noticed. Waiting to stand out. Wanting someone, finally, to look at you (and your resume) and say—you. You’re perfect. You’re the one.