AMathay

I Know You Want It

Ever have a moment where you realize you’re sort of getting older? I’m only 31, but was recently introduced to what is arguably the biggest pop single of the summer, Blurred Lines, via NPR. Subscribing to Spotify is both a blessing and a curse (I can listen to the same ten songs over and over and over again but am not introduced to new music unless I know what I’m searching for) and since I don’t listen to the radio anymore, I’m out of the loop. As I’m listening to people my parents age discuss a pop song and it’s come-and-get-it lines and video that objectifies women and erases all of the work women have done for equality, I’m feeling ancient. I should be telling these people what’s hot, not the other way around. But, I digress.

I dial up the song and am immediately hooked- to the point where I’ve listened to it probably 30 times today (I did already admit to being slightly obsessive and repetitive with my music). While the song lyrics are controversial, the video is even more so. If you’re not humoring me and clicking my hyperlinks, I’ll fill you in. The song (which samples Marvin Gaye’s Got To Give It Up) is chauvinistic and refers to a woman as a bitch while the video shows nearly nude women parading around, purely for enjoyment.

I like it.

Sometimes it’s fun to be sexy, to have attention because of your physical appearance, and to walk into a room and have eyes on you. It feels good to look good. It’s empowering, not degrading. And yes, sometimes we, as women, “want it.” We all do. We’re humans, after all. We have sex, and most of the time for fun. It’s what we do on Saturday nights, or Sunday mornings, or while we’re waiting for the dryer to stop running or the kids to wake up from their naps. We do it with our spouses, our boyfriends, and yes, we do it with strangers via one night stands after partying.

Yes, I understand the critics who express the concerns with this song and video. The women are nearly naked in the unrated version, scantily clad in the safe for work one. The men are fully clothed. These women are here for fun, clearly. But why is that always bad thing if you’re a woman?

Women should always be in control of their power and their sexuality and unfortunately, sometimes they’re not. Sometimes lines do get blurred to dangerous results. But sometimes the lines are blurred because we want them to be- we want to be beautiful but smart. We want to be flirty but intelligent. We want to look good and feel good. Blurry lines aren’t always a negative. We, as women, blur them ourselves because we can. We have that power and we have that control. And that makes us for sure the hottest bitch in the place.

Jane May Be Onto Something….

     When studying literature in school, I remember learning that Jane Austen originally wanted to call her book First Impressions, but for whatever reason she settled on Pride and Prejudice instead. Although I’m embarrassed to admit I don’t remember the story very well, I do know that first impressions are important- but are we wrong or right about our first read of people?
     I met someone recently, and knew within the first thirty seconds that they weren’t what I was looking for. Jane Austen whispered to me to keep getting to know them and not be so dismissive, so I continued (I always listen to my inner Jane Austen). Although thirty minutes later I still knew this person wouldn’t work, I did have a very enjoyable conversation and made a new friend.
     It’s so easy to judge someone, especially at first. Chances are, our gut instinct is right. But gut aside, even if the person aligns with our preconceived notions, they’re almost always worth getting to know.

Don’t Be A Joyce

     We decide to wait until the warmest day of the summer so far to go stand out in a field and pick fruit at our local “PYO” farm (pick-your-own for those not involved in any 4H in high school). In our case, we drive ten miles to a farm to gather our own harvest and pay twice the price for it. But, it’s a fun activity, something to do together, and a reason to get out of the air conditioning (which feels stifling and confining until you leave it, and then you realize why it’s running in the first place).
   Peach and blueberry picking was described as “excellent” so we decide to be crazy and go for dual fruit. Peaches take all of three minutes to pick our previously decided three dozen, so then we set off for the blueberries, which involves taking a little hayride out to the field.
     The entire area is covered in what looks like mosquito netting as to not let in berry hungry birds. You slip through the net at the beginning and then you’re in a world of fruit. We decide on the divide and conquer method, leaving our flat in the middle of a row and each of us taking a quart container. It’s easy to get lost in the mazelike quietness.
    After my quart is full, I’m wandering around, simultaneously looking for Noah and for the flat, and I’m aware of a father and his sons that are around the same area I am in. Dad is a typical dad- big floppy hat on, cell phone strapped to his belt, dressed head to toe in what he probably considers to be outside, rugged clothing. My first thought is When did berry picking become an adventure sport? but I silence my thoughts in my continuous effort to only think nice things. I’m now standing in front of Dad, and he says loudly “you’ve got some big ones!” It takes me a split second to realize that he is talking about the blueberries in my hands. I give him my polite laugh and continue walking. I listen to Dad and sons banter back and forth- the kids are about ten or twelve, old enough to be at the beginning stages of parental embarassment. Dad suddenly realizes that his wife is nowhere to be found, and the boys dart back, retracing their steps.
    Finally, Mom appears- slightly out of breath, face flushed, wearing ankle length pants and sweating bullets. Mom is clearly not having fun. She is hot, she is tired, she is finding nothing entertaining at all about being in this patch of bushes and embracing all of the places on your body that produce sweat in situations like this. Mom can’t figure out how to cut through the bushes, or go under the nets, or pick very much. The boys are both frustrated at Mom’s inability to keep up, and proud that they’re able to do things she can’t. Dad’s exasperated cries of “Joyce!” over and over make me smile at this whole scene. Finally, Joyce’s complaints subside when everyone thinks they now have enough blueberries, so they head for a break in the netting to wait for the next retrieval hayride and the creature comforts that are so desperately needed at this moment.
I assume that Dad and Joyce and their boys made it safely back to their 72-degree house without any heat-related illnesses. I think about sweat, and how it is the body’s way of cooling off itself from exertion. Traipsing through a field with your kids may have been effort for Joyce, but I can’t help but compare how I relished the sweat from doing something fun with someone fun.
    Tonight, after dinner is made but not yet eaten, Noah and I are on the deck, reflecting back on how hot today was, how we skipped the hayride back to the farm and opted to walk up the hill in an effort to take in the views, and how excited we both were that our respective deodorant/anti-perspirants were not only tested but passed. I ask him, jokingly, if he noticed that I didn’t complain once today about being hot, or tired, or thirsty, or sweaty, or overall uncomfortable.
     He smiles and says, “Yeah, I did notice. You weren’t a Joyce!”
   “Don’t be a Joyce,” I echo.