The Final Word
Picture this: you’re blissfully alone on a riverbank, unselfconsciously splayed out on the soft sand. Your skin is being kissed by the sun AND caressed by the warm afternoon breeze. It’s like a couple of rival suitors vying for your attention, and you’re not hating it. Your pores are sucking up vitamin D like a teenager standing at the fridge pounding Sunny Delight straight outta the carton. You’ve been rotating regularly front to back, and you’re like an evenly roasted golden marshmallow just before it gets crispy on the outside and gooey on the inside. You must be Goldilocks, cuz sweetcheeks, you feel just right. For once, your mind is blessedly empty of worldly worry, of tedious to-do lists. You are simply enjoying being alone, in a body, lying on the warm earth which molds to your curves and is as nurturing as a mother’s embrace.
Speaking of curves, you are in the best shape of your life. For the last 2 months, you’ve been doing yoga and running 5 days a week to get in tip top shape for your first starring role in a film in which you have- pearl clutch- a bikini scene! Gah! But you’re as ready as you’ll ever be. You’re in your early 30s and your skin suit has not yet begun its gravitational journey toward the center of the earth. You still have a decent supply of collagen stored up in your cheeks; you’ve been growing your hair out and it’s long and wavy. You’ve been fertilizing your eyelashes with some dubious pharmaceutical product, and now they’re so long they leave mascara trails on the inside of your sunglasses. Let’s go ahead and say that physically speaking, you’re peaking.
In this snapshot in time, you look about as juicy as a goddamn peach. You’re not vain, exactly- you’ve never been confident about your appearance. You’re a product of culture and media, after all, and thus you’ve been extensively trained in the art of self-criticism. But on this glorious day you do feel that you’re a beautiful child of the earth- and possibly even one of the beautiful people walking on it. Admit it. You’re feeling yourself. Not literally; you’re not rubbing one out on the riverbank. But you may as well be, the way it feels to lay out on this sultry afternoon, fly as hell and getting wooed by nature’s sweet touch.
Then let’s imagine that from the vantage point of this bodacious embodiment, through this sensuous haze, you hear voices in the distance approaching by way of the river. They are indistinguishable at first, but as they get closer you note vaguely that they are male. Still young, but definitely past adolescence, having settled into a deep resonance that skips confidently like stones over the slow moving river. There is banter, hoots of laughter. That’s nice, you think. Young men relishing each other’s company as they float gently down the stream of life.
Now let’s imagine that as the voices pass right in front of you, you hear one of them state decisively, or is it derisively,
(Bro voice) “Look at that one! She’s a solid 6!” Followed by shouts of agreement, more raucous laughter.
Just imagine it, if you will. Please imagine the harsh on your mellow as his words sink in.
In this totally theoretical situation (which definitely didn’t happen to me in my early 30s), you may be momentarily flummoxed. One might even say… capsized. You may think, “well, he can’t be talking about me. Surely these jolly strapping young men are not rating my physique on a scale of 1 to 10 and landing on the indubitably average score of 6.”
“I know what’s happening here,” you think. “Figure skating scores 1 through 6. They’re probably using the US figure skating scoring guide. That makes me a perfect 6! But that’s not realistic. No wait! I’ve got it. These are zoology majors out on a wildlife surveyance rafting trip, and they’ve just spotted an average-sized turtle sunning itself on a rock. They’re calling attention to a moderately sized turtle. A solid 6.”
But by now you’ve cracked your eyes open enough to grock that these are frat boy types floating on inner tubes and drinking cans of Coors Light. And they’re gawking straight at you. You have to concede that even if they are future zoologists, it’s not turtles they’re surveying. They are 100% scoring the perceived attractiveness of the women they pass. And you, my friend, have not scored particularly high. What felt only moments ago like your hot-bod-in-divine-communion-with-nature now feels like your-soso-bod-nearly-naked-and-exceedingly-vulnerable-to-the-toxic-male-gaze-alone-in-nature.
This is not acceptable. Their toxic masculinity, to be sure. But also… this very average rating. At this point in your evolutionary hotness, in this highly flattering bikini and sprawled out like a sexy golden dryad on the banks of the river, you know you are at least a 7.
Although 32-year-old-grown-up you acknowledges that these are jackasses whose frontal lobes are not fully developed, 16-year-old regressed you is cringingly desperate for their boner approval. Here you are, having over the decades ascended a very steep mountain of socially constructed physical standards. You’re not so vain as to think you have reached any great pinnacle of beauty. Not when Beyoncé exists in the world. Still, in the grand equation of symmetry plus curve times collagen minus cellulite, you are hanging out at a particularly glorious personal peak relative to a somewhat unfortunate start as a chubby near-sighted tween with braces and your inevitable physical decline on the not-so-distant horizon. Yet according to these numbnuts, you’re barely halfway hot? Despite great strides to comply with the rules of culture, you still don’t measure up. It’s like Taylor Swift says in her song Bejeweled “I did all the extra credit, but then got graded on a curve.”
What is the standard here, anyway? you think. What’s a 10 in their eyes? Is it Kim Kardashian? J-Lo, Ariana Grande? Tracy the sorority sister with double Ds and a spray tan? You’re shooting in the dark, because there are as many versions of a 10 as there are eyes of the beholders. There’s a meme going around social media of Dolly Parton in her prime, looking somehow simultaneously like an angel and a sex goddess, with the very astute caption “If Dolly looked like this, you’ve gotta wonder what kind of voodoo Jolene was packing.”
Sometimes we have to look through loving eyes to see the beauty in people because their anatomy has not been sanctioned as beautiful by the powers that be. Whereas blatant beauty comes pre-approved by the culture and conditioning we inhabit or were raised in. This beauty is obvious, and hits us in some instinctual place. We can even get knocked over the head and rendered senseless by it. You’re pretty sure that this panel of floating judges isn’t using a nuanced system of classification that comes from the juicy combination of body, mind, spirit, personality and experience. Todd, Brad, Jason, and Jaxson are obviously out on the river today divining with their dicks, not seeking a soulmate using the compass of their hearts and minds.
You think of that Counting Crows song in which the guy is watching a woman dance flamenco and intones with aching longing, “She’s suddenly beautiful. And we all want something beautiful. Man, I wish I was beautiful.” Of course everyone wants to be beautiful. But beauty is just one ingredient in the entirely mysterious alchemical cocktail of attraction. It is so often the case that we are made beautiful by an inner spark being ignited. Like in the song when she dances and is “suddenly beautiful.” Our longing for beauty- in ourselves, in others, in art- isn’t just about attracting a partner or a mate. It’s more than biological, it’s human. Maybe it comes from a deeper desire for a transcendent union with God or a return to our pristine origins or some malarky like that.
Beauty as transcendent union with the divine is a lofty thought, but on the earthly realm, and for women especially, beauty is just social capital. It’s transactional. It’s the way we have been taught to measure a woman’s worth. Enter the beauty industry- that $532 billion dollar brainchild of capitalism and ableism, dolled up in hair extensions and a push up bra. Knowing it’s a racket doesn’t necessarily free you or anyone else from the longing, the imperative, to be both desired and admired. Because it’s not just a racket. Evolutionarily, beauty is a boon. Societally, it promises the love and acceptance of our tribe, and ensures our sense of belonging. Because as that Counting Crows song also says, “when everybody loves you, you can never be lonely.”
All that aside, you should give zero shits on a scale of 1-10 what these guys think, because they’re just a few sophomoric kids floating along like turds in the moat of your sovereign queendom, right? Right! How mortifying that you even care! But the thing is, these turds are shitty little emissaries sent by an all-pervasive tyrant whose empire subsumes self-determination into the province of the Patriarchy. Patriarchy- the insidious web of feudal systems predicated on perfectionism, in which you and everyone you know are trapped and bound like flies. Patriarchy- the all-seeing eye that delights in casting judgment on everything and everyone, and in particular women. Patriarchy- the vile beast that gleefully binds women in their own insecurity, then feeds on their vitality, joy and freedom until they are sucked dry of that human birthright, self-love.
You should give zero shits because, honey, you know better! You’ve seen that the Emperor has no clothes and that the domain of your self-love has no ruler, no boundary. Okay, so you’ve been taught to be a puppet for the male gaze. You’ve also been taught to be a fierce feminist and reclaim your personal power. Maybe on some biological level you want these guys to want to fuck you but also… fuck these guys! They are barely men, and you are a giver of life, for god’s sake. You’ve spent 34 hours of back breaking labor moving a being through your body and into the world, ultimately giving birth at home at the bottom of a staircase. So symbolic, your very own portal into a new dimension of your worldly incarnation. You’ve expanded your knowledge, your comfort zone, your horizons, AND your vaginal vestibule… about 13 inches, but also immeasurably! AND you’ve spent years doing literal and metaphorical Kegels to tone and fortify the fortress of your body, mind and spirit. You’ve built healthy boundaries using hard won wisdom. You’ve drunk from the fountain of freedom. Shed the shame of lifetimes. Cast your vote for bodily autonomy! Broken glass ceilings! Okay, maybe you haven’t broken any glass ceilings… yet! But you are strong. You are invincible. You. Are. Woman. Hear. You. Roar.
The gauntlet has been thrown. Your femininity has been challenged. So naturally, you rise up and challenge them… right? You stand on the shore like an Amazonian warrior and verbally slay the dragon for disrespecting the feminine! There is, after all, no greater wrath than the goddess scorned.
But oh dear. What if your inner goddess has already instinctively swan dived into a deep pit of self-loathing and she can’t surface quickly enough to do what is right? What if she doesn’t want to be seen as a bitch- worse yet, an ugly bitch? What if instead of defending your own dignity, you lay there unmoving, pretending to be unmoved. What if you turn the shame inwards and let these fools make you feel like shit about yourself, then feel like shit about yourself for letting them make you feel like shit about yourself?
What then?
A quandary indeed. Well then, I suppose you simply stay in the familiar paralysis of shame until it passes, until their voices fade away downriver.
Now, they are nothing but an echo. And now, a memory of an echo. The river flows on, and you are still here. The sun still shines, without shame and asking nothing in return. The breeze still dances along the beautiful terrain of your precious body, like a blessing. You breathe in and out. Life moves through you.
And from the depths, a recollection surfaces. You remember a gag gift you got for your dad one Chanukah, a Jackie Mason “Final Word” toy that talks when you press its buttons. Jackie Mason, beloved iconic comedian. Also, incidentally, a misogynist who proffered such classic zingers as "That's a great profession, a doctor. Where else can you ask a woman to get undressed and then send the bill to her husband?" Jackie the human was problematic, I suppose, but Jackie the talking toy was fucking fabulous, cycling through 4 hilarious one-liners that used to make your family laugh uproariously. Jackie’s 4-line stanza became a mantra in your family, summing up everything that was wrong with everything, and putting it succinctly to rest. You remember his wisdom now, ver batim. Lying on the sand in the fading afternoon light, basking in an afterglow of suppressed female wrath, you mutter under your breath:
“Oy is this a putz.”
“Are you always this stupid?”
“You’re a schmuck, the biggest!”
“Screw you and your friend too.”
Yeah. Screw those guys. But from somewhere in your vastly generous feminine heart, you silently bless them, too. You send a message downriver on a warm current of air. “Hey fellas,” it says. “Did you know that rating a woman on a scale of 1-10 is the purview of a top-shelf douchebag? I really hope that someday even you are able to discover the vast power of the feminine within your own confused self, and that it heals you, and nourishes you beyond your wildest imagination, and makes you whole again.”
Oh, you thought Jackie Mason had the final word? Turns out it was you.