*This was a rant I wrote that didn’t get the traction it deserved so I’m re-writing it. I’ve been seeing a lot of dissent on FB lately from women who are getting pissed off about being sold stories about money and dreams and sparkles and they’re not buying it anymore. Tides are turning and it’s a fucking relief. People are calling out for truth. Stop using spiritual language to manipulate me. If your calling is to serve me, come on over and rub my barnacled feet. Stop sending me webinars on financial empowerment so you can financially empower yourself lady. Why not just say “hey, I want to get fucking rich up in here, so buy my shiz please. Then at least we know your intentions are clear.
Remember the whole “make-up free” selfie campaign where millions of women spent a bit more time making their make-up look natural that morning, then pouting and taking a quick 46 pics before filtering the best one for Instagram.
This last one is my favourite as the foundation is so subtle it almost tricks you into believing someone’s face can be that matte. I’m not sure what this campaign did to help end breast cancer, maybe the lymph nodes were scared away by such high cheekbones…
I think the thing that triggers me is there is no risk in what they are doing. Unless showing what you actually look like for real is a risk for you. There’s no edge.
Here’s a “no-make-up” selfie I can get behind.
Although technically it wasn’t a selfie because I didn’t know I was taking the shot.
The other new wave is to be honest about what your home life is really like. Women are blogging about how the shots they post on social media don’t tell the whole story of their lives. One blog that went viral showed her kids sliding down a slide in the back yard of her beautiful house and she wanted us to know, that her life wasn’t as perfect as this picture showed, in fact, her hubby and her had a tiff that morning. I mean, nice try lady but…
You own your own home!
You’re not a single parent!
You have a backyard with a slide and KIDS!
You had a little tiff did you? Fuck me. Were you on the ground in front of the slide sobbing that you married the wrong man while your kids used you as a speed bump? I think not.
So, again, where’s the risk, where’s the vulnerability in sharing this picture?
It pisses me off because the lie is getting deeper. We’re not pretending perfection anymore, but we’ve exchanged it for something more sinister. It’s cool to be a little frayed around the edges, but please for the love of Goddess don’t be ripped apart. I mean DO NOT talk about your boring low-grade depression. DO not share your fear about where rent is coming from. And most def don’t talk about your addiction to pills…stop right there hon…that’s just lame.
Hey, hold up Emelia, these women are wanting to share their imperfections so that we feel more connected and less pressurized to be perfect, don’t beat them, join them.
I’m all for laying bare the cold hard truth. It’s my life’s work to share my “fuck-ups” and to the celebrate the mess, but again, these photos of my home are not brave in any way. They’re just normal.
The problem with the “imperfection” campaigns is that they’re still only promoting the stories of privileged women who have the time to take photos with our iPhones, have homes to get messy and the leisure to craft stories that fit together well.
So when you read a blog or article and you feel that knot in your stomach, like, fuck, not only does she have a great kitchen, but she seems so down to earth too…and that hair…what’s wrong with me (go put head in oven); take a closer look at her contouring and the camera angles she chose, not to shame her, but to remind yourself, again and again that it’s not the whole picture.
And just for those wondering, I’m not a downer. I see the light and I love it. When I’m outside with bare feet and my kids are playing and my hubs is tinkering away I can barely hold the amount of pleasure I have. I’m deeply fucking thankful, but that’s because I know that the beauty is not my doing. I get to witness it, not capture it. And it could all go away.
So fuck the selfie.
Vulnerability means having something to lose. And then losing it. And then showing where it hurts.
That’s my kind of party.