International No Diet Day

I just found out it’s International No Diet day.

My feelings on ‘issue days’ aside, I am pleased that this day exists. There are too many women out there who have very twisted relationships with food. Because of the strange, unrealistic expectations placed on us by society, the media, and even ourselves, we think we need to be shaped like the women generated by Hollywood, no matter what our natural body shapes are.

For many women, our relationship with food has crept into our very language. I can’t count how many times I’ve heard someone say, “I’m going to be good and not have dessert,” or, “I was so bad this weekend. I had a burger and fries!”

Food, which is a biological source of fuel, has become a moral issue. For God’s sake, people, morality is not about calories or carbs! Food should be about pleasure and nutrition, not about getting to a size 0. Hurray for International No Diet Day! Eat what you want and damn Cosmo magazine!

On the other hand, International No Diet Day also angers and saddens me. Do the women in Somalia care about diets? I’m guessing not. Afghani women? Not so much. Tanzanian women? Also not so bothered. There are so many women who are more concerned with staying alive through crushing poverty and war than they are about the cellulite on their thighs.

So while some of us feel guilt and shame while contemplating the dessert cart, other women, other human beings on this planet, other mothers, daughters, sisters and friends, are desperately trying to stay alive.

The differences between what we have and what they don’t have should be our source of shame. Not a goddamned slice of New York cheesecake or a slab of lasagne.

Celebrity Stuff.

There I was, minding my own business and trying not to obsess about matters of housing, when my eyes chanced to light on an article in Maclean’s about how celebrity endorsements just aren’t selling stuff anymore. More and more, people are more swayed by ads featuring people they might actually know (but prettier and with whiter teeth), in Keeping-up-with-the-Joneses style ads.

That made sense to me. It seems to me that the nature of celebrity has changed over the years. Did we used to want to emulate celebrities? I don’t know. Do we now? Not really.

Marilyn Monroe was considered risque, with her skirt all blown upwards by that air grille.”Wow”, said the Public. “How does she dare?” Now, starlets flash their waxed bits for the cameras. The Public says, “Ugh”. I’d want to be compared to Marilyn. Lindsay Lohan? Not so much.

Anyhow, I started thinking about my own habits as a consumer. I’m not really driven by celebrity consumer endorsement. Half the time I don’t even know who they are, since I so rarely watch TV. Most of the time, I don’t respect them enough the emulate them. However, I also don’t care very much when, say, a woman in my age bracket attracts admiring male gazes in a car ad, either.

I don’t think I’m anti-consumer, since I own a lot of stuff. As recently as Wednesday I begged Gen to be allowed to come on a Costco shopping trip. I even promised to do the heavy lifting. Granted, a lot of my stuff is second-hand, homemade, or lowest-price-point at IKEA, but it’s still stuff.

Wait, maybe I am swayed by celebrity endorsements. I just remebered 1986. I was reading an article in BOP magazine: An exclusive interview with Duran Duran. Simon was talking about how much they all loved this apple-scented shampoo. I desperately wanted some, but knew my mother and brother would mock me without reprieve if I asked to have it. Now, whenever I smell some kind of apple hair product, I wonder if that’s the one Duran Duran loved so much.

Now I am the one who mocks myself.

Queen of…Uh, What Was I Doing?

I must be more preoccupied than I thought.

Yesterday I lost my bankcard. This morning I discovered I had also lost my bus pass.

I got my bank card back. It was at the bank. They’d tried to call, but had the wrong number.

I stuffed a paperback into my coat pocket yesterday night. I think when I took it out on the bus, the bus pass fell out.

So, in one absent-minded swoop, I just paid $69 for two days’ bus travel.

I’m a moron.

Happy Beltane!

I am not pagan in terms of religion. I’m not much of anything, which is okay for Unitarians, so thank goodness I am one. But Beltane is my favourite pagan festival.

It’s not just the maypoles and the bonfires and the drinking and carousing and the sex in the fields with strangers and the ritual renewal of the relationship between Herne the Hunter and the Great Earth Mother. Although those things are well and good, in their place.

It’s more about the renewal of the year. It’s those trees that smell like honey, I don’t know what they’re called. It’s the guys in the obnoxiously green house up the street having their first barbecue, blasting Barry White and yelling to people to come up for a beer. It’s the lilac blooming and the happy wet dogs coming up from the beach because it’s warm enough for them to swim. It’s the first freckles on my nose. It’s breaking out the flip-flops and tank tops. It’s seeing the bedding plants for sale at the corner store.

It’s spring. Happy Beltane, everyone.

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