So I get an unwanted email from an ex-boyfriend. I launch into my standard, “Ugh. Men. What’s wrong with men? Jesus. Men.”
I’m defeated. I’m crying. I’m the woman scorned.
To cool down, I take the dog for a walk and stop at the mailbox. Riffling through the Penny Saver and the water bill and the endless stack of catalogues, I wonder:
What if life were a Victoria’s Secret catalogue?
Man-free. Glossy. Smooth to the touch. Dog ear-able: hold your spot; move back or move on.
Unlimited weave. Copious amounts of bronzer. Lockets — tons of lockets. Flowing curtains and feathers. A flower snug behind my ear.
The occasional chandelier. Surf and sand. Lap dog in a woven beach bag. Even a boxing ring. And, of course, my angel wings.
I start the day with a chuckle, with my head tossed back, wearing a bra and matching panties. Then I sit, Indian-style, on the floor or some kind of ottoman, like a little girl and all grown up: pouting and pensive; mouth still open, waiting to taste something I already know is good. I put my hands behind my head. I look over my shoulder.
Ooh.
Then I go to some empty warehouse-slash-gym. In my sports bra and leggings, I put my hands on my hips. I hold a jump rope. I look over my shoulder again because, fuck, what’s behind me really is fascinating. My hair is up and in my face, and I’m not sweaty.
Mmm hmm.
Then I get on to work in a moto jacket and a backless dress with a skirt hanging 17 inches from my waist.
I always know where to look. I know what every body wants.
That’s right.
I’d live there for a little bit. Why not? It’s so pretty. And then I’d get bored.
A few years ago, I stumbled across a film called The Women, a kind of How Stella Got Her Groove Back for white women, starring Meg Ryan, Annette Bening, Eva Mendes, and Debra Messing. An all-woman cast. Not even a male extra. If there was a painting in the background, it didn’t include even an abstract rendering of a man.
I saw an interview with the director, Diane English, who said something to the effect of, “The film is all about female empowerment.” The tagline on the movie’s poster: “It’s all about the women.”
That 2008 movie is a remake of a 1939 film with the same title. Joan Crawford, Norma Shearer, and, again, no boys. The tagline for this poster: “It’s all about the men.”
The posters are different but the story is the same: the action of one man precipitates, or instigates, all the action of the women. He cheats on his wife. She reaches out to her friends. Shenanigans ensue.
If it is a man’s world, like James Brown said, and it wouldn’t mean nothing without a woman or a girl, then a woman’s world, at least this woman’s world, wouldn’t mean anything without a man or a boy, or some kind of opposition — some conflict, some clash.
The willingness to engage with someone else, and, sometimes, fuck it all up, is a kind of empowerment, right?
Bring it on, gentlemen. I got this. And the catalogue.
