When I woke up this morning, I wasn’t in my bed. Where was I, you ask? Well, I’ll tell you: I was inside my body, which was inside my bed. A soft beam of sunshine washed across my face, and before I became fully conscious, I listed seventy things I’m grateful for and set an intention for the day. And as soon as I did become fully conscious, I realized: I do not enjoy existing in my female sack of human flesh.
I couldn’t help but think, as my feet hit the floor and I gazed into the mirror, that the only thing holding me back from achieving all of my hopes and dreams was my skin, my bones, my muscles, my organs, my tissues, and my cells.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for #bodypositivity. I even follow one fat person on Instagram. But wouldn’t we all be better off if we didn’t have bodies we had to be positive about? If every single woman simply uploaded herself onto the cloud, or evaporated into a fine mist, all of our problems would disappear. We wouldn’t have to take up any space at all (though I have a feeling my particles would travel through space faster than Adrianna’s).
If my body literally didn’t exist, I’d never have to take a shower. I’d never have to exercise or bleach my mustache. I’d never have to eat, and I’d never have to not eat. I’d be 100% thigh gap. I wouldn’t have to worry about my Tinder profile photos, or workplace sexual harassment, or rape! I’d be the best me I could be! Without distractions like… rape, I’d check everything off of my to-do list — and I’d do it with a smile.
Oh wait, I wouldn’t have a smile. Hmm. Well, we all have to make sacrifices to live our best lives.
I’m not saying this is for everyone. Athletes need bodies. Figureheads do too (you can’t be a figurehead without a head). But regular women? We’d be better off ditching our anatomy for something else: sublime, incorporeal truth. Then we can compete over our sublime incorporeal truth, rather than over the definition of our abs.
In America today, “wellness” has become toxic. And it probably has something to do with the fact that Hillary Clinton lost the election. She looks a certain way, and so do I, and I wish I didn’t. Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who’s the fairest of them all? No one. The only reason women feel the need to have bodies is because society tells us so. And America tells us so. And our bodies themselves tell us so. Our bodies are the problem. THEY’RE THE PROBLEM!
Yes. I am insinuating that all of our problems derive from our bodies. In fact, I wrote it in all caps up there to prove it. Our bodies are bad. I know it’s true because this single gray bang sprouting from my forehead won’t lie flat like the rest of them, and eating a pint of ice cream twice a day keeps making me gain weight. You know what would be better than that? Bodiless divinity. And you know what would be even better than that? I’m not sure, but surely some man will figure it out and sell it to us.
Remember the time before you were born? It was better back then because it wasn’t now. Before I was born, I wasn’t worried about what my cellulite looked like in my yoga pants, that’s for sure. Before we were born, we were just floating around in space or something. That’s how I think of it, at least. And that’s how I think of this, too. There’s probably some science behind it.
Frankly, I’m annoyed that I have to live under the laws of physics. As if women weren’t oppressed enough.