Unless one’s made of stone and iron, having written a novel based on extreme body-shaming & how the eyes of others scorch women must change one, yes? Pair that with compiling an anthology titled Women Under Scrutiny, and voila, the perfect storm for facing personal crucibles.*

Though examining ‘knowing one’s character’s crucible**’ is paramount, delving into my personal albatrosses is something I leave to my unexamined subconscious. (A dissociation at which I excel.)  Swimming on the surface in my personal life, as my obsessions reign free in fiction, has been my specialty for quite some time.

Until my expertise in cognitive dissonance falters.

Who wants to face the truth that she has just spent three hours lost in the search for the perfect curling/straightening/volumizing/shining/first-day/second-day hair care? What kind of shallow woman worries about the morning scale number at the same pitch as worrying about ensuring democracy will continue? Gun control? Climate change?

My personal struggles related to what I show the world (my thin hair! my double chin!)seem wearyingly unimportant compared to the next election.

Who cares if I agonize over wearing a sleeveless blouse? Does my obsession with wearing make-up (or sunglasses) every time I exit my house represent a vacuous nature, growing up with a beauty-obsessed mother, or living while female? And does it matter as long as I keep the crazy under wraps?

Writing a novel (a bit too honestly) about the inner thoughts of women under scrutiny (their own and others) made it forever harder for me to separate fact and fiction. Suddenly, I wondered why I was so adamant about never going sleeveless outside (and barely inside.) I search the web for non-judgmental examinations of these topics while trying to convince myself that these things shouldn’t register in the scale of anyone’s importance during our awful political times.

I’ve spent a lifetime fighting my hair texture as though battling climate change while I should be washing my hair with compost and water before our water becomes mud.

Which begs, of course, my ultimate question. Why do I care so much about my hair and wobbly arms?

I know how my characters dealt with this; I had all the right answers for them, but I’m still unsure about myself.

• Is this obsession with my visage going to be a life-long battle?
• Will I always wonder if Botox represents the scourge of our times or a mild panacea for mirror displeasure?
• Will the scale always make or break my day?
• And can I ever leave the house in a sleeveless dress?

So far, I’ve conquered shoes. Women can’t match in high heels. Okay, Heels are the only thing I’ve gotten over, and only after breaking an ankle, but if you can’t break habits, you can shave them down.

I thank God for Gloria Steinem— Always on the right side (my right side) of politics and always caring that she looked great.

She just turned ninety, and I bet she put on a beautiful bracelet for her party.

Politics do suffuse everything. The personal is political. I’m walking the line. Feeding my clothes obsession from Poshmark instead of Bloomingdales (hunting more than buying.)

I’m not Botoxing; I’m not judging others.

I’m doing a three-step night cream/serum/oil routine.

And I’m accepting the wrinkles on myself and my friends.
Though I’m squinting an awful lot.

I’m grateful to Helen Mirren, Gloria Steinem, and Jane Fonda.

Women who are badasses who support, march, and allow themselves to care about the mirror. And who, I suspect, rarely wear heels.

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*I am, in fact, made up of equal parts obsession, worry & self-consciousness.

**Crucible:  1. vessel of a very refractory material (such as porcelain) used for melting a substance that requires a high degree of heat 2: a severe test 3: a place or situation in which concentrated forces interact to cause or influence change or development.