O tipă foarte deşteaptă zicea odată: “It’s difficult to see the glass ceiling because it’s made of glass. Virtually invisible. What we need is for more birds to fly above it and shit all over it, so we can see it properly.” *
Dacă aş avea o fată, primul lucru pe care l-aş face când ar lovi-o pubertatea ar fi să îi pun cartea How To Be a Woman în mână.
Caitlin Moran e una dintre cele mai mişto scriitoare pe care le ştiu (am şi altele, dar asta e HA-HA-HI-HI-sub-masă-de-râs kinda thing). How to be a Woman e povestea ei, în care a crescut cu o mie de fraţi şi un câine retard într-o casă în care toţi erau săraci şi graşi şi trebuia să îşi poarte pantalonii unii altora. Cumva, a devenit una dintre cele mai cunoscute scriitoare feministe şi preferata mea, pentru că e foarte raţională, echilibrată şi înjură frumos .
În carte, există un capitol special despre mâncare, iar cele de mai jos sunt părţile mele preferate, care includ nişte chestii care sunt sub nasul nostru şi cumva ne e foarte greu să le vedem.
Caitlin Moran – Chapter 6: I Am Fat
1 First of all, I think we should agree on what ‘fat’ actually is. Obviously, norms of beauty come and go, and there are extremes of metabolism and build – that big-boned thing is TRUE! I only found out recently! Compared to Kylie, I genuinely have the bones of a mastodon! I would NEVER have fitted into those gold hotpants because I have got TOO MUCH CALCIUM!**
2 On being hit with ‘Yeah, well, at least I’m not fat’ on two occasions, I tried to pervert a classic line, and replied, ‘I’m fat because every time I fuck your dad, he gives me a biscuit.’
3 Overeating is the addiction of choice of carers, and that’s why it’s come to be regarded as the lowest-ranking of all the addictions. It’s a way of fucking yourself up whilst still remaining fully functional, because you have to. Fat people aren’t indulging in the ‘luxury’ of their addiction making them useless, chaotic or a burden. Instead, they are slowly self-destructing in a way that doesn’t inconvenience anyone. And that’s why it’s so often a woman’s addiction of choice. All the quietly eating mums. All the KitKats in office drawers. All the unhappy moments, late at night, caught only in the fridge-light.
4 Perhaps it’s time for women to finally stop being secretive about their vices and start treating them like all other addicts treat their habits instead. Coming into the office looking raddled, sighing, ‘Man, I was on the shepherd’s pie last night like you wouldn’t believe. I had, like, MASH in my EYEBROWS by 10pm. I was on a total mince rush!’
5 Because people overeat for exactly the same reason they drink, smoke, serially fuck around or take drugs. I must be clear that I am not talking about the kind of overeating that’s just plain, cheerful greed – the kind of Rabelaisian, Falstaffian figures who treat the world as a series of sensory delights, and take full joy in their wine, bread and meat. Someone who walks away from a table – replete – shouting ‘THAT WAS SPLENDID!’, before sitting in front of a fire, drinking port and eating truffles, doesn’t have neuroses about food. They are in a consensual relationship with eating and, almost unfailingly, couldn’t care less about how it’s put an extra couple of stone on them. They don’t have an eating problem – unless it’s running out of truffle oil, or finding a much-anticipated dish of razor clams sadly disappointing.
No – I’m talking about those for whom the whole idea of food is not one of pleasure, but one of compulsion. For whom thoughts of food, and the effects of food, are the constant, dreary, background static to normal thought. Those who think about lunch whilst eating breakfast, and pudding as they eat crisps; who walk into the kitchen in a state bordering on panic, and breathlessly eat slice after slice ofbread and butter – not tasting it, not even chewing – until the panic can be drowned in an almost meditative routine of spooning and swallowing, spooning and swallowing.
In this trance-like state, you can find a welcome, temporary relief from thinking for ten, 20 minutes at a time, until, finally, a new set of sensations – physical discomfort, and immense regret – make you stop, in the same way you finally pass out on whisky, or dope.
Overeating, or comfort eating, is the cheap, meek option for self-satisfaction, and self-obliteration. You get all the temporary release of drinking, fucking or taking drugs, but without – and I think this is the important bit – ever being left in a state where you can’t remain responsible and cogent.
* ăsta e citatul meu favorit din lume, if you ever come accross it in a quiz
** ocazie cu care m-am prins şi de ce scriu cu caps în ultimul an
Poze - theguardian.com