My best thoughts of the week, collected and presented to you for your Sunday reading. This week: what it means to be a well-kept woman, how Selling Sunset is ruining and improving my life, and running – can we not?
A well-kept woman
More often than not, I catch myself inspecting other women’s cuticles. What kind of shape are their nails in? Are they polished or left au natural? Are they picked at or perfectly pedicured? Instead of reading palm lines to understand the future, I scrutinise nail beds to assume the present. Of course it has nothing to do with how other people maintain their hands, but rather a comparison to how I perceive myself. From glossy magazines in the early 2000’s to perfected reels on Instagram, we are constantly reminded about what the ideal woman looks – and behaves – like. She drinks her bamboo-whisked matcha in the morning, has enough lip filler and jaw filler that it looks subtly amplified but unattainably natural, and she LOVES to do reformer whilst drinking from her Stanley cup. Beauty standards and lifestyle trends have, and will forever, continue to resurge and transition based on what the cultural zeitgeist deems as the dream woman. The one pervasive message that continues to stick is that one can always be healthier, and more importantly, hotter. It’s an exhausting cycle of pitting ourselves against each other and squeezing our identities and thighs into moulds that don’t necessarily fit our individual lifestyle and goals. I am part of the problem. For as long as I can remember, I have tried to ‘go with the crowd’. Growing up brown-skinned, dark-haired and beady-eyed, I have done everything in my power to squash my differences and blend in with my blonde and blue or green-eyed best friends. There is no room for the straight male gaze in my weary quest, but that of other women.
It’s ironic that we find ‘effortless beauty’ an effort to obtain. I’ve tried the heatless curls and only wound up having a disrupted sleep of constant tossing and turning. I’ve done the sage and Tibetan sound bowls, which really just sounds like symptoms of Tinnitus. I even waxed my own peach fuzz only to end up with a burn mark on my upper lip that made it look like I had smudge of chocolate on my face for a WEEK. We hunt for these morsel bits of perfection until a snippet of self-actualisation seeps in and we suddenly realise just how bizarre and absurd the concept of perfection actually is. Although I am widely guilty of submitting to these idealisations, and will continue to do so because I am human, I want to start taking a more conscientious objection to what society deems as good. Whilst it’s nice to feel pretty, it doesn’t come close to being good-humoured, honest, and a good friend. Of course there is delight in the feeling of self-improvement. Having your hair cut and coloured can be an affirming experience. Getting manicures with your girlfriends is a form of therapy. Moisturising my elbows, eating my vitamins, finding a well-fitting bra and squatting at the gym is how I feel better about myself. For you, it could be a nose job, a blow out, a juice cleanse, or whatever else feels right for your life.
I do not want to shrug my body off; I like living in it. Let our cripplingly expensive haircuts and lengthy skincare routines be a treat to ourselves, not a treatment to how others see us. To be a well-kept woman actually means to be unkept; to be a little feral and a bit messy. When you’re wildly authentic and not putting pressure on yourself, now that is how you keep well.
Selling my soul to Selling Sunset
In life, we’re always encouraged to try new things. As we grow up, our preferences in what we like, what we do, and where we find joy, will naturally evolve. The same can be said for our taste in television. I’ve never been a huge fan of reality TV, but as of late, I’ve found myself, like, obsessed. Call it snobbery or highbrow culture, but I definitely used to judge people for their taste in trashy telly, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think that I was slightly better for not succumbing to it myself. That’s until I watched Love is Blind: Sweden. Then, Married at First Sight Australia. And now, Selling Sunset. I’m a few seasons back, and years behind the trend, but as the proverbial saying goes, it’s better late than never.
For the past week, I’ve been living alone whilst David visits his family and friends in Ireland. And although I have been physically alone, I have had the likes of Chrishell, Emma, Mary, and chums, to keep me company. Their squabbles and quarrels have become a comforting background noise that keeps me from feeling lonely, helps me unwind, and lulls me to sleep. Problematic and highly addictive, yet an enjoyable escapism nonetheless, the appeal of reality TV is schadenfreude. There is something disgustingly satisfying in witnessing the troubles and humiliation of another, and having it be exposed and dramatised in such an engaging way. Sure, it indulges incredibly toxic traits of gossiping and backstabbing, but the prime-watching experience is when the show holds it’s cast accountable to these behaviours, and, almost always, stages makeup scenarios to ‘resolve’ the conflict. We learn bitching is bad, communication is key, and grudges don’t get you very far. It’s a good precedent to set for how we should address our own relationships (minus doing the bitching in the first place, of course).
Originally, the reality of these shows was supposed to come from ordinary people having genuine, unscripted reactions to real events. But, that just ain’t the reality of it. These shows are heavily contextualised and manipulated to fit a convenient narrative that makes you, as a viewer, feel like you are experiencing a raw story and having your own unbiased reaction to it. Behind the show, there’s a team of people, from runners and producers to editors and scriptwriters. These intuitive and intelligent people are feeding us distorted stories, and I, more than happy to oblige, am eating that shit up. There’s a feeling of deception and a sad truth that we’ll never really know the in’s and out’s of these celebrities’ lives, but doesn’t that correspond to our own lives and that of our family and friends?
Does our choice in television say more about who we are than we’d like to lead on? I don’t think so. I didn’t watch Ozark because I fancy taking up money-laundering. I don’t love The Office because I, too, understand the idiosyncrasies of a being saleswoman at a paper supply company. The same goes for Selling Sunsets, or any other reality programme for that matter. I don’t relate to them, I don’t act like them, and I sure as hell don’t want their lives either. Consuming superficial content is my guilty pleasure – the guilty part being that I know there is a better (ie. more cultured and productive) way that I could be spending my time. I could be writing, exercising, working, or just watching a more critically-acclaimed show (ahem, I will say that Selling Sunset has been nominated for three consecutive Emmy Awards). It’s about balance, isn’t it? Too much of anything is good for nothing. Sometimes, sitting down on the sofa to watch an LA real estate agency throw a Burger and Botox event, is exactly what one needs.
Going the distance
Is it just me or are we currently experiencing a running epidemic? Whether online or in my physical neighbourhood, it feels like every man, woman, child, and quite literally, their dog, are choosing to burn calories by footing around town. It seems to take a certain person to run – someone who has the stamina to go the distance, the energy to upheave their bodyweight, and the sanity to spend some quiet, quality time with their mind. The thing about some runners (read some) isn’t that they are just passionate about running, but that they are passionate about sharing it with you too. I can tell my fellow Strava-loving pals get a second-winded high when they post screenshots of their trails or routes, recount their PBs and share upcoming marathons that they’ve regrettably, but not really, signed up for. Being a runner means being a part of a community – not to be confused with the likes of CrossFit, which is really just a cult in barbell-disguise. No, being a runner is different. Really, I’m quite jealous that I’m not one. It liberates the mind, energises our hearts, feeds us feel-good endorphins, and most importantly, it’s something best done alone.
My relationship with running didn’t exactly start off on the right foot. In fact, my earliest memories are painfully embarrassing – um, the beep test, anyone? A favourite tale to recount in our family is when my shoe slipped off mid-sprint at a sports carnival race in the first grade. I watched in slow motion as I went from first to last place, stopping to sit down and tie my shoe, whilst my parents yelled from the sidelines to “forget the freaking sneaker and just keep running!”. When you grow up in Australia it also means running in 30-degree heat, being eaten alive by mosquitoes and being aggressively swooped by magpies – I have experienced all three. Putting me in a controlled environment at the gym still doesn’t help – I fiddle with the speed adjusters too much and the competitiveness in me means I can’t keep my eyes on my own lane, or treadmill screen. There is an annual event that occurs in Stockholm called a Convinistafetten which is advertised as a corporate team-building activity where you and your colleagues run 5 kms each in a relay-style race. I don’t think it gets much worse than that. When the bulletin went out, I was added into a group chat with my friends (who, I must say, are all natural-born runners), where they started to candidly joke about how slow they were going to complete the run. My close friend, Sofia, sent a message to the group, “Lol, watch me run this in like 30 mins…” to which everyone responded back with self-deprecating comments about how 30-minutes would be a HUMILIATING time. I conveniently remained silent. A week before the race I was mercifully saved on having to participate due to a very unfortunate and legitimate spell of Covid.
I’ve come around to the idea, and I am willing to give running another try. Despite all the cautionary signs telling us to ’Walk! Don’t Run!’ as kids, I can’t help but feel like I am missing out on the golden secret to a happier, healthier life; on learning how to go the distance, not just as a runner but also as a person. Can running away from our problems mean we’re also running towards enlightenment? Can putting heel-to-toe on pavement really transform our lives? If the past year has taught me anything, it’s that movement can be therapy. Exercising for me is a non-negotiable, it’s a routine staple, like brushing your teeth before bed. The more I can move my body, the less my mind can worry. So jog on my swift gazelles, and maybe, one day soon, I’ll cross that finish line with you.
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