50 Shades of WTF

Here it goes.  I'm just going to say it outright: I hate Christian Grey.

A few years ago, I heard my local morning talk show guy going on and on about this book series called "50 Shades of Grey".  He talked about it being some sort of scandalous lady porn, and that women were loving it, but it was just so dirty.  I immediately downloaded the book thinking, "I'm pretty hardcore, so I'll decide if it is indeed "dirty"."

Well, 50 Shades was interesting and, in my humble opinion, dirty light, like on a scale of one to 10, I give it about a six.  As I've said before, I'm on the hardcore side in terms of what I've seen and read, so a little bit of tush spanking isn't going to have me passing out on the floor.  The writing was terrible and the author made some very big faux pas such as setting her book in a place she's never been to.  Note to E.L. James, I lived in Seattle for years, and no one calls it the Pike District.  No one.  Ever.  I've also been a student newspaper editor, and know that given the ambition of a young student newspaper editor, they would have to be quarantined with Ebola not to show up for an interview as big as the one James describes in the first chapter, and if for some reason, the editor was quarantined with Ebola, an assistant editor, or another senior staff writer would take their place.

All of this is here, nor there, and frankly anyone who has spent time in a high school Creative Writing class could do hours of WTF commentary on 50 Shades.  However, the biggest problem I had with the book series was not the horrible writing, the new writer faux pas, or the ridiculous characters, my beef was with the leading man, Christian Grey.

Christian Grey is an abusive, self-absorbed asshole who preys on a college girl.  He is physically, emotionally, and mentally abusive, yet for some reason E.L. James wants him to be every lady's dream man.  She reiterates several times about how drop dead gorgeous he is, but also gives an equal amount of time to the portrayal of him as extremely controlling.  Christian monitors his so-called love's emails, he tells her what to wear, tells her who she can and can't hang out with, and in one scene that is supposed to show his love and dedication, he flies all the way back home from a cross country meeting to confront her about going out for a glass of wine with a girlfriend without his permission.  If any of us gals had a friend who was in this kind of relationship, we would advise her to break up with the jerk, block his email, phone calls, text messages, and get a restraining order.

While E.L. James attempts to explain away Christian's behavior by claiming he had a rough start to life, she fails at this all due to the last scene in Book #1 where Christian decides to paddle Ana's tush. In that scene, he's not doing some BDSM play, because as anyone in the BDSM community will tell you, the play is based on a mutual respect for both people involved, and at the heart of the play is the desire to give each person pleasure.  His goal is to hurt her, to inflict real pain and relieve his own anger by inflicting this pain.  He is beating her with the goal of inflicting agony, and that is the very definition of physical abuse.

The sad thing is that this series is being heralded as some sort of a love story.  The movie is greatly anticipated, and the books are still selling.  This is disturbing given that one third of the women murdered in the U.S. are killed by their partners.  As a middle aged woman, I can see Christian Grey for the abusive asshole he is, but my concern is for the women in their 20s who are being told that a smothering, controlling, abusive, yet handsome millionaire is the benchmark for a "good catch".

In a way, I get the 50 Shades appeal.  It would be nice to have someone so into you that they stop their whole world and obsess on every little detail about you, and having you all to themselves is all they can think about...for about a day or two.  About Day 3, the reality is that if anyone had to deal with a partner like Christian Grey, they would be calling the police for a restraining order, blocking their emails, calls, and texts, and spending a few nights at a friend's house for fear that the guy would show up with a gun.  Sadly, this scenario is the reality for a lot of women, and this best selling fiction just reinforces the patriarchal "no means yes" message.

I don't plan to see the movie, because I can get internet porn for free and watch an old episode of "Cops" to get the full effect.  As for Christian and Ana, my prediction is that they last until Ana hits her 30s, realizes she doesn't have to put up with his bullshit and that she never signed a pre-nup, then she will tell him to "go to hell", and end up with a great settlement including the big house in an area of Seattle that doesn't exist.

Out With The Old, Up With Me

Two weeks ago I cleaned out Rachael's room and chastised her a bit for having seven bags of trash and four bags of clothes to donate.  Today, I'm eating my words, and owe her a big apology, because I spent three hours working on my closet.

For years I carried around close to 100 garments.  I carried them from state to state, city to city, house to house, and kept them neatly in whatever closet I called my own.  I had sharply tailored dress shirts, a pink and black floral halter dress, khakis, dress slacks, and a plethora of sweaters that came in handy when I lived in the Pacific Northwest, but are useless in Southern California.  

The sad thing was that these garments didn't fit, instead they served as a constant reminder of what I needed to get myself back to.  I carried on a persistent 20 lbs. battle, all so I could, once again, wear my beautiful clothes.  Opening my closet door was like dinner with a nagging relative, as well as, a source of stress.  I have two elegant, silk, red blouses and a brand new black jacket that was such a bargain, but I don't fit into them.  At times, I would be down a few pounds and run into my closet to try on clothes that had been sitting there for half a decade.  Even if it fit, I would walk into the bathroom to look in the mirror and be sorely disappointed, because it just didn't look good on me anymore.  Yet, for some reason, I still housed it neatly on a hanger.

Today was the day of reckoning.  I was done.  When I started eliminating all of the items that didn't fit, I really couldn't believe what I had been hanging onto.  I found the black, polka dotted dress that I wore on my honeymoon cruise over 12 years ago, the pair of black pants with the white embroidery that I wore to the first dinner party that Jeff and I went to as an official couple from 13+ years ago, the sweater that I bought to celebrate my first bonus check I received when I worked for a concert promotion company before I met Jeff, which was 15 years ago.  Was I really delusional to think I could fit into clothes I wore 15 years ago?

It made me think about why I would schlep all of these garments around over the years.  Did I really rest all my hopes on one day getting back to the woman I used to be?  When I think about the clothes I wore in my 20s, they were fun and I enjoyed wearing them on my 20 year old body, but I didn't enjoy the insecurity I had in my 20s, the drama that went with falling in and out of relationships, or the "just starting out in the world" wages that I put in 60+ hours per week to earn.

The sexy peek-a-boo shirt that used to highlight my cleavage wouldn't work now.  If by some miracle I managed to make it back into that size, the cleavage, sadly, would never look as awesome as it did when I was 31.  I liked all of these garments when I wore them, and I liked the ages I was when I wore them, but I like who I am now much better.  At 41, I have shed the insecurities.  Sure, I'm not the young thing that could pull off that nicely hugging sweater dress, but I am the woman who takes care of her family every day, enjoys a great relationship with her husband of 12 years, and has a level of financial security that she never thought she would ever have.

I did hold onto a few things like the Rammstein windbreaker that was given to me when I worked at PolyGram (my first real job in the music business).  I kept the blue shirt I wore the first night I met Jeff face to face, and the shirt I stole from my stepdad's closet.  My mother always wanted to throw that shirt out, but he would never let her.  He got it his first year of college and held onto it.  I grabbed it from him during the '90s when vintage and thrifting were all the rage.  He used to be amused at the way I would wear his old college shirt over a white tank top with jeans.  Since he has been gone almost five years, I don't feel like parting with his shirt, because it reminds me of him and makes me smile.

I wound up with five bags of trash and seven bags of clothes to donate.  I'm happy to send them to a new home.  I am also relieved to know that when I walk in my closet, everything will fit me.  Now if I could just convince Jeff to part with his old suits, because the only way those are ever going to fit him again is if he starts amputating limbs.  Seriously, you're 45, you don't need the suit you wore to college graduation, I don't care what kind of deal you got on it!