Reflections on women, exercise, and body image

I’ve recently started reading Anna Kessel’s Eat, Sweat, Play, and even though I’m not even halfway through it’s already had such an impact on me that I knew I wanted to write about it. The comments and observations she’s made in just a few chapters have been so striking that it’s made me want to take a step back and re-evaluate.

Recently I joined my local gym, and in the past few weeks I’ve been going at least twice a week. This week is the first week where I’ve settled into a routine, doing spinning classes twice during the week after work and going to an intensive workout class on the weekend. My main motivation for joining was guilt and shame; guilt because I knew that I didn’t exercise enough whatsoever, and shame because I don’t like how my body looks.

I’ve felt better after going to the gym, mainly because after I’ve gone to the gym I feel like I’ve reassured my turbulent mind that flips between lusting after sweet things and insulting every ounce of my skin. At the beginning of this week I picked up Anna Kessel’s book, and every time I read another few pages I’ve felt like telling myself off, even as those feelings of guilt and shame still riddle my mind. Eat, Sweat, Play firstly makes the very clear point that women and sport are not often portrayed in media as things that go together. Women playing sport – playing’ being a key word in that sentence – aren’t often shown, and instead women are told about exercising. The difference in a media standpoint is that sport is a competitive environment reserved for men or a fun one reserved for young children, whereas exercise is a realm where women can participate in order to make their bodies better. Whereas sport is fun, exercise is about getting in shape – something that women are told they need to constantly do.

Sport, as Anna Kessel describes it, is meant to be fun. It’s not meant to be a chore or something that you dread doing, it’s something that you choose to do as you enjoy it. Exercise is prescribed, sport is willingly committed. In my experience, they have been one and the same thing – something that I’m not very good at and something that I don’t look good doing. From sweat patches to flabby pieces of my body to stretch marks to short breaths, exercise and sport are words that I have mostly avoided. I always claimed that I liked exercise when I didn’t think of it as exercise – such as rock climbing or kick boxing – as those activities I saw as being more enjoyable. Those activities, I now realise, are sports. Maybe a rather simple realisation, some may think, but this revelation is one that does not come lightly to me.

The war between getting fit and enjoying myself has been something that I’ve felt constantly going on in my head. On the one hand, I can just live my life and have that piece of chocolate, or I can be attractive and slim and fit. Yet, there is an in-between – a stage that I have always hated, and have never actually gotten out of. It’s the stage where you get out of breath after a rather simple exercise, the stage where there are bits of your body that you still can’t stand to look at. It’s the reason why I always hated the thought of going to the gym.

Whilst reading, there have been comments about women’s bodies in sporting environments that have made me want to throw my book across the tube carriage. Women’s bodies are constantly being criticised or sexualised or both. Either your body looks incredible in sport, so you’re sexualised to the point that you feel you cannot participate on an equal level, or your body maybe isn’t up to standards so you’re criticised so much that you’re too embarrassed to participate. Either way, women have been excluded from the world of exercise and sport – a world that there is no reason why they should be.

Embarrassment is an emotion that I feel often when I’m at the gym, and usually I push it so far back to the edge of my sub conscience that I just pretend it isn’t there. When I’m in the changing rooms, I take such pains and care to make sure that I show the least amount of skin as possible. In the gym itself, I feel like everyone is watching me and judging me for how out of breath I get or how unattractive I am when I exercise. After working out I try to cover any sweat patches I have, feeling them like brands on my skin that tell the world that I’m disgusting, ugly, unworthy, repulsive.

But why? Why is my brain programmed to think that I need to keep my body hidden in a changing room? Why does my mind immediately jump to the conclusion that people are watching and judging me? Why do I instantly think that evidence of sweat will make anyone think anything other than ‘she must have worked out’?

Self-consciousness plays a part, yes, but it’s obvious that I’m not the only one that goes through these awful cycles of thought. Clearly women all over the world have the same feelings, and they’re powerful and damaging enough that they exclude so many women from doing something as simple as going for a run.

I’ve set myself a lot of goals recently, and going to the gym regularly is one of them. Now, however, it’s a combined goal – I want to go to the gym regularly and see it as a fun thing I’m doing, and not a chore or prescription. I want to go to the gym not because I think i’m fat and ugly and deserve a punishment, but because I want to be fit and healthy, and this is one way that I can achieve that.

Eat, Sweat, Play is such an important book, and it’s one that I wish I could give to my teenage self so I could come to these conclusions – or, at least make progress on changing my mindset – so much sooner. I’m looking forward to seeing what else the author is going to show me about sport and exercise, and I’m also looking forward to getting up and going to work out – not because I hate my body, but because I love it.

So ends my late night Saturday rambles.

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My Relationship with Makeup

For as long as I can remember, I have had a weird relationship with makeup. This is a post that I’ve written many times, and a subject that I talk on and off about, but I wanted to revisit it now. As someone who now wears light makeup everyday to work and has now come to view my face as looking messy and unattractive without it, I needed to revisit it – more for myself, rather than anyone else. The mindset that is starting to develop around my use of makeup today worries me, because after years of rarely using makeup as I a) couldn’t be bothered to spend so much time and money on it and b) not thinking it necessary, I’m now struggling to figure out how I feel about it all.

When I was a teenager, I had incredibly bad acne which in turn made me extremely self-conscious. Part of me thinks that a lot of my problems might have been solved if someone had shown me how to use makeup to cover up all the flaws and insecurities that branded my face. If I had known that it would only take a few dabs of concealer to cover up the worst of it, I like to think that I would have been far more confident in my day-to-day life.

The other part of me is grateful that I didn’t wear makeup, as I’m certain the reason my skin is good most days now is because I didn’t clog up my pores with foundation every day during puberty. I’m very much of the belief that makeup is yet another commodity sold by the media to women in a society where still women are made to feel that their best asset is their beauty. Businesses manipulate women into buying makeup by playing off those insecurities that are practically bred into every little girl to think that to be beautiful is what is most important.

I suppose that’s one reason that has been in the background of my thoughts toward makeup. Not wearing makeup was as much as a declaration as wearing makeup was, and by deciding for myself that I wasn’t going to wear any made me feel stronger and confident in a way that makeup didn’t. Makeup was a crutch, in my mind, and a crutch that society was telling me that I needed.

But just because I had made my mind up about this by no means meant that others had the same approach. Whilst in my head I was telling myself that makeup was a means of expression and should be optional, not mandatory, others may well have been looking at me thinking that I didn’t look polished or pretty. Or, better yet, thinking that I could be pretty if only I put some effort into it. And how damaging is that? Beauty is a standard set, one that we can never truly obtain – once you use makeup, you’re encouraged to use more and more until you leave the house wearing a different layer of skin.

Family members would tell me before interviews, all meaning well, that I should definitely wear some makeup to look more ‘professional’. They were essentially telling me that if I didn’t wear makeup, I would look like a slob. As if makeup was no longer a choice, but an expectation that I was meant to fulfil in order to get a job. And once I got the job? I felt so much pressure to keep up a good appearance that I started wearing makeup everyday, which brings me to now. Whilst I don’t wear a lot of makeup, everyday I make time to put on concealer and powder, to wear some mascara and blush to make myself look better. Whereas in my last job I rarely used makeup, not at all concerned about not wearing it, I now look at my skin and think that it doesn’t look nice without it.

This was the mindset and outlook that I was scared shitless of obtaining, like it was some sort of plague sweeping across the nation which I had somehow managed to avoid. Is it not outdated, believing that women have to wear makeup in formal situations? If you saw a man and a woman with pimples on their chins, would you only think that the woman looked bad as she wasn’t even trying to cover them in makeup? Would she look sloppy, whereas he maintained a professional appearance? Would a man be judged for having bags under his eyes?

I stand by my belief that makeup should be something for the individual, something you choose to wear to express yourself, to show off your creativity and flair. It shouldn’t be a requirement, and nobody should make you feel like it is. I shouldn’t be viewed as seeming sickly, lazy, or untidy simply because I didn’t want to spend time that morning caking my face in products for other people’s benefit.

So now I feel stuck between a rock and a hard place. Stop wearing makeup and feel insecure again, or continue wearing it saying that I personally prefer having it? It’s a statement either way, and I’m so terrified of making the wrong one. After years of feeling like not wearing makeup was part of my identity, am I now betraying my past self by caving to its appeal? Am I caving to the societal pressure and belief that makeup will make me look far better? That my own skin is just not enough?

It’s a maze I have been unable to navigate thus far. My feelings and emotions are conflicted, feeling attacked when people tell me I should wear makeup, as if they are saying I’m ugly instead. As if they’re saying that nobody would want me, be it to hire me in a job or to date me romantically, if I didn’t wear makeup. It’s a conversation and discussion that seems to have been going on for so long, that there can’t possibly be any sort of end in sight. It’s a conversation I’m sure I’ll be participating in for many more years, one where I wish I knew what the conclusion will be.

On Anxiety, Stress, and Worrying

I have always been a worrier. Sometimes I say this to people and they think I’m saying ‘warrior’ (though with the amount of stress I face, really I should get to say that as well), but this is to clarify that I mean the less fun version. I’ve always been a worrier, and so faced a lot of stress – but the main issue is that because I worry about everything, most of the stress is just completely unnecessary. I swear if I had a Superpower, I’d be one of those lame Superheroes who had the power of extreme worrying. “But what if the villain has a gun? What if they have a hostage? What if this is all a trap? What if they’re actually good? Are we doing the right thing? How can anyone know for sure? Did I leave the oven on?”

Who would my arch nemesis be? Super-Chilled-Man?

Anyway, I digress.

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Whenever I get these emotions of pure terror, I’ve always called it worrying – but ‘worry’ just doesn’t feel like a strong enough word sometimes. If you say to someone ‘oh I’ve been worrying about it’, the response is normally a ‘aw don’t worry, it’s all fine!’ (And fyi, that isn’t helpful – I’ll still worry until I have physical proof everything is fine thank you – and then probably panic that it will all go downhill). It’s only over the last few years that people are openly discussing issues related to depression and anxiety, and whilst I by no means believe that I suffer from depression, I do tend to think that – like I’m sure most people do – have a heck ton of anxiety. Then again, I wouldn’t go as far to say that I suffer from anxiety, as it feels like taking it away from people who genuinely have the illness. So once more, I’m left with calling it worrying – but is it worrying when you constantly struggle to sleep because you over-analyse every possible scenario, that you always arrive at least 30 minutes (if not more) early because you worried 10 minutes early would not give you enough leeway? Is it worrying that when you go out with friends, as soon as it hits 9pm you start to panic about it getting dark and thinking that you risk of being attacked is increasing, and if you don’t get back soon something awful is going to happen? Or is all of this just culture. Is it the media that have taught me this, that have ingrained this panic?

Unfortunately for everyone reading this, I have no answers.

(Just so you’re aware).

I feel like everyone feels stress, so there’s almost no point in complaining about stress – there’s always going to be someone who one-ups you – and is it really ‘beating’ you if the ‘winner’ is the one who is more stressed out? Every time I’m stressed about something – be it work, university, getting rejected, unable to find a place to live, waiting for results – there is always someone right there to say that they are more stressed, and so insinuating that I do not have the right to be stressed. My brother is a perfect example of this. Without fail, whenever I claim to be stressed or tired or have a lot going on, he’ll immediately say that he is more stressed. He’s currently a first year Junior Doctor, and to be fair to him he probably is more stressed, but through his whole degree (and mine), it does not matter what is happening. If I’ve had a week of work and he’s had a week off and I say I’m tired, he’ll say ‘you don’t even know what tired is’.

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And that’s the problem with conversations about things like stress and anxiety. Everyone has at least one example of when they’ve felt stressed, and so everyone can simultaneously understand what you’re going through but also feel that their stress is that much worse. Some people will refuse to think that anyone can possibly understand what ‘real’ stress is, and look down their noses with superiority at anyone they deem unworthy. But that simply doesn’t work. Just because someone is in business whereas the other does manual labour does not mean that one is entitled to claim to get more stressed than the other. Everyone feels stress in relation to what they’re doing, and unless you have done every single job in the world, you have no idea what the other person is feeling. Because it’s not even just the work or the job, it’s the person. Do you know their mental well-being? Sure, you have a stressful job, but do you have their lifestyle? Do you have that white privilege that has allowed you to be stressed about generic things like work instead of things like race and discrimination? Do you come from a family that supports you, whereas someone else might have no family whatsoever to back them up?

Mental well-being is still such a new topic to a lot of people, and the biggest dilemma we face is that we cannot physically gage a person’s mental health from just looking at them. From my limited knowledge, the best indicator is what the actual person says they’re feeling – and everyone is so distrustful, that you can never truly know. An acquaintance can be nasty and blame it on depression, and there should be no reason for you to distrust that – but of course you do. Sure, they’re horrible and then out of nowhere they bring in depression. You want to immediately trust they’re being honest, because only someone awful would lie about a thing like that, but the case of the matter is that they could lie. There is no way to look at someone and be able to say ‘yup, they suffer from ___, I can see that with my own eyes’.

So once more, I’m left unable to say anything concrete on my actual mental health and just leave it with ‘I’m a worrier, as in I worry, not that I’m a warrior, though I feel like one’. My only hope is that people remember to be empathetic, and show compassion instead of wariness. I hope that when someone says “I’m stressed” or “I’m tired”, people don’t jump to “Not as stressed/tired as me” and instead just offer sympathy, and invite an open discussion.

Wouldn’t that be grand.

Carry On

There are no words to describe the last few months with the levels of suffering felt all over the world. With the attack in Manchester two weeks ago, reports of bombings in Pakistan and so many deaths, it’s so difficult to even contemplate. I see reports of hundreds of bombings and attacks felt across the world and can’t even comprehend it. The attack in Westminster was the closest I’d ever been to such atrocity, but I spent the day safe at home in South London, venturing out in the evening to Piccadilly where there were increased numbers of police around the tube stations. I had thought, and hoped, that that was the worst I’d ever have to experience – and I hardly experienced anything. Then two nights ago there were attacks in London Bridge where I knew several friends had been enjoying their night. I had been at dinner with some others in South-East London, our route taking us through London Bridge – I had gone through London Bridge not long before the attack.

I only found out about the attack because my Dad had rung me to check that I was alright, and there we were obliviously enjoying our evening. The journey home was terrifying, taking buses on diverted routes not knowing what was happening, only to hear that there had been another attack where I lived. Several buses and two ubers later, I reached my home again sometime after 1am. I was scared, panicked, and completely shaken – yet what I experienced doesn’t even come close to what others have felt. Most of us, thankfully, won’t have to experience anything like that – of being within such close proximity that you have to run for your life, of hearing gunshots, of hiding under tables, of being separated from your friends, or even losing a loved one and being injured. It’s so very easy to say that you can carry on and no one will ever bring you down when it isn’t you that has suffered.

I’ve tried writing this post about five or six times now, deleting each one because it doesn’t read write, or that I feel that the sentiment can be misinterpreted, or that I have to stop because I’m not even sure what point I’m trying to make – which isn’t something new. I love the fact that we respond to attacks such as these with strength in unity, love and kindness, and I hope that’s something that never changes. Social media means that I can see my friends check off one by one that they’re safe, and immediately feel relieved. Within a few moments I can get in contact with my family and friends and know that they are alright. Even stranded without knowing what was happening, I could call someone to pick me up and take me home. It’s events like these that make you re-evaluate and be grateful for what you have, but it’s a reminder – a reminder that not everyone is so lucky.

Already there are reports of bombings and attacks in other parts of the world, but the only way I hear about them is through the limited amount of shared posts on Facebook. There is no hashtag, there is no overwhelming wave of support from celebrities on social media, and when you go outside no one is subdued or discussing it or seeing how they can help. So whilst I sit here, safe in a house with concerns over finding a job, others are struggling with far worse – and yet we don’t talk about them. Another bombing in another part of the world doesn’t factor to us, as very few of us will have connections there. So when you proclaim that you stand with Manchester, that you send your love to London, or your heart goes out to those suffering, remember that events like these happen everywhere so frequently that often the media doesn’t cover it. Remember that there are people suffering elsewhere who don’t have an outpour of love and support from strangers. Remember to be grateful, and remember that everyone deserves that love and kindness, be they one county over or on the other side of the world.

Where I am Now

It has happened – I have finally got to the point where I can say that I have finished university and my time in education (unless I’ve failed my final exam and messed up all my coursework so will have to do retakes in August, but hopefully that won’t be the case). Finishing university has always been a huge milestone for me, and tied up with the fact that I have never not been in education, it’s a big one. When you’re in school, you dream of the day that you won’t have to be in school any longer. No more exams, no more essays, no more petty childish drama – and pretty much all three happen still in university. I say ‘you’, which realistically is a big assumption to make on behalf of everyone reading this, but what I’m trying to grasp at is that feeling of anticipating the next stage of your life. I, for one, had big expectations of what I would be like once I’d finished in education. I had hopes, dreams, and plenty of those pesky assumptions which I’m now having to reflect on.

The first big thing is independence, which in essence I have achieved in terms of living away from home during university months, doing my own washing, cooking etc etc. Yet when I was younger independence did not look like going down to tesco just before it shuts because you needed to put a wash on and have run out of tablets. It did not look like eating the same meal for three nights in a row because you want to save money. It did not like forgetting simple things every now and then because you’re tired, such as hot ceramic dishes do not mix with cold water. I know, I know, it’s all about living and learning and growing and bettering yourself, but that mantra does no good at 1am drying your bed sheets with a hairdryer because you forgot about the wash you put on.

One big thing I always thought about was what job I would have – and the dream job has changed many, many times. Becoming an author (and by that I mean a good author who has people who like their books so much that they can making a living out of it) has always been a dream job, but there are always others that pop in and out of my mind. First I wanted to be a professional horse rider, then a pop star, and then deciding I wasn’t a good enough singer so a songwriter. Recently, the dream is to be in publishing, and I certainly expected to have a job lined up and ready once university was finished. Yet, here I am, and all those hopeful publishing applications I sent out have been returned with a ‘thanks, but no’. You’re always told that you go to school, then to university, then you’ll get a job – but nobody really talks that much about the in-between. When applying for universities, no one told me about how, even if I do well and get a great degree, a job won’t be there waiting for me. They didn’t tell me that even if you work your arse off not only at your degree but at applying for jobs, it won’t necessarily mean you’ll get one either.

With the job dreams also come the social life dreams, and I always assumed that by the time university was over I would be in a committed, happy relationship with someone who could celebrate with me over all those job offers I had coming in. Again, Little Miss Assumption over here, but when I was younger that was what I thought was the most important. It was like a list of items to take the Life Goals Supermarket, and you would tick each one as you went along. Job? Tick. Relationship? Tick. What else was needed?

I knew I was going to forget a big one, and that is the dream I’ve had for a long long time, probably starting at about 10 years old – and perhaps the saddest one when I look back at it. What I wanted all through secondary school was beauty. And isn’t that just awful? Sure, sure, we can just argue and brush it off by saying that society makes us try to value what we’re born with (looks, parent’s wealth, lack of both) over what we earn for ourselves (perseverance, patience, kindness). And sure, we can all stand around and say that no society, we will not be partaking in that thank you very much. But at the end of the day, when I would go home at 12 years old and look in the mirror, all I would see was acne, a big nose, un-styled hair, and chubby patches all over. I’ve spoken a lot about acne and appearances in the past and how I now feel more confident, but I’m still filled with the memories of standing in front of a mirror and wishing that there were no mirrors in the world so I wouldn’t have to look at myself. Wishing that there was some way to exchange your face for a new one. Wishing that there was a way that meant I could live my life without anyone looking at me. And I wished for that day in the future, the day when I finished school for good, when puberty should have been and gone and left me unblemished, with clear smooth skin, great hair, and a body I was happy with. That was what was going to be my biggest marker of how far I had come.

But, as is the way of life, things didn’t exactly go to plan. Here I am, university finished, but just after the days of stress with my emotions all over the place and a few days of very hot weather, I’ve had another skin breakout. I have red spots dotted around my face like some flicked paint at me with a toothbrush. I’ve got black heads on my chin and nose, and something resembling Mount Etna on my neck. You stare in that pesky mirror and it’s pretty hard to think that you haven’t come that far at all.

Then I have to slap myself for being so melodramatic. Because I am not that twelve year old girl thinking that people won’t like me just because I have a spot on my chin. Like, jesus christ Eleanor, it’s not the end of the world. Yes, it sucks. Yes, it kinda hurts when you poke it, but it’s just a spot. There’s the magic of makeup if you’re feeling super downhearted but other than that, your face and your looks do not define you. Twelve-year-old me hardly knew how to write paragraphs, and here I am having just written a 10,000 word dissertation on a topic I love on top of my various other coursework and exam revision. On top of that I have worked every single weekend for almost two years now so that I can keep living in London and support myself. On top of that I have been going to different opportunities to make contacts and get work experience. And on top of that I’ve surrounded myself with friends who I love (and who assure me they love me back when I’m not being so ridiculously melodramatic).

And so, like most of these blog posts go, this has turned from reflection to being a self-affirmation that whilst all my hopes and dreams haven’t exactly come to pass, I’ve realised that they’re allowed to change a bit. And who knows, maybe one day I’ll be a bestselling author telling the story of how she almost let a pimple keep her from chasing her dream, and everyone will say, “Man, she was a melodramatic child”.

The Dating Game

The internet is weird. I think we can all relate to that, but when you throw in dating as well? Utter. Madness. It’s become a pretty normal thing in modern culture to meet a partner online, and for that matter meet friends online as well, and there are thousands of people using online dating. From Matched.com to Tinder, you may try one profile for a week then delete it or have five on the go. After a few years of living, and attempting to date, in London I’ve had my fair share of weird and wonderful messages, and from them I’ve had some great dates and some even better anecdotes.

Maybe it’s the romantic in me, and I’m sure there’s a little one in all of us, that ideally wants to meet someone not online. The classic meeting whilst out in the evening and they buy your drink, or you buy theirs, or the friendly encounter on the street. But the truth of the matter is that if someone approaches me on the street and asks for my number, no matter how cute I think you are, I’ll probably automatically say ‘Sorry, I’m in a relationship’ and make a hasty exit. Partly due to the culture we live in now, or maybe just in London, where social interactions between strangers on the street isn’t considered ‘normal’, and partly due to the many horror stories of being kidnapped and harmed that play on your mind whenever a stranger approaches. So, at least for now, online dating it is, and what better way to discuss it than with a post with my favourite ever messages – all of which are on the weird and whacky side.

Just a side note before we begin – some of these will be typed out instead of posting a picture to protect the identity of the person contacting me, whether they deserve my so called ‘protection’ or not.

To start with, an honourable mention to the random chap on my instagram who, in regards to a photo that showed my feet in fluffy socks, a book, and some chocolate, said, “Sexy stocks @stammydodger I’d so worship them and reply inbox”. First off, thanks for the instagram like and comment, I can always appreciate that, but I’m not a girl who really thinks giant fluffy polka-dot socks are sexy, and to make it worse the sentence loses all meaning at the end. First rule of making contact: grammar.

Let’s have a look at some opening lines – a very important thing, of course. You want to come across as friendly, but also interesting, without looking desperate or weird. A difficult feat to pull off, I know, but that line will guarantee how far that conversation will go. So here are my first two examples:

The first “lol whats up my lil croissant” and the second “Your dog looks very loveable/And So do you/Hahaha” to which I replied “Yes hilarious”. The first one, whilst bizarre, made me laugh – so I continued the conversation. It’s weird, it’s whacky, and definitely hit or miss – starting off with ‘lol’ is definitely a risky move. The second conversation I ended straight after replying. Starting the conversation off in reference to my dog is usually always a winner (I do love my dog) and extending the compliment to me is a bit off a ‘roll your eyes’ move, but what tops it off is the ‘Hahaha’. Overall, a hilarious interaction, just not one that I was going to continue.

Pictures are always important, and if you’re online dating they are even more so – because, let’s face it, we’re all vain, shallow little creatures. So sometimes if you send someone a message, they may comment on your photos – especially if you can’t actually see the person in any of them (as was what happened in my case). In response to these comments, or anything at all really, many people like to use a comeback or set up a joke. In the second case the guy wanted a recent picture, to which I made a joke and he responded with, what I assume, was a classic line. Corny as can be, and whilst it may work for you, it ain’t for me.

Sometimes it’s good to know what the other person is looking for, and other times it is not.

The first image makes me laugh to this day – in retrospect, it is perfectly friendly but stating exactly what the other person is looking for. Whilst I replied with a negative response, the other person was perfectly friendly and wished me well. However this second opener of ‘I honestly don’t remember liking you’ referencing the act of ‘liking’ each other to ‘match’, was an instant thumbs down. Definitely would not recommend. Not pictured is a message I received from someone who says “Hey, I am quite taken with your photos, would you like a sugar daddy style relationship? If so I would like to discuss it to fit my lifestyle”. Although this was definitely not for me, the message made me laugh a lot before deleting it. First off, the formal nature of the message is above and beyond, and to end it stating that you need something to fit your lifestyle with no mention of the other person? Brilliant.

And, finally, my favourite ever interaction. I’ll just leave it pictured below, for your enjoyment.

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Take note people: get the name right of the person you’re messaging. And on that note, I wish you all luck in your online dating adventures.

 

Insultingly funny

I will admit, I love Britain’s Got Talent. For years I’ve watched that show, and I remember watching Connie and opera singers and dog acts that just gave me such joy. These days I only watch clips of the auditions off of Youtube, and completely forgot that it was that time of year again. So, in procrastination mode, I watched a few clips from the first week of auditions only to see an eight year old boy do a ‘comic’ routine in which he used each of the judges along with Ant and Dec as the butt of his jokes.

There have already been a myriad of articles covering this, particularly that of his so-called ‘joke’ involving Amanda Holden in which he said, “Why were people so excited by that talking dog on Britain’s Got Talent? Amanda Holden’s been on it for years”. At first everyone was shocked, several people are being shown to cover their mouths as they laugh, and Holden slams the red buzzer. The routine continues however, everyone laughing and the boy goes through to the next round. Yet what struck me is how every single one of his ‘jokes’ relied on insults in order to be funny. Everyone screams ‘savage’ and how he ‘roasted’ them all, and seem to get serious joy from watching a little kid stroll on stage and, essentially, be rude and nasty to a bunch of celebrities. Now that I’m seeing more and more about this, particularly about Amanda as people switching between calling the joke ‘misogynistic’ to ‘well deserved’, it’s just getting to a point where I don’t understand why people find such delight in such nasty unkindness. Because that’s what it is, essentially. What does it teach, to laugh at someone insulting another? It reminds me of school corridors and bullies poking fun at the unpopular kids to a jeering crowd, using extravagant insults to get a laugh.

Why do we accept this kind of ‘humour’? If it were a 40 year old man delivering those jokes, there would be no doubt that he’d get four red buzzers and a swift exit, along with a slew of media claiming him a misogynist. But from an eight year old boy? It’s cute, it’s savage, it’s hilarious, you just don’t expect it! Forget the fact that his dad wrote those jokes, he’s just such a talented little soldier! It’s fine if the insults come from a little kid, because he doesn’t mean any harm, he’s just an innocent, take a chill pill for gods sake. That attitude, the one where people say those things, just shrugging and saying it doesn’t matter, is what gets me. Why should we just laugh it off? Sure, the ‘Your Mama’ jokes have always been popular, but they’re fun because, in reality, they’ve nothing to do with the other person. You could say ‘Your Mama’s so fat’ to someone whose mother is as skinny as a rake, because that’s not the point. You don’t go out to hurt that person or their feelings, you go to make a stupid, ridiculous joke. Directly insulting someone to gain some laughs should not be funny.

I find a good comparison is a previous contestant, Jack Caroll, who made it to the finals. His opening round poked jokes just at himself, making fun out of his being disabled. Although some weren’t entirely sold on the audition just being him insulting himself, it was more of an ’embracing your flaws’ moment. He was turning what is otherwise an awful situation into one of humour, one that got him to the final of a national talent competition and turning a disadvantage to an advantage. Insulting others, however? There’s a way to do it that’s amusing, and that something is called moderation.

There’s a difference between a taunt and a tease. A tease is done between friends and family, done in a way that you know it is not malicious because the recipient of the joke trusts them. There is a line, and your friends and family know where that line is drawn. There’s sensitivity in the art of teasing, so anyone claiming that he’s just teasing them is dead wrong on that count.

Maybe you think I’m overreacting. Maybe you’re thinking ‘it’s just a joke’ and you’re rolling your eyes. To that, I want to ask you something. What happens when people suddenly think it’s ok to call women dogs? What happens when people think it’s ok to make jokes about crossdressing just to get a few laughs? Sure, maybe I’m wrong, maybe I’m overreacting, but seeing a little boy insult others just to get some laughs struck a chord with me – a dissonant one, at that. As always, I want to live by the motto of ‘choose kindness’, because that’s the kind of world I want to live in. With the society we’re currently living in, the people in power who we’re currently trying to live through, I want to see more kindness. And yes, I want laughter too – but not at the expense of others. Because at the end of the day, we all deserve happiness and kindness, and any laughter caused out of insulting someone is not laughter I want to participate in.