Fighting for Meatballs

I don’t think of myself as a feminist. I have a hunch that my feminist friends started building up a defense as soon as they read that. But really, I’d say I rarely have “feminist” thoughts. I try not to. As an ol’ man once said, “Comparison is the thief of joy.” Yes—that was Teddy Roosevelt, as Pinterest will have me believe (As I type this, I fear that whoever actually said it was a misogynistic figure, and I’m afraid I’m going to look stupid. But I’ll keep going).

When we start comparing ourselves to others-- sure it sparks competition, which is actually good for progress, but it can be harmful to our morale. So, as ignorant as this sounds, I try not to think about what opportunities the other sex has that I don’t, because dadgumit, then they’ll start thieving my joy, too.

But recently, I saw something that made me feel, dare I say, FEMININE in the worst way. It was a standard episode of Bar Rescue. I’ve seen the show too many times to be considered healthy, and it always follows the same line—Bar is failing, Jon Taffer busts in with his gang of merry men plus one sexy female pro bartender, drama ensues, they give the place a new feel and name (even if the owner refutes it), and they turn that place around. It sounds awfully boring as I type that out, but really, that’s all that ever happens in the show. Maybe it’s my desire to open a bar of my own, or maybe it’s just always on--I’m not sure why...but I watch it.

This particular episode was centered on a bar now named the Garnet Lounge in Vegas. I actually hate Vegas and everything it is a symbol of, but I still watch. This particular bar was a bit of a dive off of the Strip and wanted to cater to locals. At the beginning of the show, I asked Josh if he thought any of the women that worked in the bar had real boobs. He said “Of course not,” and we laughed a bit. But then, Old Man Taffer revealed how he was going to appeal to the “market” (business terms, my dears, because that makes it science, and that makes it ok).  

We need to have drinks that WOMEN will like…what COUGARS will like. 30-something-year-old women need to claw over each other to be at this bar. I understand that basic bar premise that where women go, men will follow. That’s fine. That’s instinct. And that’s also not what I’m getting at.

It’s how they tried to cater to these women that made me bleed from my eyeballs.

As is the normal line for every show, Jon Taffer gives the bar a sparkly new drink and app menu. But, what do women like? What will bring women into this bar?  

Answer: Here’s five meatballs that “women can share.” Here’s a tall glass with sparkly pink liquor and berries so women can “feel feminine holding it.”

Holy shit. Just because it’s pink, has berries in it, and is drizzled in chocolate in marshmallows—that does not make me want to drink it. When I think of a drink that pulls me in, it typically has whiskey and no ice. Maybe a cherry. AND THERE IS NO WAY IN HELL I’M GOING TO SHARE FIVE FUCKING MEATBALLS WITH MY GIRLFRIENDS. Ooo! One and a half meatballs. I’m stuffed! Good thing I saved some calories by not eating lunch today.

I hate that.

I’m not the leanest bitch in the butcher shop, but I take care of myself.  I try to. I don’t work out every single day, but I will work out because I want to keep my heart healthy. I can get up three flights of stairs without having an asthma attack. I can rake leaves without keeling over. I ran 9 miles straight one time. Once. I did that one time.

I also want to keep my brain healthy. That’s more, if not most, important to me. Yes, like most other human beings, I hate looking at pictures of myself when I’ve gone out to eat too many times this month and I’m rocking a solid double chin. But my GOD did I enjoy that Cuban and tater tot combo. And I audibly moaned when I dipped my tots in the spin dip.  And it made me happy to have a few beers with my husband. Nothing makes me happier than enjoying life with my husband.

But here’s a secret. I’m absolutely mental. As much as I find joy in these moments with Josh, I turn around and sulk because I COMPARE (Comparison! That crooked thief!).

I’m healthy. Ask my doc. But the people I work with are so much thinner. They look saucy with leggings on. I won’t see my old friends for months at a time, but when I finally see them, it always looks like they’ve lost 20 pounds. It makes me jealous. I think, “well, why can’t I lose 20 pounds?” So I try. I’ll eat a handful worth of food for lunch. I’ll not eat enough during the day, and I’ll get dizzy on the treadmill a la DJ Tanner. I get angry at my body, and then I get angry at myself for getting angry at my body. It’s what I call my “downward spiral,” and it happens about every six months.

So when I see television programs touting this damaging image—it too makes me angry. I’m not going to say it makes me angry because it’s distorting women’s views of “beauty.” Everything in mainstream media does that, and I can’t really do much to control it. I’m angry because it distorts MY view. I fall for it all too often. In some ways, I hope that this piece of writing persuades me to not let that destructive image of beauty sink in. But I know it will, and I’m feeling confident it does for most women.

But we can’t let this image affect our actions or we end up proliferating the problem on a smaller scale. It’s okay to feel tubby and down sometimes, it happens. But don’t let it run your life, and PLEASE don’t let it ruin others'. Hey, girlfriends? When you think that your girlfriends are going to judge you for ordering dessert so you don’t order it (even though you REALLY want it), you are only proving to them that they shouldn’t order the dessert they want either (you judgmental huer).  When you feel the need to wait until someone else goes up to the snack table before you even THINK about looking at food, you’re really just in a standoff and Shirley is just dying to have some cheese puffs. Just get up and eat. Eat what you want. Your friends will thank you for it. As Teddy Roosevelt probably said at one point, “Everybody eats or NOBODY eats.” Got it? So next time you’re sitting there, staring at the odd number of meatballs? You should know that I’m always going to be the girlfriend who claws right on in for the third meatball, even if it means you only get one. I’m really just trying to help.