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Objectify My Love

My politics dictate that no human being should ever be robbed of his or her dignity by being objectified.  Reducing someone to an erotic symbol deprives the person of his or her inherent worth and nullifies any effort he or she makes to rise above the ordinariness of human life.  People should be recognized for their talents; when they excel in public endeavors, they shouldn’t win even greater accolades for their sexual appeal, nor be disgraced for their lack of it.  Sexual objectification of any person in any form should be deemed unacceptable. 

Unless the person’s an athlete.  Then we should objectify them ‘til the cows come home. 

My political sisters are getting into a tizzy over this week’s Sports Illustrated cover which features Lindsey Vonn, an Olympic skier, in a position that could only be described as “totally pervy.”  Ms. Vonn is shown careening down a fake mountain with her backside raised so high in the air you’d think she was readying herself for a colonoscopy.  Supposedly, this is a normal position in skiing, although even the most erotically brain-dead reader would have to admit the girl looks like she’s about to take it where the sun don’t shine.  

One does get annoyed at how often exceptional women in sports, entertainment and even politics, eventually have to be tarted up to appeal to the general public.  Lady singers with powerhouse voices go from being song birds to strippers – Mariah, Aguilera, whatsername Furtado – while many women who’ve trained their whole lives to bring home the gold eventually land in Maxim in their bikinis.  

True, the weight of a woman’s personal power disintegrates once she’s been reduced to a masturbatory tool.  True, dips like Sarah Palin and the current crop of equally dippy Hollywood starlets offend by securing spots on the cultural landscape simply because of their over-the-top hotness.  The culture seems to believe no one will pay attention to anything females do unless their boobies are jiggling while they’re doing it, or in the case of women like Hillary Clinton, unless we can simultaneously talk about what poorly dressed hags they are. 

On the other hand, if there was anyone over whom we should be salivating for purely hormonal reasons, it’s athletes.  Athletes fascinate solely because of the way their bodies look, work and move.  They are Adonises and Athenas whose greatest contribution to our world is physical.  As spectators, we take part in the fantasy of our own bodies possessing such beauty and strength, and we get an erotic charge watching them as fans.  

Who’s ever solicited an opinion on politics or culture from a sports star?  The Iraq war starts or Barack Obama gets elected and the media asks every celebrity known to man, including dumbies like Paris Hilton, what they think about it.  When the economy collapsed, was anyone asking, “I wonder what Peyton Manning’s thoughts are on how bank solvency and damaged investor confidence may have impacted global stock markets.”

I mean, when I see an ad with David Beckham’s boner in a pair of Armani undies, it hardly degrades his accomplishments in my eyes.  In fact, it reinforces them.  Of course a man with enough physical prowess to hit a ball dead center into a net with his forehead has to be a sexual dynamo as well.  We already think of our athletes as empty-headed studs and studlets and pay them handsomely for it.  Why not go all the way?  Why not show an ad with, say, Reggie Bush half naked or Tom Brady with his fingers in the shape of a triangle over his mouth and his tongue poking through?   

Lindsey Vonn is pretty.  Seeing her on Sports Illustrated in a normal, though slightly exaggerated skiing position while being named “America’s Best Woman Skier Ever,” is not as offensive as seeing her on the cover of Maxim in a thong “showing us the money.” 

Here’s what I propose.  Let’s keep the sexual objectification of athletes and get rid of the objectification we foist onto everyone else.  Let singers sing, actors act and politicians proposition cops in bathrooms.  Let’s leave it to athletes to do what they do best: maintain rock hard bods and score.

Last fall, I had drinks with Kevin, a sensuous though somewhat slippery restaurateur I briefly dated years back in New York.  We talked about our latest love interests and while I went on ecstatically about my man’s creativity, his devilish wit, the sexy way his lip curled when he smiled, Kevin was a bit ho hum about his new lady friend.   

“She’s pretty,” he said.  “We have similar backgrounds, our working lives are compatible.”  With a casual shrug of his shoulders, he concluded, “she fits.”  

Kevin said nothing about love, intimacy or how his loins stirred when his gal walked into the room.  He only said she fits.  

Before Ms. Fits, Kevin dated an iron-willed wild child who he fought and made up with in deliciously seductive turns.  Kevin’s mild-mannered persona often balked at the sparks of behavior thrown off by this lovely ball of fire.  And unlike Ms. Fits’ quieter life as a caterer, Wild Child’s skyrocketing success as a playwright gave Kevin’s competitive streak a run for its money.  The boy was hooked.  I never quite understood what had happened to make him quit the longest, most invigorating relationship he seemed ever to have had.  All he told me was how it “stopped working,” and how, at present, this new gal “fit.”  

So, of course, I obsessed for the next few hours about “fitting.”  Would I “fit” into my new love’s world?  What piece of my life – job, upbringing, socio-economic status – would I have trouble “fitting” into the grand puzzle of his? 

It’s as if our romantic lives are now run using corporate strategy, like they’re deals being brokered in some company’s Mergers and Acquisitions department.  According to Wikipedia (yeah, I had to look it up), Mergers and Acquisitions is all about the “buying, selling and combining of different companies that can aid, finance, or help a growing company in a given industry grow rapidly without having to create another business entity.”  

Perhaps it’s absurd of me to be using business or math analogies since I still count on my fingers and can barely tell time, but the point is clear:  you’re either an acquirer or a merger.  Either you’re looking for someone who can install themselves into your world without much adjustment on your part, or someone who can push out the edges of your world and make it big enough to fit two gigantic lives into one.   

Kevin’s an acquirer.  He and his gal have checklists of needs that apparently can be met by both parties.  In Ms. Fits, he has acquired a life partner.  Which I guess makes me a merger.  I’ve got my own life story but am jazzed by the possibility of being woven into another person’s story so a whole new tale can unfold.  Acquirers don’t want the hassle of creating a new entity.  But mergers want to discover the new galaxy that will take shape after the big bang blast of two souls colliding.  They have the urge to, uh, merge.   

Surely, if you want to build something with another person, the puzzle pieces of your lives need to fit in some way.  But in the long run, do you stay together because the new entity is made up of the right parts, or because you’re so mad about each other, you make it work?  

Like most folks, I look for evidence to support my own beliefs.  Therefore, when Kevin suggested we go back to his pad for a more intimate reunion, I considered it proof that acquisition is the least effective dating strategy.  If his gal was such a great match, what gaps was he trying to fill by reaching back into history with me?  I politely declined the offer then found out from a mutual friend six months later that Kevin had not only married Ms. Fits, but she was seven months pregnant.  

The first conclusion to draw is that Kevin is an a-hole.  Maybe Ms. Fits was an ideal mate for Kevin because she could nestle nicely into the landscape of his life.  Or maybe fate, and his overeager seed, forced him to make her fit.   

But the second, more important conclusion is that a person has to do more than complement your life to make love last.  A relationship should be so emotionally snug that you feel comfortable, lusty…and able to keep it in your pants.

Since Massachusetts blew the senatorial election to replace Ted Kennedy, I’m going to do what lots of folks do to avoid reality: focus on Hollywood.  I shall now turn my attention to the next important “race” in America, which is the Oscar race. 
In this contest, I support only one candidate and would like to announce my endorsement by offering the following campaign slogan:    

Kathryn Bigelow rocks.  

If you don’t know who she is, I dare you to watch The Hurt Locker and walk out of the movie theater without having your mind blown.  Hollywood’s got Nora Ephron and Nancy Meyers leading a tiny pack of female film directors, but these dames only churn out girly schlock about parenting, shopping and going gaga for guys.  Kathryn Bigelow is a different animal.  Some of the director’s most famous films were 1987’s Near Dark, a creepily dark gore fest about vampires, and Point Break, an adrenaline rush about bank-robbing surfers that became a cult classic despite the Keanu Reeves cheese factor.  

But Bigelow’s masterpiece is last year’s The Hurt Locker, a gritty, ass-on-the-edge-of-your-seat film about the Iraq War which the New York Times promises will leave you “shaken, exhilarated and drained, but…also thinking.”  As a filmmaker, Kathryn Bigelow is hardcore and virile.   

And yeah.  She’s a chick.  

I get jazzed when female entertainers compete on the same turf as the big boys, only because I loathe any presumption about what art is and who should be making it; in particular, the suggestion that females can only make art for other women.  Supposedly, lady art doesn’t touch on universal themes or is considered light fare when compared to the hunkier expressions of men.  Books by women are Chick or Mommy Lit, while their movies are Chick Flicks and Rom Coms.  In 2007, Vanity Fair god Christopher Hitchens claimed women aren’t even as funny as men. 

Admittedly, there aren’t many women working in or consuming mainstream culture who are disproving these theories.  I don’t want to believe most gals would rather write or read The Dating Detox than The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, or create or watch The Proposal instead of, well, The Hurt Locker.  I wonder if women really are into fluff or whether we’re conditioned to be.  Are women who break the mold, like Kathryn Bigelow and, say, Tina Fey, really anomalies, or are they the only females who’ve had the luck to squeeze through the cultural gate?  There must be gobs of talented writers, filmmakers and craftswomen who would make multi-dimensional art if they could just find their way into the mainstream…er, right?  

It all came home during last Sunday’s Golden Globes where I found myself comparing Bigelow’s flick to the Best Picture competition.  Indeed, Avatar was a gorgeous adventure, Up in the Air touching, and Inglourious Basterds, a riotous good time. 

But really, these movies were just manifestations of their directors’ lost boyhood fantasies – Cameron’s fairy tale fascination with alien-inhabited planets, Reitman’s sweetly moralistic conclusion that love is all you need, Tarantino’s adolescent bloodlust.  Only the blistering Precious managed to do what The Hurt Locker did: tell a good story about an authentic human being whose journey into the depths of his or her own psyche illuminated some greater truth about our time.  

Kathryn Bigelow directed the manliest, most adult film of 2009, about the manliest of subjects; war.  No pretty blue people, no handsome, repentant studs, no zany Nazis.  Just sweaty men, dirt and bombs.  Bigelow offered high-impact action and ideas, she got us high as our nerves popped then left us with a rewarding emotional finish.  And unlike Avatar’s director James Cameron, who I expected to come out from behind the scenery to say, “in case you didn’t get it, war is bad,” or, “hey, that last scene was about how we should care more for the environment,” Bigelow made her point without slamming us over the head.  As the San Francisco Chronicle said, “she makes guy movies – and she makes them better than guys do.”

Of course, there’s no harm in silly, Chick-infested fun, just like dudes can toss softballs like The Hangover into the culture and still be considered an artistically versatile gender.  The problem with bubble-headed girl crap is there isn’t much else for us. 

Although who am I to talk, when I’ve written a novel that, upon publication, will undoubtedly land smack dab in the middle of Chick Lit-ville.  I love my book, my baby makes me proud.  But I do hope to continue to evolve as an artist in order to lift myself and my lady friends out of the pigeonholes we fit ourselves into.  Thankfully, women like Kathryn Bigelow make playing in the big leagues seem within reach.  

As of now, I’m practicing my swing.

If you’d like to figure out what’s wrong with you relationship-wise, don’t read a self-help book.  Get an online bank account. 

Every time I log into my checking account, I’m asked a “security question,” the answer to which only I’m supposed to know, so the bank can confirm my identity.  Thus far, the only question the bank has asked me upon logging in is the name of my first boyfriend.  And what a joy it is to be forced to recall that relationship on a regular basis.  

When I was setting up the account, I had to select three possible security questions from a handful of rotten choices.  The only questions I could answer with any certainty were my mother’s birthplace and the name of Bozo my first boyfriend.  But choosing the third question threw me for a loop.  The street I grew up on?  Geez, I moved around so much, I barely remember what my high school was called.  The name of my favorite pet?  Well, there was Mitten, my first cat, but we had to give her away.  Then there was my Grandma’s dog, Maggie, but she got hit by a car.  My best friend in grammar school?  Which grammar school?  I had a best friend in each one.  I could say Molly Bartasevich, she was a decent chick.  But am I going to remember ol’ Moll every time I log in?  

Still, the worst question has to be about my first boyfriend, a self-loathing man/boy who cheated and made fun of everything I did.  Now, every time I log into my account I have to think about this hideous example of masculine turd-headedness and what a dip I was for digging him.  

Could there be worse memories to unearth from the past?  How ‘bout, “what was the name of the kid in grade school who used to make fun of you for buying your clothes at KMart” or, “what was more embarrassing; having food in your braces throughout the entire fifth grade or tripping over your shoelaces in front of your quarterback crush in high school?” 

Based on the answers to my security questions, I’ve deduced the following: I may have a fear of intimacy due to a history of rootlessness, mean kids on the playground and pet trauma, culminating in a damaging first love relationship with a complete heel.  

Thanks, Bank of America! 

If we must remember personal information about ourselves with such frequency, how about more forward thinking, more enjoyable security questions?  Here are my suggestions: 

“What is the most interesting city you’ve ever visited?”  

“What do you love most about puppies?” 

“If you had five minutes in an elevator with George Clooney, what would you do to him first?” 

“How much money do you wish was in this bank account after you get through these lameass security questions?” 

Personally, I’m glad to have discovered this banking treasure.  My financial institution is really helping me out in the most challenging areas of my life.  Their exorbitant fees keep my piddly budget in check, the crickets I hear chirping whenever I’m on hold with customer service teaches me patience, and now their covert love counsel is getting my romantic life back on track. 

Who needs self-help when you’ve got a bank?

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