There are very few types people who I think are welcome to spend as much money as they like on clothing, and I think that most girls can agree, for better or worse, that princesses are one of them.
Kate Middleton may have social climbed, but she did so successfully, and in becoming the Duchess of Cambridge, I think she really earned the right to dress extravagantly.
I’ve put off seeing “12 Years A Slave,” a film about slavery directed by Steve McQueen, for months now because I assumed it would be a complete blood bath a la “Sons of Anarchy” a la “Django Unchained.” In my mind’s eye, I saw like close-ups of backs tattered by whippings, tongues ripped out, gratuitous beatings and long, drawn-out rape scenes. Because any downer period in American history is given the full gruesome treatment in movies these days, and I fucking cannot stand it. Who the fuck wants to watch that?
Anyway, the movie has a bit of that, but it was tastefully treated. Whipped backs were given three seconds on camera. Rape scenes were shot in soft light. My problem with it was not that it wasn’t beautiful — it was beautiful, sort of somewhere in between Terrence Malick and Gone With the Wind — but rather that it had everything I expected. What I mean is that it reinforced everything I already knew about slavery — it was a horrific, shameful thing carried out by crackers (is it offensive to write that?) and the wimpy white Northerners who did nothing to stop them — but did nothing to shed new light on a topic that no doubt has more nuance than what I learned in history textbooks in middle school.
Maybe I should explain what the movie is about. It’s based on the real life story of Salomon Northup, a free black man born in 1841 in New York State. After building a successful career as a concert fiddler, as well as a beautiful and refined family, he was kidnapped by two men, and sold into slavery in Louisiana. For 12 years he toiled on a “n-word breaker’s” plantation until a kind Canadian, played by Brad Pitt, helped him out.
Yesterday, I was talking to DEH about my career, and he was talking to me about relationships, which is at the top of our respective worry lists. I was trying to explain to him why I felt like I was a complete and utter failure, and he was trying to explain to me why he felt sad that he didn’t have a boyfriend. “You don’t want one,” I tried to tell him. Because once you have a boyfriend, you can’t get rid of them, especially not if you want to meet a hot guy from the dating app Scruff for a little nookie, as DEH often does.
Then it occurred to me that DEH wasn’t sad about not having a boyfriend. He was more afraid that he wasn’t CAPABLE of having a boyfriend. The fear was not based in reality — it was pathological.
I know exactly how he feels. Before I had a serious relationship, I was pathologically afraid no one would want to have a serious relationship with me. Before that, I was afraid of never losing my virginity, and even earlier than that, I was afraid of leaving the house because my legs looked fat in jeans. These are a small fraction of the irrational things that I’ve worried about in the past, and I only mentioned the last one to make this post seem more interesting.