It’s my turn to do the rant that every other blogger has already done.
Here are some new guidelines for reading this blog:
1. Don’t read this blog and then email me your advice. Seriously, I don’t want it. If I did want it, I would specifically ask for it, in very clear terms.
2. Don’t read this blog and then send me your opinions on what I’m doing with my life. Again: if I wanted your approval or disapproval, I’d ask for it. But I never will, because there are plenty of people in my real life who are standing in line, waiting to give their opinions first.
I’ve written this thing for almost ten years now, if you can believe that. As the years go by, I find there are fewer and fewer topics I can talk about. I can never talk about my work, for instance.
Usually, I prefer not to talk about my kids, because I don’t want psychos commenting on them… but also, mostly, because I know that saying anything about the way I raise my kids will attract busybodies who want to tell me that their way is better.
I never talk about what I’m writing until after it’s sold. Otherwise, it’s just talking shit, you know? Or asking for stuff to get jinxed.
I learned a long time ago that I can talk about my marriage and subsequent divorce, but only if I want certain assholes to whine to me about it, or if I want to get comments from pathetic second wives who want to vent their anger against their husband’s first wives. So I only talk about the ex’s bullshit (or lack of child support payments) when I’m angry enough about it to make it worth hearing and dispatching that crap.
I learned a few years later that I can’t talk about my “romantic” life on this blog, either. God forbid, right? I realized that if I let on in any way that I have a sex life, someone was going to freak out about it and send me annoying emails. Apparently, I’m supposed to pretend that I’ve had three kids but never have sex, because, otherwise, some self-appointed mommy I never knew I had is going to become shocked and offended and inquisitive about every single detail. “Why would you do such a thing on a first date, Gwen?” and “That doesn’t sound very ladylike, Gwen,” and “Watch out, Gwen–I think that man wants to have sex with you!” Or, even better, some asshole will appoint himself guardian over my ex-husband’s interests and send me ominous bullshit: “I bet your ex would be interested to know how you’re whoring around when the kids are away.”
And I’m not ashamed of anything I do, but god DAMN, those emails got annoying, and I decided to stop talking about my romantic life and let those people bother the prostitute and stripper bloggers, instead.
I am never going to blog about my mild enjoyment of John Mayer’s music again, either, because apparently, John Mayer date raped or impregnated or stood up one out of every four twenty-something women who read this blog. So, never again. I am so sorry I ever said I liked that Mothers/Daughters/Whatevers song, which was such a massive trigger alert for so many people out there. Forgive me.
And now…
I am never, ever, EVER going to talk about my weight again. I swear, I never will.
I don’t think it matters whether I’m happy with my weight or not, you know? I could tell you guys that I hate myself for being fat, and that I try really hard not to mention it, but that sometimes, I’m compelled.
Or, I could tell you guys that I’m mostly very happy. I have an awesome family and a fabulous boyfriend, and a successful career and a new house and new car that I love, and several very funny/smart/trustworthy friends. And that, despite my weight, I actually like the way I look, and that I know other people who do, too, and that I’m pretty sure I could find someone to have sex with if the need arose, but that even if I couldn’t, I would still find a way to be happy, because other people’s opinions don’t change my opinion of myself and everything I’ve accomplished. But that, once in a while, I’ll be dissatisfied with my weight and, like every other human being on earth, I’ll get a little down about it. And I’ll share my frustration with that feeling. Or not. Whatever. Maybe I’ll just talk about my weight on this blog once in a while because I can’t think of anything else to talk about, and I want you guys to know that I’m a normal person and not some bitch who brags about herself all the time. You know?
But, either way–no matter which of the two paragraphs above this one is the true one–it doesn’t matter. If I say one word about my weight, people are going to come out of the woodwork, sending me unprecedented amounts of email. Telling me–no, scolding me–about what I need to do to lose it. Congratulating me for “finally” deciding to fix what they apparently consider the biggest problem in my life.
Give me a fucking break.
You people sending me advice and backhanded compliments? You don’t know me. All you know is what you read here. You have no idea what I’m like in real life. In my real life, I avoid people like you, who are obsessed with other women’s looks and weight and sex lives. In my real life, I surround myself with people who only care about art, fun, and making money. Do you see? I am not the woman on TV begging for a makeover so that I can attract the attention of a man who will buy me a big diamond ring. I’m not the woman standing by the water cooler, talking about how much I hate myself, or sharing glee over another woman’s weight gain with all the other self-haters.
(And, by the way, I’m not talking about the people who answered the question “What do you do to lose weight?” that I posed a while back. Many of my regular readers shared their experiences and knowledge with me, and I appreciate y’all very much. I’m talking about people who obviously don’t read the blog often or don’t read it carefully, but skim over an entry about my weight (probably in the middle of a web search on weight loss) and then feel free to dump all their own hating/self-hating weight issues all over me via email.)
Don’t write to me anymore. I don’t care what you think. And, please, if you’re going to send unsolicited advice to strangers on the Web, don’t act like you want to help me have a better life. Again, you don’t know anything about my life, so why are you so sure that copying your life would make mine better? Go to MeFi or Yahoo Answers and spread your omnipotent, life-changing, catty-ass wisdom over there, okay?
And, I didn’t think I’d have to say this, here in the year 2007, but…
If you don’t like me or my writing, then just
don’t
effing
read
this
site.
Okay. I feel better now.
Actually, I’ve changed my mind. I’m not going to stop writing about my weight, or any other thing I feel like venting/whining/bitching about.
But, be forewarned. If you’re a stranger to me, and you send me unsolicited advice, I’m either going to delete it or, if you catch me in the wrong mood, tell you exactly how rude and annoying you’re being.
And, you know what? That goes for people who aren’t strangers to me, too.
