I'm not here to do a hot take on The Handmaiden's Tale—there are so many other better researched and argued essays you could be reading if you wanted that—I'm here to talk about how surprised I was at the sexual imagery that some of the passages evoked.
I was walking my two dogs this afternoon when I caught a glance of a note on the windshield of a parked car. The note was written on yellow-lined notepad paper, the kind I used to scribble call notes on when I worked in sales. It was folded so that the writing was visible, so [...]
The first time I set foot in a yoga studio I regretted it immediately. It was 6 a.m. on a weekday (already a bad idea) in Santa Monica (oof), and I was about to begin my first hot yoga class (double oof). The room was filled with lithe white girls wearing Lululemon, and there I was, in Target athleisure, with a Pilates mat to boot. The feeling was nothing new, I'm used to being the only brown girl in white spaces. It usually doesn't bother me, but I was already feeling insecure and out of place, and the white gaze only heightened those feelings. I don't think this yoga thing is going to be for me, I thought.
The biggest problem with the bra is that often you find yourself thinking more about external factors rather than your personal feelings about it. There are several considerations other than size and fit because there are so many bra faux pas one can commit every single day, and people are more than happy to point them out to you. The irony of this whole thing is that you will never win this game.