Fuckocracy

**Warning**

This post contains saucy language. Not, like, Arrabbiata or white wine, but more like sailor language. Not sailor sauce, which, when you think about it a little sideways, is utterly revolting [insert comment about sea-foam here].

I’ve been rolling parts of this post around in my gulliver for a while now, and a conversation I had with Schmutzie a few weeks ago has really had me thinking more and more about it. There’s a thing I’ve begun to notice. It became most apparent when my children reached the age where we didn’t need to follow them everywhere to make sure that the stuff they put in their mouths/ears/nose/pants wasn’t radioactive or toxic. But no, it started before then. It started when I was thirteen and I was helping out at the field day for my junior high school, as shot-put retriever. My mum was the teacher supervisor for shot-put. I would run the shot back from the field and head out again as the next athlete lined up. I was the only student permitted to assist instead of compete (plus, my competition was over) because my mum was a teacher. But one of my mum’s staff wandered over to her and asked, according to my mum, “WHO. Is that stunning woman out there?” And my mum turned to him and spat “that stunning woman is my THIRTEEN YEAR OLD DAUGHTER.”

Mum took the liberty of telling me this story later in the evening, after we’d patted our sunburns down with aloe and had a refreshing beverage in the cool expanse of our living room. My cheeks burnt hotter than they had in the sun, and I immediately got a sinking feeling in my belly. Mr. Teacher was a very nice fellow, and had been over at the house frequently. He was good friends with my mum, and according to him, ALL of the female staff “of an age” had a crush on him. But I had certainly never thought of him in that way. He was not Magnum P.I., after all (but, on second thought, he wasn’t too far off). I had just learned that I was fuckable. I had just entered what I have decided to call the ‘fuckocracy’.

The fuckocracy is the system by which power is distributed in, near as I can figure, many first-world western countries. It’s a basic meritocracy, but instead of individuals with merit weilding power, it is rather based on the manner in which sexual availability dictates who holds power or potential success. Which is to say, the merit one wields is directly proportional to sexual maturity/availability/desirability. Stick with me for a moment; it might make more sense in a bit. For now, all you need to know is that there are three main parts of a fuckocracy: fuckable, fertile, and forty-fifty.

twinpeaksI had learned, at thirteen, that because I was desirable, I had a certain power. I realised I could use my new status as fuckable to great advantage. I could manipulate people. People would pay attention to me. I could get my proverbial foot in the proverbial door if I played my cards right. Or I could choose to, by and large, ignore my newfound status and pretend there wasn’t a fuckocracy at all. And in fact, that’s what I did. The idea that people would pay more attention to you because you were pretty or sexually mature or what-have-you turned my stomach. It also scared the ever-loving hell out of me. I had no idea HOW to use my status, even if I had wanted to. I was perfectly content to have people listen to me because my opinions and thoughts were important and valid regardless of how I…

…oh wait. That didn’t happen. I (and my opinions) were often dismissed. They called me a “dumb blonde”. People somehow figured that my intellectual ability was inversely proportional to the size of my bosoms. “Pretty girls,” I was told “never have to worry.” And I wasn’t worried. I was livid. I wanted to be heard. I wanted my opinion to matter not because of my cunt and my tits, but because my opinion is valid. Because I think (and thought) important things. Because *I* matter. So I gave up or ignored or worked against the power that came with being fuckable.

When I was pregnant, people treated me like a princess. A fellow from up the street – a good friend – cussed me out one day for being up on the roof painting the window ledges. He railed on about how I might have fallen. He said I should have asked him to do the painting, and I told him there was no need, and when I chastised him for being a little over-worried, he apologised. People opened doors for me and held things for me and carried things for me. Hell, FabulousSuz came over every couple of days to empty my doofus cats’ litter box. People asked my opinion about things.

I was *important*. My status had changed. I had gone from fuckable to fertile. People listened to me. They respected my opinion. When the kids were babies, when they were toddlers, when it was clear that I had a young family (I still do, but things are changing), I had power. Because I was fertile, I was still also fuckable, but the new status meant that my power had increased. Being both fuckable and fertile meant that people noticed me AND people listened to me. Again, I could choose to disregard my new status. But I didn’t. I liked it. I liked that people on the street would notice me, and that it wasn’t necessarily lewd. I was productive. I was full of creative energy. I carried the cradle of humanity in my womb, and because of that, I deserved  a moment at the podium, a byline in the article, a bit of space on the sidewalk.

People didn’t whistle and catcall. They didn’t make suggestions about where on my body they could put parts of their body. They didn’t equate my attractiveness with my ability. At least, not outright. Because my life had PURPOSE. I had a reason for BEING.

Technically, I’m still fertile. But I’m reaching the age where fuckable and fertile aren’t what define me, in “their” eyes. I’m forty-fifty now. It’s an ambiguous age for women. I thought I was going mad when I started noticing this happening. But it happens. It’s a subtle as walking down the street and being expected to move out of peoples’ way. I don’t know how long it’s been since you and I went for a walk downtown, but pay attention next time, because you’ll see that I am not a timid walker. I stride, as Miss Cori once told me, with great purpose. But in the past two years, I have had more people glare at me when I refuse to step around them. And it’s not like I’m a centre-line hog either. I walk in my lane, and I bloody well stay in my lane. But something’s changed.

invisibleHere’s what’s changed. I’m invisible. They don’t see me anymore. I don’t have purpose. They don’t understand why I exist. I’m not fuckable anymore, and my fertility is in question. I’m  in some kind of weird middle holding-ground where I’m certainly not old enough that you have to listen to me because I’m an elder, and I’m not young enough that what’s between my thighs is of any vested interest. I don’t turn heads. DON’T GET ME WRONG. I’m not *interested* in turning heads. I did that already, and it made me uncomfortable. For the most part, I didn’t enjoy being an object of unsubstantiated lust. Of unbridled, anonymous passion.

I want you to notice me, not for what I look like, but for what I have to say. For my ideas, my thoughts, and my opinions. For my knowledge and my wisdom. Because while I’m by no means an elder, by no means the granny to whom you can turn for advice on everything from loosening rusted bolts to egg substitutions, I know a lot of stuff. I’ve learned a *lot* of stuff. I’ve spent longer learning stuff than a lot of folks have been alive. I’m not afraid to make mistakes because when I’m wrong, I learn. And when I learn, I get better. I am better.

Forty-fifty is a kind of ambiguous nothing-space. Particularly for women, because when men reach this stage of the fuckocracy, they are *just* as fuckable (if not more so, with their fully formed jawlines and their strong shoulders and their corded muscles…I should stop now…before this gets out of hand…), and they are *always* fertile. Men in forty-fifty are at their peak. They don’t ask; they command. They don’t need to get into pissing contests, because they already know they’ve won. On an individual level, of course, things are different, but the next time you enter a room full of suits, check out how many of the men grip your hand with strength and confidence, how many of them know you can see them. Most of those dudes will be in the forty-fifty stages of things.

In my anecdotal experience, men in forty-fifty are antsy. They’re not content. They feel like they’ve missed out on something. Like they have to recapture something. And so they tend to take the proverbial bull by the proverbial horns and wrestle the proverbial shit out of it. Proverbially. Role models for men in forty-fifty are all over the place.

Where do you see images of women in their forties and fifties? In adverts for anti-wrinkle cream and cosmetics (because women in forty-fifty need to still look fertile and fuckable). Roles in plays and movies and television are for women in their twenties and thirties or sixties and above. Forty and fifty are invisible. Incongruous. Incomprehensible.

It’s not that I’m thinking too hard about this, or ‘obsessing’ over something that doesn’t matter. I’m not making this up. And I feel I need to reiterate, I don’t want to be in my 20s. I don’t want to look like I’m in my 30s. I don’t want to recapture my youth or wear clothes that an 18-year-old would wear (which I hated, when I was 18, just for the record. Those duds seemed to be either ‘whore/tart’ or ‘baby doll’, and I found that disturbing, even at 18). I’m not saying I want to be fuckable or fertile. I’m saying I want to stop being invisible. That I want to be heard. That I want to be taken seriously. That waggling your eyebrows and saying “must be the change of life” or “she must be on her rag” is not acceptable behaviour when what I’m doing is disagreeing with you.

And now, because you’ve been with me this long, here is a picture of me rubbing up against Lego Darth Vader.

MoreLikeDarthLover

 

  22 comments for “Fuckocracy

  1. Stephanie
    5 March 2013 at 5:06 pm

    oh..yes. As someone who runs a business filled with guys, in an industry dominated by men, I am often invisible. My only bit of luck is that while I am in the “forty-fifty” state, I don’t quite look my age. This only means that sometimes I am considered “fuckable” (in the right light) rather than being considered competent.

    I would just love it if for once, when someone calls or stops in to ask for the Boss or the Manager, they didn’t sound/look so surprised when they have to talk to me. They expect a manly figure to be in charge and often try to get our Project Manager to make decisions he can’t make and even get annoyed when they are told they have to deal with Invisible Me.

    • 5 March 2013 at 7:04 pm

      Thank you.

      Thank you for making me feel less crazy!

      We rock.

  2. Melistress
    5 March 2013 at 8:41 pm

    I love you. And this is exactly how I feel. With one exception, I am at one with all the girly shit. Not because I want to look 20 or fuckable but because I like it and choose to express myself that way. :-) and I still think that you are oozing with amazing sexuality. You are a beautiful woman, and you look beautiful too.

    • 5 March 2013 at 9:02 pm

      Thanks.

      It’s not that I don’t want to look good. I do. I want to look like a wicked-smart, sexy, vibrant 40-something woman. I mean, I’ve never been one for baby doll this and froo froo that because I find it a little unsettling, but that’s a fashion choice, right?

      I think part of what I’m trying to say is that I’ve no desire to look like a 20 year old or a 30-something. Because I did the shit out of those when I was there. Now I want to be taken seriously and heard and observed as a ‘forty-fifty’. Which in the timeline ought to be “respect”, right?

      I mean, if fuckable = noticed and fertile = listened, then forty-fifty should = respect, right?

      Right.

  3. 5 March 2013 at 9:43 pm

    I LOVE THIS. I walked around for a good part of the day today, and it was a bizarre juxtaposition for me, because the first thing I did was a photo shoot for the Leader Post, so I was very much being looked at, and then I walked around downtown and was completely invisible. Except for a couple of doubletakes on my Tintin hair, I didn’t exist. Salespeople didn’t ask me if I needed help, people nearly banged into me rather than acknowledge my physical presence. It felt like an episode of the Twilight Zone.

    • 5 March 2013 at 9:52 pm

      Thanks!

      I spent a couple of weeks in Arizona, where I was Too Young to be taken seriously in the seniors’ shops and Too Old to e taken seriously nearly everywhere else. At the few shops where I was visible, I bought all of the things.

  4. 6 March 2013 at 8:48 am

    This post makes me feel uncomfortable. I like that. This is nothing I’ve ever thought about in the detail you’ve written. I think I’ll get my Little Bear to read it.

    • 6 March 2013 at 11:43 am

      Thanks, Coyote. I hope your bears both like it.

  5. Suzy Q a/k/a Invisible Woman!
    6 March 2013 at 10:12 am

    This, yes. I have been invisible for a good five years. Maybe even longer. It was kind of annoying when I realized it, because after my “awakening” to it, the fact of my invisibility was overwhelming. It made me both sad and REALLY angry. Now, I kind of laugh it off and call it my superpower. It can be freeing, actually.

    Younger women don’t understand this at all, of course, and cannot begin to comprehend that it will happen to them, too, someday. I wish someone had warned me. I probably wouldn’t have believed it, either, but maybe it wouldn’t have come as such a shock.

    • 6 March 2013 at 11:48 am

      I think my mum did try to warn me about it, but she didn’t have something, or she had too much of something else, because what she said was that from the time a girl turns about 13, she tries her hardest to look 20, and then after 20 spends the rest of her life trying to look 20, and that since most people “piss their 20s away”, women don’t realise that their lives are slipping away from them. My Mother-in-Law once told me that once you turn 40, everything starts breaking down and your whole body just goes to shit.

      I choose not to believe either of those assessments wholeheartedly. I like the idea of invisibility being freeing, but here’s my problem: I want to share things. People in their 40s have amassed a rather large amount of knowledge, and in some cases, wisdom (if we’re very lucky), and my thoughts and opinions matter. They have weight. Substance.

      I can change the goddamned world, for God’s sake, and it’s pretty tough to do that from inside a dome of invisibility.

      I guess it’s that I don’t want to have to fight to be heard.

      • Suzy Q a/k/a Invisible Woman!
        6 March 2013 at 3:40 pm

        Good luck with that fight. I mean that. I agree that we gain wisdom as we age. I just don’t have it in me to fight that hard. My life has been too exhausting so far.

        PS: Your MIL is right, unfortunately. My sister, who is older, warned me very similary and I didn’t believe her, either. The breakdown happened anyway.

        • 6 March 2013 at 3:44 pm

          I still choose to disbelieve her, because I’m actually healthier now than I was 10 years ago. Nothing’s breaking on this nag.

  6. 6 March 2013 at 11:18 am

    Interesting points. The only point I kinda don’t get is the walking invisible part. You want to be respected for your experiences and mind. How are people to recognize that while you are walking? People react to the 3 second (or less) read while walking, so unless you are remarkable in some way (dangerous, crazy, fuckable or whatever), they process you into the irrelevant pile.and keep walking. It isn’t a personal thing, but the brains way of dealing with the press of humanity.

    I imagine men find this the same way when they cross from 50-60 or so, because that is the point where they are no longer noticeable as “dangerous”. As any man here can attest when walking you always get the “danger?” assessment from any and all women they pass.

    • 6 March 2013 at 11:42 am

      Here’s what happens to me when I walk (observed with a fair amount of consistency over the past couple of months): people don’t notice me. At all. Which is to say, I have always been the sort of person who makes a point of making eye contact when I meet someone on a sidewalk. But I haven’t been able to do that, because people just don’t see me. This did not used to happen to me. I used to look folks in the eye and say hello or nod, and now the only people who seem to see me are 70+ men and 80+ women. And little little kids.

      For men, I think the invisible stage is more like 60-70.

      I don’t know what a “danger?” assessment is. I don’t think I have one of those.

      I’m not saying I want people to notice me as a sexual object when I’m walking down the street. I’m not saying I want people to notice my physical appearance. I’m saying I want people to acknowledge that I’m there at all. Period. Because they don’t.

    • Barbara
      4 April 2013 at 12:20 pm

      Here’s the quick practical test. When you are walking on the sidewalk, do you move out of other people’s way? If you don’t know, that means other people are moving out of your way. But you don’t notice, because they’re invisible.
      It’s not a matter of being respected, it’s a matter of being acknowledged as existing.

      • 5 April 2013 at 8:02 am

        Yes. Thank you, Barbara. Lately, there are times when I’ve been forced nearly into the street to avoid a collision. Even when I try to make eye contact…

  7. Robert
    7 March 2013 at 2:33 pm

    i thought i saw you
    looking uncertain in the mirror
    of strange men’s eyes

    just in case you were wondering
    you aren’t even slightly invisible

    nobody with hair like your is invisible
    nobody with a smile like yours is invisible

    ill let you fill in
    the next few lines for yourself
    but yeah
    visible

    feet? not as visible as last july
    but visible in principle
    toenails?
    i can see them now

    trust me
    awesome is always visible
    funny is visible
    smart is visible

    and of course if you were invisible
    you would be my invisible friend

    but visible’s better
    here’s
    looking at you

    • 13 March 2013 at 2:01 am

      Lovely, lovely, Robert.
      Thank you!

  8. 16 March 2013 at 9:18 pm

    Fanfreakingtastic post! And a great discussion too.

    I always had the superpower of making myself invisible… But I also had (perhaps still have) a North End Strut that I can pull out. It still seems to work in the “keeping people from bumping into me” department. Both survival mechanisms, I suppose.

    I’m watching the changing/aging of my body with great interest these days. Keeping a sort of… Gentle curiosity about it all.

    Thanks for this. It has given me some things to ponder. I’ll listen to you ’round the fire anytime, Wise Hottie who shall be a Wild and Gracefilled Crone.

    ~p

    • 17 March 2013 at 5:52 pm

      Thanks!

      That’s what I’m struggling with – what’s between ‘hottie’ and ‘crone’?

      • 17 March 2013 at 6:15 pm

        Howzabout – a strong, smart and amazing woman.
        Like you.

        But…. all flattery aside.
        I get what you mean.

  9. Suzi
    23 March 2013 at 9:43 am

    I feel connected to so many pieces of this and having never considered this head on before, I can see my experience of this throughout my life from many different angles. One that really got me was being pregnant. I felt special and loved it despite being nauseated for almost the entire nine and a half months. I treated me differently.
    And I know that “danger”? Assessment of men well. I do that. I do it less for women, but women still get it from me.

i make squee noises when you tell me stuff.

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