My Body is the Least Interesting Thing About Me
A meditation on capitalizing my body as a source of power, coupled with the misery and ecstasy of beauty and womanhood
You know that scene in Mean Girls where Regina George says to Cady, “You’re, like, really pretty,” to which Lindsay Lohan nods and responds while holding her breath, “Thank you.”
Ah! Regina hooked Cady into her little ploy. A woman who views her identity in a positive light? The horror! Regina plunges the hook in further: “So you agree, then. You think you’re really pretty.” Now Cady’s head is shaking as she says, “What? I don’t know…”
With just a few lines, we have the oversimplified microcosm of female self-perception on beauty: there’s one camp of women who either think they’re pretty but are considered narcissists and should probably seek a therapist. The other women don’t consider themselves pretty and have self-esteem issues. And they should probably seek a therapist.
Regina George’s calculated stance on beauty is similar to my own. Since childhood, I’ve used my body as a self-experiment to understand the link between appearance and advancement.
I joined the speech and debate team in high school and participated in an event called extemporaneous speaking. Not to be mistaken as one of the boys, I bought a bright red skirt suit. My parents took me to Macy’s, and we purchased an ensemble from Gianni Bini, cherry red with fluffy lapels and a skirt that sat right above my knee. Gianni hugged my curves with a little room to give, but not too much.
My debate coach pointed out my high-pitched, squeaky voice in one of his first critiques. He suggested lowering it by an octave. “Your voice needs to be more… masculine.” Right then, I learned to speak from my diaphragm, not my throat. I was fifteen years old. I learned two lessons: first, what a diaphragm is, and second, there’s no room for shrill voices for tournament winners. Without consent, my voice matured: chords resonated more baritone, profound, and fuller, aligning with Rob Henderson's theory on voice pitch and fighting skills in MMA. The deeper a fighter’s pitch, the more enhanced their fighting skills. Lowering my voice was the uppercut to the winning blow.
I needed to appear feminine while sounding masculine, striking that elusive balance between authoritative and non-threatening. If I wanted to win, I’d posture to get with the program.
And I did win. Over the years, I did pretty well in speech and debate—even going on to earn state and national accolades. I often wonder how much of my success was gained with my lower voice and little red suit.
You know that expression, “Dress for the job you want?” There’s an actual theory about that. The phenomenon of enclothed cognition suggests that clothing and appearance influence cognitive processes, AKA our internal self, how we act back-stage, is influenced by how we perform front-stage in front of audiences. I understood this concept of enclothed cognition before I even named it through a sociocultural theory. I was a child, but I already understood that winning my judges over went beyond my analytical abilities and words.
Put On Your Power?
Positive Psychology published an article about enclothed cognition titled “Put On Your Power!” which displays images of women in short skirts and men in suits. What you wear is who you are! I challenge this cheeky copywriting as part of a larger, ridiculous aim toward accelerating capitalism, distorting female bodies to appear louder, more energetic, more authoritative, and less like themselves.
Women know via conditioning how to detect male desire and capitalize on it. I don’t even think about it anymore—it’s an automatic self-calibration to stand taller, bat my eyelashes, and smile at the male in front of me. Jia Tolentino echoes these sentiments in her book Trick Mirror when she says that “personal appeal is paramount and self-exposure is encouraged” but laments that this is a “legitimately unfortunate paradigm,” and one where I follow up: do I like this version of “power”? Am I humiliated by it? Can it be all things at once?
I understand now that as a high schooler, I wasn’t just giving a speech but putting on a show with my mind and body. And I pulled sneaky, exhausting levers to make that happen. Being a woman is a constant performance, an endless self-calibration of how we present ourselves and speak; adjusting it depends on who we talk to. It’s a balancing act of understanding our power, but knowing power is limited. It’s the sad realization that even the power we believe we control is determined and regurgitated by male leaders who defined what success even looked like in the first place.
You Should Wear More Dresses
I used to work with a guy named Connor. Connor lived in Austin, but we both traveled to Houston together. He had a wife, but you could hardly tell. It seemed he would shit on her every opportunity he could, either explicitly or by focusing on anything but her. “My wife and I are going through issues,” was the start. This evolved into, “Do you have a boyfriend, Kimia? You don’t? That’s surprising.” Finally, my appearance: “You should wear more dresses. You should consider not working out. Your arms are too muscular.” My muscular arms threatened Connor.
On a Thursday evening following a week at the client site, I flew home to Austin. I sat beside a man in his thirties and didn’t think much of it. We received our drinks from the American Airlines attendants. I proceeded to clumsily spill my sparkling water all over my neighbor. He laughed it off, banter ensued, and we became friends and exchanged Instagram handles. How fun! BUT THEN. And there always seems to be a BUT THEN:
“I’m visiting Austin for work. I’m alone tonight; my wife is joining me tomorrow; won’t you join me at the W Hotel?” the airplane man continues.
“No, thank you,” I responded.
“What about breakfast tomorrow morning?
A little louder, “No, thank you.”
“But I want to see you,” he demanded.
“What would your wife think?” I whispered. Where did my baritone voice go?
Firmly, he reminds me, “She doesn’t have to know.”
The conversation ended there. Our flight landed. I walked out, Ubered home, and my phone buzzed. There he was in my Instagram DMs—more of the same.
American Airlines is the gift that keeps giving back. I got upgraded to first class on a particular trip weeks later and sat beside a man decades older than me. He invited me to his yacht with friends over the weekend in Miami. I took notice of his wedding ring. This time, I didn’t even bother probing with questions to guilt him. With men like him, he knew what he was doing, and I was too exhausted trying to change the world one man at a time.
Nose Jobs
It’s common for Persians to get nose jobs. They’re the equivalent of the American teenager getting braces—a rite of passage, an expected procedure, a no-big-deal situation. “You’re beautiful, Kimia. But you’ll be even more beautiful with a smaller nose.” I heard this narrative early and often in my childhood from blood relatives on all branches of my family tree. I decided I didn’t want to be more beautiful. I didn’t want to maximize my beauty in the normative ways the world deemed for me. I hardened to this coercion. My awareness of my female body and combative, retaliatory attitude motivated me to strive for success in ways that had anything but to do with my body. My body is the least interesting thing about me, I remind myself. I start to believe it.
A non-body channel is why I enjoy writing so much. I can’t hack my way to good writing with a red suit. Words are the ultimate equalizer and currency; my body is the least exciting thing about me. At least, I hope. Working toward self-actualization via a channel that excludes physicality is challenging.
If you think this means I’ve won the game of beauty, think again. No chance. No matter what decision I make: to keep my nose a particular shape, to keep my waist a specific shape, to show off my ass at the age of fifteen in a red suit—these are decisions foisted upon me by the patriarchal culture at large. That I even have to make these decisions is out of my control. There is no winning. Whether I comply or fight back, I act from a place of entrenched power and hierarchy. Dress codes are another way to exert control. How I appear is a tool to gain power. But it is a tool nonetheless.
All I can do is notice when I make decisions and wonder if they come from the heart. That’s as close as I’ve gotten to a solution. It just is what it is: a melancholy sort of acceptance, faded into the background, white noise that I’ve gotten used to.
I look at myself in the mirror as part of my daily morning routine. I assess what part of my body needs a little fine-tuning. I didn’t sleep well; I need concealer. I had a drink last night; I feel bloated; gua sha will help. I wrestle with the power of the male gaze, but I don’t outright combat it. My body is the least interesting thing about me, I remind myself. I do believe it. But do I? I swipe on some cherry-red lipstick, the evolution of my Gianni Bini suit, and blend concealer under my eyes. I head out the door.
-Kimia
Let’s Hang Out…
How does your choice of clothing influence your perception of your power and identity?
Have societal beauty standards affected your self-esteem and how you pursue success?
What strategies do you use to maintain self-acceptance and empowerment in the context of external beauty expectations?
Found this post thanks to Mary L. Tabor's note! I read this at a galloping speed, not because I wanted it to end but because it felt so familiar. I've always wondered what it is about me that went the opposite direction - boyish clothing, athletic clothes, and all black/grey pants, sweaters, etc for work. Not wanting to stand out? Afraid of advances? In any case, it pretty much worked out; I was a jock, a geek and a wallflower and got minimal attention from boys and then men. But, I remember for years wishing I had the guts to be more feminine because I felt invisible. Was this me wanting the male gaze? So confusing. All in all, I LOVE that you called out how writing/words take the physical out of self-presentation and self-representation. How nice to just exist.
Lily Bart from House of Mirth: "If I were shabby no one would have me: a woman is asked out as much for her clothes as for herself. The clothes are the background, the frame, if you like: they don't make success but they are part of it. Who wants a dingy woman? We are expected to be pretty and well-dressed til we drop - and if we can't keep it up alone, we have to go into partnership." And, of course, Selden's response: "Ah, well, there must be plenty of capital on the look-out for such an investment..."
And then, Kimia, the factor of aging as a female: It's a lot like disappearing ink. Love this essay.