Give us a smile...

It can't be that bad!

There have been a few things that accidentally permeated my bubble rock recently. Ben Affleck’s facial expression apparently needs to be vigilantly observed, dissected, and interpreted. I was not aware of this even though it is been done several for years now. I am not sure if it is in any way related, but it reminds me of the time that Kirsten Stewart inspired the resting bitch face witch hunt. I have been practicing it ever since. 

The endless speculation of why Affleck looks so miserable seems a full-time job.

Most women I know recognize the “need” to smile. I don’t remember literally being told as a little girl to smile and sit pretty, but it must have somehow been implied. Because I do clearly remember how when walking down the street after I had found out a loved one had died, I passed a crew of roadworkers. I would like to think it was because they cared, but I doubt that my wellbeing was at the top of their priority list when they chanted in unison: ‘Come on love, give us a smile! It can’t be that bad…’

‘Come on love, give us a smile! It can’t be that bad…’

Unless I am being paid to bring you your coffee and the company, I work for guarantees you service with a smile, I don’t owe you anything. I don’t even owe you the acknowledgment of your existence.

So bewilderingly, deeply ingrained the female obligation to smile is, that I have found myself faking it.

Does Ben Affleck owe us a smile? Because we, the public, facilitate his fame and now we own his ass? I find it all the more curious, because in my sexist view of smile-theory, men are off the hook. They are allowed to be broody bastards and their perpetual grump adds to the mystery and appeal. Is anyone genuinely concerned about Ben Affleck’s mood, emotional well-being or mental health (which have all been subject to said speculations?). Or is it the type of schadenfreude we experience when someone who we think has it all appears as miserable as the rest of us mere mortals?

So bewilderingly, deeply ingrained the female obligation to smile is, that I have found myself faking it.

I don’t have time to monitor celebrities, but I do remember Ben has a great smile. I remember it from Good Will Hunting. A very cheeky, contagious smile. I googled Ben after reading an Instagram post about him being miserable, or at least looking it. And at first glance it’s true. There aren’t many pictures of Ben smiling. The ones I found in the two minutes I was willing to dedicate to this mission were all of Ben smiling in the company of Matt Damon. Maybe that says something. I would love to analyse all of Ben’s and Kirsten’s photos and faces to calculate the percentage of smiles (or smirks) overall but as I said I don’t have the time. And neither do you. Just leave them be. Because if they don’t owe us a smile, they also do not owe us an explanation for why they’re not smiling.

Then the Soprano anniversary sparked a Mob aesthetic revival. Which was to be expected. Especially Ade is a true style icon. Her storyline still breaks my heart, but she lives on forever in her skintight animal prints and big hair. What I hadn’t expected was the cultural appropriation backlash it sparked. I was of course the last one to find out. Like I was the last one to join TikTok, where I went to find out more (and where I have been posting pet videos ever since).

The Soprano fashion “controversy” finally made me check out TikTok because I couldn’t not look into it. I have always been obsessed with anything considered tacky, whether it is the wardrobe of Dolly Parton, The Nanny or my own. With an MA in cultural studies specialized in the representation of cultural identity I am still confused though. I almost unboxed my old books from university to see if I could find any theory equipped for a deeper understanding of the “cultural appropriation of Mob wife”.

I want to honour everyone’s perspective but this one in particular makes me feel like creating my own niche cultural identity now to guard ad absurdum - the same way religious debate makes me want to found my own church. But I will definitely very carefully consider how I style my leopard print fur coat next time I wear it. If I ever have the audacity to wear it without dating a mobster. I went out with a Gibraltar coke dealer when I was twenty. Does that count me in? Or does the mobster have to have Italian roots?

Then there was Kate gate. How that one managed to pass me by is a mystery to even me. Where was the Princess? I blame TikTok for even knowing about it. I cracked a joke saying, “no she is not hiding out here” (her father-in-law owns a house in the village where I live). It felt a lot less funny when her cancer confession video came out. The pragmatist in me thought: Bloody hell woman, why not just send out a press release as soon as the diagnosis and treatment plan were clear? Get the small newspapers off your back. The realist in me who lived in London during the last years of Princess Diana’s life knows it doesn’t quite work that way.

The incredibly toxic and dysfunctional relationship between the royal family and media (and public) is one of the most terrifying things I have ever observed. They feed of each other like packs of frenzied vampires. Then the person in me looked at Kate. Woman to woman. I know what it’s like to have cancer. And how important it is to take the reins and deal with it how you want, need. No matter what bizarre position of privilege she is in, she is a person. A woman. A mother. I will not project anything she may be thinking or feeling based on my own experiences. I just hope she has the space to be her in this process. Because if there is ever a time you don’t owe anyone anything is when your own life is at stake.

Because if there is ever a time you don’t owe anyone anything is when your own life is at stake.

Then there were the boobs. Sydney Sweeney boobs to be more specific. I haven’t read much of the coverage -just scanned the headlines on Instagram- except for one piece that said let’s encourage everyone not to talk about Sweeneys boobs by talking about how everyone is talking about her boobs. Guilty as charged. I don’t really care if we talk about them or not. Because I have become a bit of a cynic in the boob department, or any department pertaining to the female anatomy, and I am afraid Sydney Sweeney is just one in a long line of collateral damage. It comes with being a woman. 

I am a woman whose friends in high school developed boobs bigger and faster than anyone else and were soon called sluts. I would love to appropriate the word slut and lump it in with bitch (and possibly cunt - my favourite word). Take it back so you can no longer touch us with it. Sluts don’t exist. Like any other rigged social construct it lacks logic and still manages to cause a lot of damage. Apart from that I have never quite understood how the size of someone’s breast is in direct relation to any perceived sluttiness…

I am a woman who had to console her best friend who was also her colleague at Liberty’s department store in the men’s accessories department. Where we wore fake engagement rings to elegantly reject our customers advances without offending them. There were Saturdays where we needed five gin tonics in the pub across the road to recover from the abuse. Where my friend would cry in her drink, sobbing that not a single man had made eye contact without having stared at her breasts for minutes first. If they had even looked into her eyes at all. She carries a size GG on a very slender frame, and years later had to have her nursing bras custom made. 

Our bodies are strange. We live in them, love them, need them, celebrate them. But we also judge them, objectify them and project weird shit on them and often they don’t even seem to be our own. Like are our identities our bodies, our being, are constantly claimed, stolen, appropriated.

I will be the first to admit that when I watched Euphoria I immediately concluded that Sweeney’s boobs are the most beautiful boobs I have ever seen. I never had boob envy until I saw hers. I always have been very content with my modest Kate Moss size breasts. They are tiny. But at 46 they still pretty much look the way they have done since I was fifteen. Gravity has no hold on them which is fabulous. They also never cause pain or discomfort, even without a bra. But when I saw Sweeney’s boobs I thought: That would be worth anything that comes with it. To have those. To me they look like Goddess boobs. 

I am sure my cousin would have agreed. When he was a baby I looked after him a lot. One day when he was hungry and still breast feeding he was rummaging around my chest on the hunt for some milk. Finding little or nothing to latch on to he looked up at me with the most indignant facial expression I have ever seen. Maybe that’s why we love boobs. They remind us of the days spent safely pressed against or mother’s chest being nurtured. It doesn’t mean that they are yours for the taking, figuratively or literally.

Last year I had to have a talk with a friends-with-benefits-person I was hanging out with a lot. He had grabbed my boobs in public. I waited until a few days after to have a private conversation about this. He had been drinking and didn’t remember doing it. At first, he was very defensive. He then thought that the essential part of his offense was that it happened in front of his male friends. I explained that it could have been in line at the supermarket surrounded by strangers, and it would have been just as offensive. I called it “sexual appropriation”: To me it felt as if he was publicly claiming my sexuality, assuming a position of power and dominating me. He took ownership of me.

I called it “sexual appropriation”: To me it felt as if he was publicly claiming my sexuality, assuming a position of power and dominating me. He took ownership of me.

A few weeks later when we were driving somewhere together, I was sharing an anecdote about an ex-lover. My friend with benefits assumed it was about the same ex-lover I had mentioned before. When I set that straight, he yelled somewhat jokingly: ‘How many lovers have you had you little slut.’ I replied saying that I am completely at ease with my sexual history and don’t regret any of the choices I made in that department. Because even if we do have the kind of intimacy where we can call each other cunt and be comfortable with it, I felt I had to address this. He admitted that he did have regrets and backtracked on the slut remark immediately: ‘I should not have said that as I am probably the biggest slut out there.’ Sluts don’t exist.

Could it be that what is happening in the coverage of Sydney, Kate, the Mob wives and Ben is all a form of appropriation in one way or another. As soon as someone becomes a public figure or some sort of icon, we pretend we own them, or pieces of them. I get to be a moody bitch in the comfort of my bubble rock. I am not sure if I would have been able to handle the world obsessing over my boobs quite as gracefully as Sweeney has. I want Kate to be ok, whatever that takes. Because whatever I think about the royal family, about media, about us the public, has no relevance to her basic human right to negotiate dealing with cancer entirely on her own terms. The Mob wives will just have to deal with me dressing however I want without ever crediting them. And Ben, my man, I genuinely hope you are ok.