Remember the good old days of soap operas when Dr. So and
So's evil twin brother would come into town and trick his wife into falling in
love with him? Or when the rumored bad
boy with a scar and patch over his eye would be accused of a crime he didn’t
commit and turn out to have a heart of gold? Or the woman in a coma would wake up years
later to find that her sister and her husband had a baby together, thus becoming
an aunt to her own stepson? Those were scandalous and titillating stories of
their day and provided the necessary escape that housewives needed in their
unromantic lives. But then in the 80's,
like everything else, soap operas got super tacky. Something dark and twisted happened to those
story lines. At least one character on
every soap was raped. Worse, those same
rapists eventually won over the women they had violated, changed their ways,
and fell in love with them. If you think
I'm making this up, Google it. Or just
ask your mom, who could probably tell you all about it. You'll see that almost
every soap opera on television has had a rape story line at some point and nine
out of ten times the rapist and his victim fell in love. Which begs the question, ladies, what the heck
is wrong with us?
My theory is that soap opera writers foreshadowed the whole “Rihanna
and Chris Brown” love story with the "try to fix the guy who
loves you so much he hurts you" story lines, and in doing so crossed the
line from scandalous fun to seriously disturbing taboo.
Fast forward to 2012, the year of Fifty Shades of Grey.
No, it's not about rape, but it is pretty messed up. It has as many delusions as a soap opera, as
much depth as a thirteen year old’s diary, and more, um, "relations" than Cinemax at
midnight. And yes, I've read it. Which begs the question, Carrie, what the heck
is wrong with you?
Save your judgment, friends.
I've judged myself for this. I’m
not proud. But these are my blah
confessions, blah blah. I'm not ashamed
at the moral repercussions of having read such a naughty book. That’s between
me and God. I'm embarrassed because I
majored in Literature. I should know
better. I'm embarrassed that I read a
book that uses the phrase “My inner goddess” and I can't believe I'm admitting
it to the whole world. This book is
terrible. I don't just mean its
contents, I mean, it's terribly written.
The first person narrative is what I imagine Miley Cyrus's internal
monologue must be like: "He's so hot," "Holy cow," "Did
I mention this is so hot?" I'm smarter
than this book and yet I along with what, sixteen million people?, ran out and
bought all of them. And do you know why
I did? It’s not because I’m a pervert. It’s because I'm a stinker. I read a very self-righteous article written
by a woman who so indignantly said that she would never read Fifty Shades of Grey because it was
pornography, it would dishonor her husband, and because it wasn’t the
“Christian” thing to do. She looked down
on any woman, married or single, who read the book. That’s all it took for me. I thought, what's all the fuss about? Nobody's going to tell me what I
can and can't read. I’m an adult, I make
those choices. In the words of that librarian chick from the awful movie The Mummy, “It’s just a book. No harm ever came from reading a book.”
Ugh. I hate agreeing with the holier than thou. But yep, it’s porn for women. And unless you've been living in a cave in Pakistan
off the electrical grid, you've seen it on just about every talk show and on
the nightly news. My contribution is
just one of thousands of blogs, critiques and essays written on it. You can’t escape the panels discussing the
supposed pros and cons of this book. And
not just women are talking about it. Some
men have said it's been great for their marriages. Some men say that the unrealistic expectations
of the book have made their wives dissatisfied.
I have to credit EL James for finally accomplishing with men what the
Sports Illustrated Swimsuit edition did for women; creating an impossible
standard. I’d also like to credit her
for revealing to the world what women have known for years, in the words of a
friend, “women won’t watch porn but they’ll sure read the heck out of it.” Move over the tame-by-comparison Jackie
Collins, there’s something meatier. EL
James’ books have found their way into our daily vocabulary and have contributed
to this decade’s zeitgeist. Everyone from
my mother to Michelle Obama knows about this book. I don’t think EL James is a marketing genius,
I think she got lucky. Real lucky.
But more than that, I think she’s just another writer messing
with our heads.
I’d like to point out all of the ways this book contributes
to the delusions of women who grew up watching fairy tales and now project the
image of Prince Charming onto a fictional, screwed up man with a stupid name
like Christian Grey. I’m sure you’re
smart enough to already know all of them, but, humor me. I have to have something to write about. Those of you mature enough to have read the
book and rolled your eyes at it, as I did (but continued to read it anyway)
will agree with me. Those of you who
haven’t read the book, well, I’ve lost you already, haven’t I? Those of you who’ve read the book and let it
seep into the dark recesses of your brain and…gulp…don’t be too offended, but
heed my warning.
#1: The Broken Man. You are not Ms. Fix It. The fantasy is, he’s screwed up and he needs a
virginal hottie to be a better man. I
get it. She will fix him because besides
having lady parts, she has the ability to exorcise the demons of his past. She is just that sweet and that desirable. Why are broken men hot? We need to stop this. Ladies, I’m going to shout at you: STOP
THIS. A guy who likes to hurt women,
manipulate them and dominate them is a big bag of hot mess that you should run
away from, not fantasize about. Ok, on
terms we can relate to, a guy who has never been able to commit, or a guy who cheats,
or a guy whose previous relationship messed him up is not the guy for you. In real life, screwed up guys don’t want
women to fix them. And bad boys aren’t
cool. They’re bad. Seriously, don't buy it. You’re not special enough to fix a
messed up man. You’re not going to be
the magic one that makes him change his mind about marriage, or kids, or
whatever. He needs to fix himself. Preach.
#2: The Alpha Male. Could the heroine in this book be more
annoying? She’s so...weak. Right? She rolls her eyes and bites her lip and pouts
and cries, a lot. This man likes to
dominate and control her, no, he needs
to dominate her. I’m sorry, I just threw
up in my mouth a little. He gets
territorial and jealous and he doesn't even like her friends. Since when did that become sexy? Last time I checked, women can vote and run
for President. The last thing we need
right now is another weak female lead character. She’s no Elizabeth Bennett, to
be sure.
#3: The Obsession.
Stalkers aren't sexy. They’re
weird. Guys don’t need you that much. If a guy needs you too much, take it from me,
it can get pretty scary. I dated a guy once
who actually showed up at my work after I broke up with him to show me his MRI
results and pointed to what could or couldn't have been a brain tumor. I was pretty sure it wasn't even his brain I
was looking at. But yeah, he thought if
he could get me to feel sorry for him then I’d forgive him for being a crazy
nut-job stalker. “Every Breath You Take”
takes on a whole different meaning when you've actually been cornered at work,
church, and at home by a guy you just can’t shake. Oh, and a guy who gets information about you
through any other source than what comes out of your mouth is not to be trusted.
#4: The Rich Man. The one percent are notorious
for being self-obsessed. Who really
wants to date a CEO anyway? These are
the guys who spent their bail out money on corporate spa retreats. Jerks. Rich guys aren't going to spend all
their money on you. They’re rich for a
reason. In today’s economy you’re lucky
to have a man with a job. No rich man
sits at his desk emailing and texting his girlfriend all day anyway. Presents are fun, don’t get me wrong. But fantasizing about a rich man is as much a
waste of time as cleaning up your kids’ toys.
(I had to tie in being a stay at home mom somewhere in this one.)
#5: The Bump and
Grind. I’m not even going to talk
about the, um, "relations" in this book because 1.) I have my limits and don’t want to risk
losing some of my readers and 2.) We’re familiar enough with the book to know the
hokey pokey (i.e. that’s what it’s all about) and 3.) It’s so unbelievable that
it’s laughable. I mean, come on.
As far as the rough stuff goes, I’ll just say this: it wasn't nearly as
disturbing as this one episode of “Taboo” on the National Geographic Channel
that featured something called “puppy play.”
DON’T GOOGLE IT. I mean
that. Don’t make me shout at you again.
#6: Ok, Fine. I've made a mix cd for every guy I have ever dated. I've made them for my husband. I've made them for friends and relatives and you know how many I've gotten in return? None. Zip.
Nada. Nobody’s going to buy an iPad
for you and download a meaningful playlist onto it. But dang, even I have to admit, she nailed
it. Out of all the “fantasies” in these
books: helicopters, handcuffs, penthouses…this one is the only one where I said
to myself, “Well, that would be kind of nice.”
If I've left any out, by all means, I’d love to hear your
contributions.
In the meantime, let me offer you an alternative to the
absurd story lines offered in these books, one that I've learned to appreciate
more than the tie-me-up, tie-me-down fantasies about a severely damaged
man. For two weeks now my mother has
been recuperating from a knee replacement surgery. She’s had high fevers, tremors, blood clots,
fever blisters, nausea, you name it--and I've had to act as interpreter and
speak on her behalf to nurses and doctors, requiring me to be at the hospital
day and night with her. And do you know what I came home to the other night? My husband and son cuddled in bed together. As
my husband sang him to sleep, I crept into the room and as soon as he saw me, my
son jumped out of the bed and threw his arms around me and kissed me
goodnight. Later, my husband and I were
in bed talking and laughing and I had the mother of all mood swings and began
crying on his shoulder about how worried I was for my mom and how stressed I
was with the responsibility. Then I put my head on his chest and listened to
his heart. Precious reality, with all its
ups and downs, is where I rest my head at night. He’s not rich or damaged and he’s not
obsessed with me. And no, he’s never
made me a mix tape. (But I’m waiting,
patiently.) He’s my husband. He’s there for me. He takes care of my son and loves him with
all his heart and soul. He works hard everyday for his family. I trust him. Sorry, Christian Grey,
but you ain’t got nothin’ on my man.
Besides, who needs perverse fantasies when I have a hot bath, a
Reese’s peanut butter cup, and a Jane Austen book waiting for me? 18th century British social hierarchies
and manners? Now that’s hot.