People with this kind of honesty make me go a big rubbery one.

[Note: Apologies in advance for the smattering of profanity. I am tired and lack the proper filters.]

So I’ve been thinking about my “culture of shame” post. First of all, there are some grammatical errors that make me cringe, but there’s nothing I can do about that now. Secondly, I wish I could be as consistently confident as that post makes me sound. I was feeling great when I wrote it, a Roman-f**king-candle of righteous anger, and yet when I woke the next morning, I was concerned again by how much space I was taking up in the world. Convinced my displacement of air was just too large to be acceptable, I ended up spending the rest of the day sulking in a pile of fashion magazines and swearing off sugar.

Well, maybe just swearing, but whatever.

There are so many, many things wrong with the lies women are told in this culture. We’re too fat–always too fat. We aren’t just fat, we’re also not pretty enough, but if we weren’t fat, we could totally get away with being ugly. And though appearance bears the brunt of it, nearly every message that filters down to us through media and other outlets of popular culture can be distilled into four simple words: “You Are Not Enough.” Not good enough, not smart enough, not chic enough, not ambitious enough, not savvy enough, not wealthy enough, not green enough, not emaciated enough, not feminine enough, not maternal enough, not post-modern enough, not progressive enough, not enough.

What do we do about it? I don’t know. If I knew, I’d be a lot happier and a lot less likely to obsess over my daily caloric intake. I’ll be honest with you, ladies, I hardly have my head on straight when it comes to weight and food. I’m a recovering anorexic/bulimic/disordered eater (the last label is therapist-speak), but though I don’t restrict or puke anymore doesn’t mean I’m even a little bit healthy about food. Eating makes me feel guilty. Not puking after I eat makes me feel guilty. The eating disorders of others make me feel guilty, like I just don’t have the willpower I used to have because I’m weak. I keep a food journal. I count calories to feel in control. I hate my body sometimes with an altogether unholy passion.

From 33 years of anecdotal studies, I can tell you that I am not alone in this, and it kills me to think of the world my perfect, beautiful, gorgeous daughter is inheriting. Soon someone will tell her that she is not enough and she will believe them and it will break my heart. Because she is perfect, and I do not wish this torment on anyone, especially not my spectacular Kiki. (Except for maybe Karl Lagerfeld, though I have a feeling he is quite familiar with this particular hell. He’ll never be the thin woman he really, really wants to be.)

The obsession with outward perfection extends into the political realm, as you can be any fat slob with a computer and become a respected political pundit (no offense, guys, you know I loves ya), but you ladies ain’t gonna get a Fox News contributor gig unless you lose 50 pounds and get some blonde extensions. It doesn’t help when awesome, supportive chicks like Laura Ingraham start slagging off “plus size” airheads they don’t agree with, as if that is somehow a valid response to the vapid musings of the McCain Spawn.

I was just talking to a friend of mine the other day who happens to be in the business of cleaning up the disordered wreckage left by our culture of shame and I admitted that I get pretty overwhelmed by the sheer size of the problem that faces women in just this area. How can we change decades–nay, centuries–of this kind of kind of emotional abuse? It’s not even the “patriarchy” that’s pushes us around anymore; men are just as much victims of this hypermedia culture as the rest of us. They’re the worthless eunuchs of the Super Bowl Audi commercial–and if they aren’t, they are the obviously fat, uneducated, racist slobs that populate the flyover states.My friend said, yeah, it sucks, and she often feels completely defeated by the magnitude of the self-hatred inherent in American popular culture, but we’ve got to soldier on. Continue to chip away at it, she said. One girl at a time, until someday an actual difference can be observed.

Well, consider this my chip at the monolith. I’m waaaaay down here, at the base of this massive statue made of some indestructible stone brought to earth by Cthulhu mined from the extradimensional temple beneath the waves, formed into some hideous, powerful, indescribably magnetic god of Unattainable Beauty that for some reason reminds me of Pamela Anderson, only with more tentacles and I’ve just taken a tiny hammer and chisel and chipped off–well, nothing. I scratched the paint though. Almost.

No one determines your worth, save your Maker. Not your husband, your boyfriend, the Situation (I love Jersey Shore–it’s such an alien train wreck), Elton John–not even Karl Lagerfeld. He doesn’t like you? F**k him. He doesn’t even like girls–why do you care? Anna Wintour from Vogue? The power she has is the power we’ve ceded to her. Your worth is not measured by how many guys click on your Match dot com profile or by how little space you take up in this world. Your worth is also not dictated by vagina-obsessed women who “write” “plays” that no one ever really enjoys if they actually go see them. Shrill harpies who insist that you make yourself as unattractive as possible in order to prove your worth as a “true” woman are full of crap, absolute crap. Don’t be afraid to be beautiful, healthy and fit. Educate yourself and teach your daughters to do the same.

My worth is not dependent on my jean size (and though I’m terrified to write that because I just know that some dickhead out there will think I feel this way because I’m really fat and jealous of skinny girls, I’m writing it anyway) and my worth is also not defined by whether I have a degree in something I obviously do very well, but that’s another post.

In situations like these, the lie only has as much power as we give it and once we break the cycle of passively condoning the lie by continuing to consume it, the house of cards starts to tumble. There are much more important things for us to worry about than whether or not we can fit into sample sizes. Me, I worry about my Fran times and my mile splits. And, you know, a nuclear Iran. I’m totally shallow, though.

Whoa, it’s bedtime. Just remember that I’m not talking post-feminist, feel-good, fat-is-beautiful antiestablishment hippie crap. I’m talking healthy, strong, the best You possible. Just don’t buy into the idea that we all have to look and act and think exactly the same. That we all have to have Jennifer Aniston’s hair, Megan Fox’s sluttiness, Pam Anderson’s boobs, Angie’s lips and Gisele’s body fat content. That we have to be some Stepford Fembot composite based on whomever’s star is on the rise in L.A. this week.

Break the mold, bitches.