I'm Judging You (8 page)

Anywho, for years, I did not like my body and was not comfortable in it because people constantly pointed out the fact that I was thin. What comes with being skinny is everyone treating you like you wrote in to their “Dear Abby” column. They're always ready to give you advice on what you need to do, even though you didn't ask them a damb thing. “Dang, Luvvie! You're so skinny! Do you eat?! Maybe you just need a sandwich.” No, I don't eat. I survive on a steady diet of air and water. Don't worry about me, worry about you. You don't see me walking up to you, saying, “I see you've been eating. A LOT.” Rude. It's mind-boggling how free people feel to do this to friends, family, and strangers alike.

Today, I recognize that my body type is idealized. In a battle of “Who gets it the worst?” I know to shut my mouth and listen and apologize for the dumb shit my fellow skinnies say. Some people are naturally meant to be fleshier, and some are like me and can't cuddle without stabbing their partners in the chest with their bony chins. It is out of most people's control. I have friends who weigh twice as much as me but eat half as much as I do and work out twice as hard. I'm pretty sure their hearts are in better shape than mine. They can probably run more than three blocks without wheezing, which is more than I can say for myself and my cardio abilities.

We're all walking around being told we're not enough, whether big or small, short or tall. It is exhausting, and we have got to be gentler with each other on this weight thing. It is ruining lives. People are dwelling in hopelessness because their bodies are not whatever they're “supposed” to be.

I really do wish we could love ourselves more. It's something I am working on every single day. You're probably like, “Hey, Luvvie, don't you make fun of people all the time?” Yes, I do. As a professional make-fun-of-people-er, aka humorist, I excel at dirty dozens at others' expense. But I try my darndest to keep it to changeable things, like hair (come on, Jermaine Jackson. What
is
that on your scalp?), makeup (especially drawn-on eyebrows. Why do they look like windshield wipers?!), clothes (I see camel toe and moose knuckle. Do you have on underdrawls under those leggings? I'm asking for everyone), and fake teeth (you couldn't order the size small veneers? You had to go with the extra large? Oh, okay, then).

But we are more than the sum of our parts, and we are more than the numbers on our scales. Be like me and judge people by the decisions they make with their eyebrows. That's way more important.

 

6. Don't Be Pigpen

I am not one of those people who is a neat freak. I am far from it far too often, because right now, odds are there's a pile of dirty laundry on my bedroom floor next to my hamper. I'm not sure why it will pain me so much to move the clothes over ten inches into their proper place, but here I am. I'm just really ready for science to come up with a robot that will do laundry for me, since this is the future and everything. It probably exists in Japan, since they already have robots with feelings. I'm frightened and impressed.

My point is, I am a lazy goat, so I am not saying everyone needs to live in a spotless house. However, I am here to side-eye those of us who allow our laziness to take over our lives and hygiene habits. Let it be noted that I am not talking about those people who are clinically depressed and can't get out of bed. You get my love and hugs from afar. Also, I am not talking about those who are homeless. Your situation makes me mad at all of us for failing to ensure you were never put in that position. And I am certainly not speaking about those who are disabled or medically unable. Nawl, not you. I exclude because I care.

Everyone else, though? I am here to judge you for being so stank sometimes. There are certain personal choices we make that become matters of public concern. One of them is not showering regularly. What is regularly? Well, for the gross and lazy, I'll say once or twice a week in the winter (when people sweat minimally) and three to four times a week in the summer. Let's use this
very
conservative timeline for the purpose of this judging and side-eye I am bestowing. Most of us need to get ourselves in somebody's tub or shower daily, but I won't be too strict right now. You're welcome.

I've heard people talk about not liking to shower, as if it were some torturous act. If you are living in a place where there is no drought and you have access to clean water, and you can't bring yourself to shower more than once a week, then I'll just assume you're allergic to water. Again, see me being considerate of you? I'm so generous.

Jesus invented soap so that we might all elect to smell like essence of lavender and vanilla whenever we want. Sure, we skip a day here and there because we're not leaving the house. But eventually we get to a point where our bodies will ring the alarm to tell us that we are officially in need of a scrubdown. That alarm bell might sound like any of the following:

1. When your armpit smell wafts by your nose from time to time

You know when you raise your hand to grab the cereal on top of the fridge and you wonder what that funk is, but then you realize that the smell is coming from your actual body? There is an odor emanating from the pocket below your shoulder, and it is of onion rings. You want to cuss yourself out so bad because all you had to do was swipe on deodorant, and you didn't even manage that. SHAME ON ME, I MEAN, YOU! Get your ass in the bathroom!

2. When you scratch your neck and your nails get dirty

You absent-mindedly scratch your chin and then look at your nails, which are now harboring an unpleasant line of dirt. Or you scratch your neck and you have to get a toothpick to dislodge whatever grossness is under your fingernails. GAHTDAMB, is that my skin? Yes it is, you middle-class, no-excuse-having hobo. That is the embodiment of your current state of filth, and you have got to get your shit together. This state of affairs means your dead skin is ready to fall off your body because you haven't washed. It is hanging on for dear life. Yes. You are harboring skin that is deceased and ready to be buried. Ew.

3. When you go to the bathroom and you catch a whiff of something unpleasant

Sometimes, we've all found ourselves in this predicament: times of heartbreak, deep depression, or being a writer. SHIT HAPPENS. But then we drag ourselves into the bathroom, ashamed that we've let ourselves rot from the outside, and we handle the situation. We wash like we were made to do so; we wash like we're going to be graded on it. We wash like Idris Elba called and said he's coming over and he's hungry but you don't need to cook (
Heeeyyy now!).
We emerge, having exfoliated layers of dirt, grime, and skin that we were meant to have shed three showers ago, feeling refreshed and unashamed. And hoping that the person who walked into our bathroom and asked if a rat died will never have reason to ask that question again. You shouldn't want your humble abode to reek of jock strap and jock itch.

There are still people who go to the bathroom without washing their hands. Some of these people work in restaurants we frequent, because why else would those “Employees Must Wash Hands” signs exist everywhere? It means people need reminders to wash their hands before handling other people's food and after they've handled nature's calling. I MEAN, COME ON! You literally just wiped your nethers. Your hands came in close proximity to the places where urine and poo come out. And you just exit the bathroom like nothing happened, like your levels of hand bacteria didn't just skyrocket? No! Not like this, beloved. Take the twenty (again, a low standard) seconds to cleanse your hands before leaving.

When my day is over and I'm about to change into my pajamas, I always wash my hands. I give it that rub-your-palms-together-for-one-minute-straight-and-squeeze routine, and I am always grossed out by how brown the water is. It doesn't matter how many times I've washed my hands that day (every time I go to the bathroom), I always have to ask myself if I freelance as a mechanic and spent five hours working under someone's hood. WHY IS IT SO DIRTY? Because we are walking dust bunnies.

This is also why women who refuse to wash their bras regularly need to be sat down and read their bill of personal rights. There are women who admit to only washing their bras once a year. WHO ARE YOU MONSTERS? RAISE YOUR HANDS SO I CAN SHAME YOU. I'm not talking about that fancy lace bra that you break out on your monthly date night. You know the one that you can only wear with black underwear because no store sells boyshorts that exact shade of aubergine? I'm not talking about that one. It only stays on for an hour and a half before the lace starts cutting into your sides and it gets removed (preferably by someone else). Your special lace bra is still looking, smelling, and feeling brand-new, so I can see why you wouldn't wash it often, I guess.

I'm talking about your favorite bra that looks fantastic under all your shirts, and you find yourself in at least once a week (sometimes twice).
That
bra you should be washing regularly. Why do I have to say this? You might be wondering, too. The answer is because of the aforementioned grown women who admit to only washing their bras once a year. I tell no lies. This is why I have to say this. This is why I judge.
Just because you can't see the dirt doesn't mean it's not there
. We can't see gravity, but here it is, holding us down like the ride-or-die partner of life. In what world does it make sense to go 365 days before washing any undergarment that has been worn? How is that even okay? An entire year of invisible debris and skin flakes just sitting on and around and beneath your underwire as you walk the streets? I know etiquette classes are so passé and all, but do we need to start hygiene schools? Where have we gone wrong? What can we do to fix it?

There should be a horror movie called
Attack of the Skin Flakes
about someone who goes an entire year without washing her bra. If we want to go the redemption route, it can be a romcom called
Loving Me and My Skin Scales
. Or a reality TV show called
For the Love of My Dead Epidermis
.

Odds are you've sweated at some point over the course of a year, so the bra has accumulated all types of musk. You might think because you've let it dry and Febreezed it all is well. That isn't how this works, ma'am. That isn't how any of this works. Why are you not washing your boob fedoras regularly? That's gross. A bra you only wash once a year must smell like bad cheese and bad decisions, like New York in the middle of summer.

I'm sure you think it doesn't smell at all. Because you know what's unreliable? Our sense of smell when it comes to our own selves. Step into someone else's house and you'll be able to smell what they last cooked, or at least describe what it smells like. But ask most people to describe the way their own house smells and they'll probably say “normal.” Why? Because we get used to our own funk. Ask science. So folks who think their bras are perfectly fine might be emitting all types of odors they aren't aware of.

And can we talk about ashiness? I was minding everyone's business when I saw this dude in shorts, and his legs were downright chalky from lack of lotion. He was white, so I'm not sure if he thought that excluded him from the need to moisturize. He probably thought ashiness would blend in, but his skin was being real petty by being all “You're white, but I can get whiter in certain parts.” I immediately grabbed the Vaseline in my bag and reapplied some on my own legs in case it was contagious. I needed the armor of petroleum jelly because who Jah bless with cocoa butter, no man curse with ashiness. Amen, saints.

My childhood is full of memories of my mom slathering me down from head to toe before school so I was a walking, talking oil slick. I should have realized this at the time so I could have escaped more. If she tried to catch me, I would have just slid out her grasp. Damb. I could have had adventures.

Although, no matter what you do, you find that space between your thumb and pointer finger chalky always. It's there to test your determination to remain moisturized. Don't let it win. Wash your hands, and while it's wet, slather some baby oil on it. You're welcome.

In this day and age, there is no excuse for walking around looking like you rolled in flour. With all the technology at your fingertips, you can't Google somewhere that sells aloe vera or shea butter? No excuse. You should not look as though when you exhale, a puff of dust will come out. Some people walk around looking so ashy that I assume their very soul is parched. GET THEE SOME LOTION! I just want to push them into a tub of Crisco and jojoba oil. Think about your aging process. Lifelong full-body salving is why Black folks look so young. Black doesn't snap, crackle, or pop
—
why? Because: moisture. It's why some of us look twelve at thirty. Listen to me, white folks. I'm dropping life secrets here. Why else do you think the Olsen twins (born in 1986) look the same age as Nia Long (born in 1970)? You haven't used the BUTTERS.

If I look at you and think I got cataracts because you look like you're in a fog from lack of emollience, I will be upset. I think my glasses are smudged, when the real reason they're looking dusty is because they didn't use some salve. You can do better than this.

Have you ever seen lips so chapped that when the person smiles too wide they start to bleed? That's me every January in Chicago if I don't apply ChapStick every thirty minutes without fail. If I go forty-five minutes, my lip situation gets compromised and I end up looking like I got into a fight and lost. And it's kinda awkward to explain to people that the fight I got into was with the weather.

Good times.

But wait. I need to go back, because clearly I'm touched by this. If people are going a whole year without washing their bras, how often do they wash their jeans? There are probably people who have
never
washed their denim pants. There's probably so much denim in the world that can stand up on its own, anchored by the dirt of a thousand wearings. Gahtdambit, everybody. Can you launder those at least once in five years? Is that too much to ask?