As I watch Bridgerton edits on TikTok, I once again ask myself, “Why do they get to dress up and go to balls, while I have to dress up and go to frat parties?”
Then I remember that most people in the Regency era could not, in fact, attend balls, and I feel bad for romanticizing the classism of it all.
I left TikTok months ago. It had convinced me to romanticize rituals only accessible to a select few. With every swipe, I was presented with a new list of “must haves” for [insert season/month/holiday]. I barely had time to grasp one trend before moving onto the next, and in watching these beautiful, flawless influencers advertise new products every other day, I began to feel less than beautiful, less than woman for it. Between being born into money and securing high paying careers, it was no wonder that they could adapt to rapidly changing trends and afford the price point that comes with them. Was I less than woman for not having the funds—as a 19-year old college student—to take care of myself in the same way that these influencers do? For not having the same looks, the same body, the same results to show for it? I knew deep down it wasn’t, and yet, it still eroded my sanity enough to chase me off of the platform.
In the fight to advance in a male-dominated society, women have no choice but to uphold the male gaze, to strive to be the ideal woman.
Why do we hold so tightly onto trends of self-care, anyway? Perhaps it is because self-care is one of the only remaining sources of bodily autonomy women have left. Yet, it is still constantly thrust into the public eye, scrutinized, twisted into something inaccessible to many. In order to romanticize something up close, there must be an outgroup that can only romanticize it from afar. In the fight to advance in a male-dominated society, women have no choice but to uphold the male gaze, to strive to be the ideal woman.
This is not to cast blame on us for trying to keep our heads above the water, but to simply acknowledge that consumerist trends often emerge as the product of this struggle. The personal then becomes political; nobody else can see what kind of soap I use, and yet, if I don’t choose the right products, I am acting contrary to what the media deems the ideal woman. TikTok had me convinced that it was not self care unless I spent obscene amounts of money on “Niacinamide Watermelon Dew Drops,” or “blueberry milk nails,” to fit into what used to be an invisible criteria. Now, in the warzone that is 2023, self-care is weaponized by women, against women, in the continuous fight to redefine ourselves as the “ideal woman.”
You’ll have to pry my mediocre Drunk Elephant moisturizer from my cold, dead hands.
My current moisturizer is the $68 Drunk Elephant “Protini Polypeptide Cream,” packaged in a sleek white jar with a beautiful turquoise lid. Yet, despite the price point and packaging, I unfortunately find myself missing the Walmart moisturizer that worked much better for my skin. My “Bridgerton” effect caught me again; I saw something in a pretty package, so I bought into it, but in reality, it’s not so great. Yet, I still enjoy every use I get out of it, because it makes me feel like a high-end woman, makes me feel unlike the full-time student and part-time barista I really am. I’ll use it until the pump stops working, then I'll break open the plastic and scoop out what’s left at the bottom. You’ll have to pry my mediocre Drunk Elephant moisturizer from my cold, dead hands.
Instead of being laced into a delicate corset before a ball, I take my steaming, 45-minute “everything shower” before a frat party. I exfoliate, wash my hair, use conditioner, a hair mask, and lather with my beautifully-packaged Method Body Wash, and emerge dangerously lightheaded. I slather on my Charlotte Tilbury “Flawless Filter” foundation (I won’t even list the price here, I’m so ashamed) before finishing the entire rest of my face with drugstore products of equal quality. Yet, since the only thing I’ve been trained to romanticize is my foundation, it is the only part of my routine that feels special. My makeup looks fine when it is done, but it is not the finished product that matters in this new age of consumerism; it is how you got there that carries weight.
Maybe I will be named the Diamond of the Season, and be let into a house that hasn’t been cleaned in three years, or maybe I will be sent away in favor of those who appear to do womanhood better.
Then, I present myself before the pledge guarding the doors to the frat—who hasn’t bothered to shower in three days—in similar fashion to the debutantes presenting themselves at the feet of Queen Charlotte. Maybe I will be named the Diamond of the Season, and be let into a house that hasn’t been cleaned in three years, or maybe I will be sent away in favor of those who appear to do womanhood better. Since the male gaze sets the standards of femininity, and has since the beginning of time, is there really that big of a difference between a 19-year-old boy and a monarch? I cannot determine whose rejection is more demeaning, especially after the amount of time and money put into my self-presentation.
Maybe, the cost of being a woman is the price of the “Flawless Filter” foundation, advertised to make your skin glow beyond what is humanly possible. Or, maybe it’s the price of the Drunk Elephant skincare, which has exploited the clean girl aesthetic marketing as hard as an average facial moisturizer possibly could. Maybe it’s the total cost of the everything shower, or maybe it’s the price of the pepper spray we carry to frat parties to defend our bodies against men who think the work put into its presentation is something for them to take advantage of. Or, maybe, it’s simply the time we spend alone taking care of ourselves, only to be let down again and again by our own expectations of what that should look like.
After all, we all just want to feel like we’re going to a ball.
