Now that I’m home, I feel liberated from all the inconveniences of adult life: I have at least two meals a day (luxury), delegate all responsibilities and let someone else pay for the dentist. The problem is, as far as my parents are concerned, 2002 never ended, I still wear a Pokemon-themed baseball cap and inevitably burst into tears when forced to do maths (this is, indeed, still true). Here are some examples of the way my parents have infantilised me this week:
My mum told me off because I had the audacity to eat a peach with the skin on (The pesticides! They’re terrible! Terrible I tell you!) and then proceeded to explain, for 25 minutes, what the best way to eat a peach is. I can only be thankful for the fact she hasn’t watched Call Me By Your Name.
Mother is also a sworn enemy of processed foods/refined sugars. So you can imagine her reaction when I pulled out a bottle of Sprite from my rucksack. You’d think I’d just shown her the new crack pipe I just bought. She snatched it away from my hands with the resigned look of the mother who failed their troubled child.
This morning, my dad asked what time I came back home yesterday night, with the malignant stare of the parent who knows exactly how late it was when I returned but just wants me to corroborate his version of events so he can catch me lying and therefore have a reason to give me a lecture about why lying is wrong.
My parents complained because I spend too much time on my phone, so I had to give a very impassioned speech to justify my antisocial behaviour with the argument that in 21st century society all media have converged into one device (But can’t you see? This is a calculator AND an alarm clock!).
I left home when I was 19, admittedly an all-time record for local standards. The last time an Italian man had to leave the nest in his teens was when my great-uncle got drafted to fight in WW2. Indeed, my aunt once proclaimed, with tears in her eyes, that my decision to move to London was the modern equivalent of compulsory military service, ignoring the fact that Hackney is not exactly Kabul and that the worst thing that can happen to you there is the Australian barista at the organic coffee shop mistakenly using regular milk in your oat flat white.
I feel very lucky to have people who still want to look after me, and despite my reputation as a generally irritable young man, I have become considerably more patient and tolerant of those small behaviours that might irk me or upset me. So I put up with the relentless nagging and I see it for what it is, a demonstration of affection I have to endure in order to indulge my parents’ desire to feel as if they still retain some control over my life.
Also, as a few past and present lovers pointed out I am, indeed, just like my mother. When it comes to the people I care about, I find it hard to resist the irresistible urge to fix their lives, make them better, tidier, healthier, and more functional. It’s my family’s love language, and you just have to go with it.
So here I am, eating a skinless peach, feeling 20% irritated and 80% grateful to have people who care whether I ingest large quantities of pesticides and what that might do to me. I hope they never stop.
Of Beach Bods and Dad Bods
I was taking notes for my people-watching diary the other day at the beach. I set out to observe, in a non-creepy way, the behaviour of various passerby, clutching my pearls at the sight of white speedos and suggestive microkinis that are in obvious contradiction with Italian laws on indecent exposure.
I, on the other hand, hid myself in a vintage pair of baggy swimming trunks with comic-style pictures of cars drawn on them (then I wonder why my parents still treat me like a child). I’ve read enough think-pieces on body positivity and watched enough Naked Attraction to have absorbed the notion that all bodies are, indeed, beautiful.
While I wouldn’t dream to argue with that belief, I have often failed at projecting the same benevolent outlook onto my own body. I spend an inordinate amount of time wondering whether I’m too short, or if my nose is too big for modern beauty standards and, as someone who loses five stone every time someone dies on Grey’s Anatomy, I have been told on a couple of occasions that I look like I should eat a burger.
Now, in the same way it’s insensitive to ask a large person whether they eat too much, I don’t know why common etiquette on discussing bodies does not recognise the inappropriateness of asking a person whether they eat enough. As some TikTok guy said, unless it’s something they can change in 10 minutes, then shut up and mind your own body.
I mean, I look fine. Sure, I wouldn’t mind having bigger arms, broader shoulders and Grealishous thighs, but I made a conscious decision to do nothing about it. I reject the notion of “exercise”, I simply stopped believing in it when my gym instructor used Kamasutra positions as examples to explain good form.
So when I went to the beach last Monday and unveiled my semi-naked bodheey, I could feel myself slipping into a familiar spiral of insecurity. But self-hate is so 2008, so I simply accepted that while I may not be getting a BohooMan deal anytime soon, I was indeed blessed with a body that, while far from perfect, doesn’t require a massive amount of external intervention.
First, everything’s there. Second, everything works. And yes, while I’m not exactly the buffest guy this side of Tower Hamlets, I happen to live in a society that is far kinder to thin bodies than chunkier ones so I really should keep my superfluous complaints to myself.
I therefore intend to invest most of my precious time and resources into activities that have nothing to do with toning my forearms, such as learning how the Northern line actually works or writing a dissertation examining whether Ramona Singer is, indeed, the real villain of Real Housewives of New York City. Thank you for coming to my Ted Talk.
WHAT I WATCHED
Black Widow.
I hadn’t watched any of the movies in the Avengers franchise but I did go for the Black Widow standalone because I got an Oden membership I intend to make the most of. Also, Scarlet Johansson is a very talented actress and only incidentally very lovely to look at.
So I sat down and learned about the story of Natasha Romanoff, the Russian assassin turned avenger who sets out to destroy the institution that enslaved her and turned her into a ruthless killer while forcing her to wear what looks like a very uncomfortable skin-tight black suit.
There’s a metaphor about the dismantling of the patriarchy there, I’m sure, but ultimately, it’s just an entertaining movie. Watch it!
WHAT I READ
This piece about how the 1971 film “Death in Venice” effectively screwed up the life of its leading star Björn Andrésen, who was once deemed the most beautiful boy in the world. The story of a young man crumbling under the weight of early fame and sexualisation in a fascinating tale of resentment and exploitation.
WHAT I LISTENED TO
It’s all over now baby blue. There’s about 500 versions of this song and Joan Baez’s one may just be the best one. Strike another match, let’s start anew, but it’s all over now baby blue.
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