In order to understand what objectification really feels like (as opposed to “Somebody stared at me on the bus, I feel totally objectified), try getting pregnant. I understand that I’ve been around for a while and after 37 years that gets old while a baby is new and exciting. I would, however, prefer for people to remember that there is a person placed around that baby.
“The skin on my legs cracks and starts gushing blood,” I tell my doctor.
“Oh, it’s OK,” he informs me brightly. “This is not harmful to the baby.”
And it’s good that it isn’t harmful to the baby, I celebrate this with all my heart. But it is harmful to another human being who currently acts as the baby receptacle – ME.
And then people wonder why I keep coming to work with this enormous belly. Because at work I’m a competent human being who is valued for her intellect and not an unwieldy, problematic body that needs to be shuffled around, medicated, and handled in a variety of weird ways.
“Oh, you don’t enjoy feeling like a thing?” an Argentinean friend mocks me. “Just wait until you breastfeed.”
Yes, there will be much whining in the next 19 days.
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