I will not write about...

I will not write about how to apply mascara, the four coats of five different types you should buy to give your eyes the perfect luster to attract the perfect man who loves you because your eyelashes are perfectly delineated and separated and pure.

I will not write about the charms of Botox, the thrill of having puffed up lips or less droopy eyelids.  I may write about the enormous mind-blowing pain my eleven-year-old son experienced when he had to get a Botox shot to help his overly-tense leg muscle relax so he wouldn't limp so noticeably.

I will not write about the thrills of perfectionism.  There are none.  I will not write about the joys of a 5'10" 110 lb body.  There are none.  Those women can never be skinny enough to satisfy their longings to disappear.

I will not write about the patriarchy's right to exist, how women need to be subservient to their men so society can function properly.

I will not write about the rightness of war, how violence is the way to bring about change.  I may tell the story though of the outraged mother at the playground who, upon seeing her child strike another toddler, rushed into the sandbox to grab him by the arm and spank his bottom, full of rage, yelling at him, "Haven't I told you it's wrong to hit people?"

I will not write about the advantages of having a billion dollars of disposable income a year because it's unlikely I'll earn that much, but I may write about the joys of living simply, having enough and giving away the rest.  I may write about the fear I just experienced at the thought of giving away so much instead of squirreling it away for later, just in case.  Why not experience the joy of giving instead?  Of seeing the relief on a woman's face when she receives enough food for herself and her children for the month?

Perhaps I will write about the soft skin of my baby's face, how I touched it with awe as she lay in my arms, trusting me to meet her every need, how absurd that proposition is, yet how determined I was to try.