Selfies became big in my world around 2011. Obviously, people were taking photos of themselves long before then, and who can forget the horrendous Myspace profile photos of the early aughts? But selfies became A Whole Thing around 2011. I immediately loathed them. I railed against them. I joined in with anyone I could find—and it was almost always a man—to shake my fist at the sky and holler about how selfies were attention-seeking displays of self-absorption, tangible demonstrations of fatuity. I was embarrassed for the people taking selfies. I wanted them to feel shame at being so bold as to post a photo of themselves online for people to see.
I wanted them to feel shame, of course, because I felt shame. Because I couldn’t imagine putting a photo of myself up online that I liked, that I wanted to claim. This was still in the era where Facebook was alive but losing its grip as the main social media site, commandeered by fiftysomething women named Marilyn who shared recipes, grandbaby pics, and wild conspiracies about the government. Instagram was new and gaining ground, at least among hot people. I hated it. I hated it all. I hated change; I didn’t want to learn a new app. I certainly didn’t want to download an app where the sine qua non of success was either hotness or wealth. I didn’t want to find more ways people could be better than I, and photos were something I knew I wasn’t going to win at. Every photo of me up until that point had been put up online mostly without my permission by well-meaning friends who thought they looked cute in the picture. Which is fair!! But I looked like dog shit, or at least I thought I did. I certainly didn’t think that more photos, and photos with me as the centerpiece, would be the answer.
But as with most things that I’ve railed against because I’ve actually just felt left out, I eventually succumbed and tried taking a selfie. Sometime in 2013, I was in my apartment, which was really an off-campus dorm, and I was next to the bathroom mirror—I still remember what I was wearing—and my hair looked stunning, so I tried taking a photo of myself with my phone and it worked (because it was designed to!). And for the first time in my life I knew immediately that I had a photo that I felt good about. I was in control. This seemed as revelatory as if they had all of a sudden put me in control of the Federal Reserve system. You see, women aren’t supposed to have control of their own image. We’re supposed to be in charge of it, of its upkeep, its maintenance, of making sure it pleases visitors—much in the same way women used to keep houses but never own them.
Most of my life, being photographed felt like picture day at school where some strange adult you’d never met before corralled your hair with a disposable comb, posed you like a doll, and then barked weird orders at you while you tried to hold still and then after all that, you didn’t see the photo for weeks and weeks until the day arrived to take the big paper packet of photos home. And they were always ugly. I mean, mine pretty much always looked like ass. I’m not going to sugarcoat it. I love myself, so I’m not trying to be cruel to nine-year-old Sophia, but the pictures were bad. It always felt like everyone else’s photos were wonderful. The popular girls—girls with names like Lauren and Amanda—always hid theirs and pretended like theirs were terrible so people would beg to see them and then they’d finally reveal them and the photos would be gorgeous. No one begged to see my photos and they were ugly anyway, and that was the process of having your photo taken, in my mind. I had no say over my self-presentation and it turned out bad anyway. Selfies offered a way out of this. All of a sudden I got to watch myself in the camera before the shot was taken. And then I got to take two million more shots until I got it right, which, yes, you could do with a digital camera to some extent, but digital cameras didn’t have front-facing lenses and you always ran out of room on your memory card and it was a whole ordeal.
I was a year or two late to the selfie craze compared to everyone at USCIII—which feels very, very late when you’re in college—but as soon as I let go of the shame I felt for taking and later posting them, I was in. I felt a genuine rush every time I saw a photo of myself that didn’t make me recoil in self-hatred. And then, when I would occasionally share them online, it was always done with a dollop of self-disgust for being so public about not hating myself, and usually paired with a self-deprecating caption. I knew where the self-censure around taking selfies was coming from, of course, because only a few short months before, I had been appalled by people doing the same thing. I didn’t immediately overcome my own shame or judgment, but I loved the thrill of being adjacent to being attractive, and that outweighed my embarrassment. I was not the hottest girl, but my God, I could figure out angles and lighting and take forty-eight photos and have one turn out well and that was good enough.
When I took selfies, I could, for a moment or two, see myself as I was. I could see the outtakes, the ones where I blinked or blurred, the ones where I had a double chin or something in my teeth. I could also see myself in good lighting with good hair and a smile that wasn’t too gummy. I could see myself for a short time and know what I looked like and I didn’t have to be surprised by it, like I am when I look in a mirror or when someone else takes a photo. The very act of selfie-ing with a front-facing camera means control. Control of self, control of image, control of body. I finally had some say over not only how others perceived me, but how I saw myself. And it helped a lot. Eventually, photos of myself became less evil. Eventually, I understood that you can look your absolute hottest and then take forty-seven photos of yourself and thirty-nine of them will turn out positively god-awful. The odds when a stranger takes your picture are not in your favor.
As photos lost their potential to harm my mental health, my body in general did, too, since that was my best window into what I looked like. After I started taking selfies, I had proof that there were good versions of my body, preserved in my phone and in the cloud. There was hard evidence that I had liked my body before and could in the future.
Despite the help of selfies and staying busy and learning how to actually do my hair, despite being fairly far along in the recovery process from my eating disorders, I’m still not going to love my body. On some days, I still don’t always remember that my body and I have anything to do with each other, and on other days my fixation with her is back. A good photo of myself is just as shocking to me as a bad one—I find it difficult to identify with either most of the time. I still don’t know what I look like! I don’t. I’m somewhat more connected to my body, but I’m not perfect at linking the internal world where I think about the Spice Girls performing with Pavarotti with the stomach I see when I look down. I still have urges to punish myself with starvation. I still know how many calories almost every single food is off the top of my head.
But I’m doing better. Not perfectly, but better. I go hours sometimes without thinking about my body at all. Days without the urge to weigh myself. Weeks without wondering if I should skip a meal. I’m doing okay. My body is fine. She’s here. I don’t always know what she looks like, but she’s along for the ride. My attitude is akin to what it would be if I got a shitty rental car for a long road trip: okay, we’re stuck together; what can I do but make the best of it? I just know I’m never going to love my body even if I give birth to five kids or run a marathon or do any of the other things the Love Your Body community brags about their bodies having done. Probably I wouldn’t love it even if I got a ton of plastic surgery, but I am willing to find out if that’s the case if anyone wants to pay for that. At my very best, I love myself and I’m indifferent toward my body, and that feels pretty close to bliss.
How to Be the Life of the Party in 28 Easy Steps
Being the life of the party is, of course, the pinnacle of human achievement. Once, when I was about sixteen, I googled “How do you have charisma?”I because I’m clearly the most pathetic person alive. Being beloved has always been a goal of mine, and I’ve even achieved it at one or two gatherings. It’s rare, mostly because my bedtime is midnight at the latest, and because I find social interaction excruciating after the two-hour mark. That said, with maximal effort, it
is possible to be the star of the shindig, the queen of the clambake, the belle of the banquet, the nonesuch of the night out. I’ll show you how:
First, you must understand that being the darling of a social gathering requires preparation far in advance. If you can start in early childhood to cultivate a personality that others like and are drawn to, a general ease among others, that would be ideal. If you can’t scrounge up an agreeable temperament at home, store-bought is fine.
About three weeks before the event, you should get started on any hair removal or deep exfoliation that you need to do. Smooth, supple skin does not magically arrive overnight. I’m not saying one need remove body hair to become the life of the party; I’m just saying if you’re going to do so, start early, so that by the time your little get-together arrives, you’re in a maintenance zone rather than a demolition project.
Four hours before you’re going to leave your house for this soiree, you’re going to need to start Getting Amped. Ideally, you take a small dose of recreational Adderall, which will give you just enough buzz to get through the evening but won’t keep you up all night. If you don’t want to take a rec-Addy, that’s perfectly fine; your body, your choice. You’re gonna need to guzzle an energy drink. If you’re pregaming to go out, you can mix this energy drink directly into the alcohol to speed shit up. If you’re going to make it past ninety minutes of socializing and still be Fun to Talk To, you need either a massive dose of adrenaline—the kind that only comes from hanging around the deepest crush of your life—or you need artificial stimulants. If drugs/alcohol is not your thing, that’s totally fine, but I don’t know what to tell you. Fake it?
While getting ready, which you should treat as the sacred ritual it is, you should have a bomb-ass playlist going. This is technically a part of the Getting Amped section, but I can’t overstate the importance of a pregame playlist. You want songs that make you feel like dancing, fucking, or singing along. Think “Man! I Feel Like a Woman,”II “Fast Car,” “Every Day Is a Winding Road,” “Just a Friend,” and “It Wasn’t Me.” Nostalgic songs that your brain knows every single word to work best; if the song was played at your middle school dance, that’s a green light. (Other than “Cotton Eye Joe,” which is a no. The vibe is not country line dance.)
Carve out an hour to get dressed. While the act of putting on clothes takes forty-two seconds, standing in front of a mirror pinching and cinching various body parts, trying on three different bra styles to see which one makes your boobs look least weird, and loathing every outfit you’ve ever owned takes fifty-nine minutes and sixteen seconds, minimum, and let’s give you a grace period. Frankly, I agree, the first outfit you put on was trying too hard. Anytime—every time—you purchase new clothing for a big event, it ends up looking like ass. What looked chic and sophisticated in the forgiving light of the Zara dressing room now makes you look like a person who is going to a business conference who plans to cheat on their partner.III You try on an old trusty outfit—an iridescent bodysuit—something that used to be a surefire shortcut to self-confidence, but which tonight makes you feel like an impostor. Back to the business-y outfit, on to Instagram to see how people your age actually dress because you’ve suddenly forgotten, off with the business clothes; now you’re going to try to pull off bike shorts. Let me save you time: bike shorts suck and they’re a scam invented by thin rich women to make the rest of us feel uglier. How about a chill vibe instead? You could be a Chill Person tonight. A funny graphic T-shirt and cute jeans says, “Oh, I just happened upon this party. I had other options tonight. Billy Madison is the peak of cinema to me. I have older brothers.” Fuck. You look like your dad. You just do. You look like your dad in that outfit. Sorry. Back to the bodysuit. Oh, wait, maybe that really tight dress with two pairs of off-brand Target Spanx under it.
Finish your drink, pee one last time, make sure you have your ID and gum, deodorant. Call an Uber.
Panic, cancel the Uber, and go and change your clothes again. Go with the chill outfit, please; I implore you. You will need to be comfortable in order to be the life of the party tonight. Being hot is obviously important, too. If you need to jazz up the chill outfit, do so with fun shoes or earrings or a jaunty hat if you’re one of those people who can pull off hats. But if you feel uncomfortable, you will not survive as the center of attention. People don’t like watching other people experience discomfort; have you ever been to a stand-up show where someone is bombing? It’s awful. You don’t want to spend the entire night adjusting the straps on your sexy little tank top, or rebuttoning that dress that always comes undone. I have a friend, Tam, who is a delight to be around—everyone loves her, desperately—and she has never once in her life felt uncomfortable; earlier this month, her whole titty popped out on a Zoom call because she was wearing a blazer with no shirt under it. She didn’t care at all. I don’t even know if she remembers this happening. She is the kind of person who can pull off wearing “uncomfortable” clothing because she’s so comfortable with herself, because she’s so naturally dazzling; unless you, too, could pull off a wardrobe malfunction on camera without a care in the world, you, my friend, should choose comfort. So my advice is: If you can muster it, please remember to never once in your life feel uncomfortable. This will help loads with our goal of making you the belle of the ball.IV
Take a shot; try to force yourself to pee again even though your friend’s house is like twenty-five minutes away and not a four-hour road trip; move your ID and gum from one purse to another because it goes better with your outfit; spritz on perfume or cologne (people love a good-smelling person);V call an Uber.
Get carsick in the Uber. Psych yourself out about the whole night. Question why you’re even going to this event. Who do I even know who is going? Is Carli actually going? When is she planning on showing up? What the fuck almighty am I wearing? Why am I sweating so much? Specifically, why am I sweating so much in the butt region? Question who the fuck you think you are. Have I ever spoken to a person where they have enjoyed it? Who am I to try to go to a party? Isn’t that just so fucking cocky of me, to think that people like me enough to want to be around me? Jesus, people probably hate how self-assured I seem, showing up like this to an event. The gall!!!!
The very moment that your Uber driver starts to slow down, tell the Uber driver, “Here’s fine!” even if you have no idea where “here” is or if it is actually “fine” or even “in the vicinity of your drop-off location.”
Okay, well… you’re here. You spent thirty-six dollars to get to this stupid-ass event that you’re going to hate and despite what the sunk-cost fallacy suggests, you might as well go inside. Fuck off, game theory.
The buzzer seems to be broken? Text your friend to come let you into their apartment, the very act of which, despite your having been instructed to do so by their Facebook invite, feels desperate. Is everyone else such good friends that they come over here all the time and know the door code? How did they get inside? Okay, no one is answering your texts about letting you in. Should you call? Is it desperate to call to be let in? It feels very weird to call and practically beg to be let into this party. Oh. Okay, someone has answered. Thank God. They’re coming out to get you. You, the weirdo alone in the dark on the sidewalk, text-begging to be let inside.
Let out a very high-pitched “Hey there!” when you arrive that you then spend the next three minutes playing back to yourself in your own head. Are you even a “Hey there!” person? Why the hell did you say that?
Here is where you need to Pull. It. Together. You’ve got to give ’em the ol’ razzle-dazzle. Under absolutely no circumstances should you utter the phrase “give ’em the ol’ razzle-dazzle.”
Assess who the hottest person in the room is. This is vital. The hottest person in the room isn’t always the literally best-looking person in the room. It’s the most attractive person. The person whose cues everyone else is following, whose jokes always get laughs, whose suggestions are always heeded. This is the person you’re here for. You
need to pretend this person is an ex and that you are attending this party to devastate them with your blithe nonchalance. The goal is for them to fall right back in love with you, not that you’d even notice if such a thing happened. (But you must make it happen). One of the best ways to get your ex to fall back in love with you is to make everyone else around them fall in love with you. Your job is to be irresistible. Stop hiding in the corner, hoovering up pizza bagels, and start dazzling.
Get a drink. I think I forgot to tell you this because I was too busy yelling at you about the pizza bagels or saying “razzle-dazzle” a lot, but get a damn drink. It does not need to be alcoholic, but you need something to do with your hands. If you have a purse/keys/phone/etc., put that down somewhere in a careless manner that suggests that you don’t give a shiiiiit about what happens tonight! Wooo! You’ll find it later! (But seriously, just leave it all by the door.) Your hands need a drink in them; holding a cup is the universal symbol for “I am not a threat.” If you’re camping and you see a bear and you have a drink in your hand, you’re safe. The bear knows you have chill vibes.
Start small; dip your toe in the water of socializing. Turn to someone, anyone who is not talking to another person, and ask them a question. The question itself can be awkward; that’s fine. Just keep asking questions. You want to hover somewhere between interrogation and an interview for a job where your best friend is the manager and this is just a formality. Why? Because everyone likes getting asked about themself. We’re all addicted to it. Ask where they grew up, how they know Tony and Annette, if they think Hello Kitty or SpongeBob would win in a fight. It doesn’t matter. Get to talking, but don’t get stuck with one person. This is a ground game situation. You need to shake a lot of hands and kiss a lot of babies at this bash.VI
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