Preface: I wrote the majority of this pre barbie-movie-America-Ferrera-monologue. How you felt about that monologue is a fair litmus test for how you’ll enjoy this piece.

The prisoner’s dilemma is a game theory thought experiment that most people are introduced to in an Econ or Psych 101 course. It goes as such: two criminals are detained and presented with the option of testifying against their partner in crime. If neither testifies, they both receive 1 year in jail. If only one testifies, the one who does is set free, and the other receives 3 years in jail. If both testify, they both receive 2 years in jail.

While the hypothetical pertains to crime, the prisoner’s dilemma can be applied to any situation in which mutual cooperation would drive the highest net benefit, but betrayal (or generally undermining) has the potential to give the biggest individual gain. This part of decision theory is applicable in almost every industry and community from sports to animal species.

I spent Labor Day Weekend with a friend in the Hamptons. I know, very Gossip Girl of me. I packed light and casual, assuming that despite the general bourgeois of the Hamptons residents, it was still a beach town. Silly me. Standing in the 5 block line to the bar, I realized how foolish I’d been. Every girl in line looked like she was on her way to a private table at Paul’s Casablanca (I have NO idea if this is a relevant reference or if I’ve completely exposed myself as someone utterly not in “the scene.” I literally just googled “cool clubs table service NYC”). Hair freshly curled with a Dyson Airwrap or slicked back with Olaplex No 6. Faces beat and matching sets from Revolve. Heels! You could tell most of these girls probably skipped dinner… and lunch, so that they could rationalize an extra vodka cran (made with Titos!). I felt like Quasimodo, for one. And I felt a great sadness for the women in line.

Let’s be very clear. Though I describe their appearance with a tone of disdain or perhaps condescension, I am projecting immense jealousy. To look that good just to coat the soles of your Dolce Vita sling backs in spilled liquor and sweat requires an all consuming dedication to the thing us girls are taught to pursue, fuckability.

Women spend billions of dollars on clothes, skin care, makeup, fitness classes, juice cleanses, Brazilian waxes, hair products, facials, manicures, botox, eyelash extensions, personal trainers, nutritionists etc. to achieve and maintain fuckability for as long as we can. In the conversation of aging, the question is not really of diminishing beauty, but of diminishing fuckability. A woman does not cease to be beautiful in old age. The “beauty” standard is not about beauty at all, but fuckability. Beauty is found in many things, many forms, and is subjective to the eye of beholder. Fuckability is determined, ubiquitous. And women are conditioned to, while also trying to be a functional member of society and a well-rounded individual, ensure they are doing all they can to maximize their fuckability quotient.

Before I carry on, a brief aside. I mentioned in my first post that these entries are coming from a white, upper class woman. I’ve grappled with whether or not I should be or am responsible for adding an addendum to each post acknowledging the perspective from which I write. I don’t think I must, but at least for this one I will. Only the immensely privileged can even think of keeping up with this shit. And if your anxiety has more to do with what shoes you own than how you’re going to feed your family, you’re blessed. That said, this phenomena, though perhaps most indulged by the uber wealthy, is not solely reserved for them. The tragedy is in the fact that (for the most part) what is seen as luxury is just a more overt and expensive pursuit of fuckability. People across classes mismanage money and strive to acquire more of it so that they can pursue better. And you cannot convince me that in a culture not driven by fuckabilty, we’d have self mutilation and excess consumption as hallmarks of wealth and success.

I have spent tens of thousands of dollars on fitness alone. Personal trainers, equipment, guides, gym memberships, boutique classes, alo yoga and lululemon. When money was no issue (i.e. when I was younger and stupid and not saving a dime), I would get regular manicures, lash extensions, eyebrow waxes. I got my chin lipo-suctioned. I have lip injections. I got my eyebrows and hairline tattooed. Since middle school, I’ve consumed endless makeup tutorials, clothing hauls, look books, style tips, OOTDs, get ready with me’s, makeup reviews etc. At 13, watching beauty gurus walk through their routine, I was racked with anxiety for not having the exact products used, and I’d develop lists and bookmarks of clothes and makeup I needed to look like them. I’ve had disordered eating habits since my teen years, which developed into full blown eating disorders in college. The all consuming brainwash that is an eating disorder isolated me from both those around me and myself. AND YET, after all that, I found myself underdressed in line at Stephen’s Talkhouse, utterly unfuckable by comparison. None of what I just enumerated is novel or unique. Every woman I know has grappled with some if not all of what I just described. And even though I have put countless time, money, and energy into my own fuckability, I find that I am unable to achieve it as graciously as the girls I waited alongside. I never buy quite the right pair of jeans. I still can’t get my Dyson Airwrap to work for my hair. Despite the over exercise and starvation over the years, I am an average size. And even if I did lose the 20-30 pounds I’ve been pursuing for the past 8 years, my proportions prevent me from achieving the ideal physique without medical intervention. I still don’t know my angles for photos, my makeup always slides down my face, my perfume doesn’t last etc etc. Most of all, I hate, and I mean HATE, how much these idiotic, trivial things dictate my life. And I know many women feel the same, even those who I hold as the standard. It is embarrassing. It is exhausting. We are finally, kind of, talking about it. Here’s where the dilemma comes in.

Flipping through a magazine, or more probably, scrolling through your Tik Tok feed, the fuckability standard is clear: American or Western European features, white, thick hair, skinny with an ass, shining teeth, full lips etc. Sometimes a person of color or a fat or trans or disabled person makes it through, but typically only if they fit into every other category. And there’s a new quality we crave in our idols. Celebrity was once reserved for the untouchable. They were glamorous, unattainable, and allusive. Now, we need relatability. And so, these unrealistically beautiful people on our screens also share their struggles with anxiety or disordered eating or bullying in middle school. The “They’re just like us!” section of People magazine was once reserved for trips to the grocery store and taking kids to the park. Now, it’s what SSRIs they’re taking and their damaged relationship with their mothers. Influencers tell us that, “social media is fake!” The more radical will perhaps reveal that they got a nose job or ate taco bell for dinner. We applaud the honesty and feel that if they can be like us, we can be like them. The girl with a six pack says “I LOVE CARBS!” as she takes a bite of a donut that she certainly will not finish. It is no longer in vogue to transparently abuse yourself to maintain your physique and glamor. We are meant to rest, pursue health over thinness, find balance. We all turn to one another and agree that diet culture is toxic, share articles on body neutrality, and, if not in so many words, condemn the pursuit of fuckability. But we don’t stop.

We know that if we were to stop, if we were to actually eat what we want, wear what feels right, stop the botox and waxes, not only would our fuckability diminish, but by comparison, those who do not relinquish the pursuit will only become more valuable. If we all collectively stopped trying so damn hard, perhaps we’d achieve a utopian freedom. But if only some of us do, with others on the proverbial pool’s edge, letting go of your hand as you plunge into the water, we’re fucked (and not in the sexy fuckability way!). So, we all remain in that lower right box of the prisoner’s dilemma, preferring to suffer with the potential to rise above those who do give up on the endeavor, than to take the risk for liberation.

There are many nuances I’ve neglected. Where do men fall into this? What about the women who genuinely do not give a fuck? What about the people who are neither woman nor man? Where do we go from here? I fear that when we all discovered the word “nuance” we failed to realize that the nuance can exist between and within the people who engage with whatever they are consuming. For some reason, when we are confronted with someone presenting an idea, in whatever format, we assault them if they haven’t considered every possible angle and experience. What happened to interpretation? Disagreement without condemnation? I also am lazy and don’t want to keep writing. But mostly the other stuff about not everyone needing to be an expert on everything they talk about and allowing for the nuance to develop between the writer and reader.