Finalist in the 2022 WOW! Women On Writing Personal Essay contest

By Barbara Neal Varma

Pandemic, politics, climate change, oh my. No wonder we’re all a tad stressed out these days. Problem is, I’m more likely to keep quiet and risk an ulcer than vent my frustrations, wouldn’t be polite. So when Will Smith slapped Chris Rock, I confess to experiencing a vicarious kind of relief—not because of the slap itself (I’m still not convinced that was chivalry’s finest moment) but for what happened next: Will’s “Take my wife’s name out your f*ing mouth!” rant heard round the world. Twice!

It was explosive. Jarring. And yet strangely cathartic. I can’t tell you how many times since the dawn of 2020 I’ve wanted to toss my shy caution aside and curse like a pirate. Truth is, after the last few crazy-making years, given the right triggers, we are all Will Smith.

And now it’s my turn.

Pop-up Ads

One slip of the computer mouse over those cute summer sandals while shopping online for a comfortable pair of pumps—the unicorn of women’s footwear—and bam(!), my screen is filled with blinking promos of other sandals I “might also like.” If they didn’t light up like Vegas marquees, I’d be better able to ignore them. But no such luck. They flash, they jiggle, they settle right smack in the middle of my comp screen like cats on a keyboard.

Worse, the ads are total snitches. Hard to go into stealth mode for shiny things I don’t need but really, really, want when every pop-up that, well, pops up is evidence of my guilty transactions. Last time my husband was at my laptop and did a Google search, a whole array of Brighton purses came onscreen, giving him a full frontal view of my recent shopping activity. I’ve tried to close out the silly things but they keep coming back and in increasing numbers like Karadashians on Hulu.

No, there’s only one thing left to do to. I’m talkin’ to you, Zuckerberg! Take my private browsing history out of your f*ing algorithms!

That goes for you, too, Google.

Close Encounters At The Movies

The scene: a nearly empty movie theater. My husband and I sit in a distant corner, secluded enough to avoid any indoor virus cooties but still affording a decent view of the screen. A few other moviegoers enter stage left. Against all safety tips and logic, they bypass the open options and make a slow beeline for our row, settling in with their popcorn and aerosols a mere three seats away.

These are the same people, by the way, who, given an array of unoccupied public bathroom stalls, take the one next to yours.

Realize, when we buy movie tickets these days, we’re privy to a computerized array of the theater with already purchased seats marked in no-go red. It’s easy, then, to choose a spot well away from the fray, the better to watch the movie by without the fear of any lingering COVID contamination.

And yet, just the other day, my husband and I were ensconced in our safety zone, waiting for the movie to start, when nearly a dozen high schoolers (best guess) came strolling in. I watched with growing alarm as they marched past the many empty rows to settle in the one directly in front of us.

Now, now, don’t worry. I did not yell, “Keep my socially distant personal space out of your f*ing movie-going experience!” to a bunch of teens just wanting to have fun. We moved to higher ground instead. The better to throw popcorn from.

The Bachelor Franchise

If I live to be a 102 and no longer able to wear high heels, I’ll never understand the allure of The Bachelor TV series.

C’mon, ladies—where’s your pride? Your dignity? Don’t you realize that with each episode, you’re dating a man who’s cheating on you with multiple women—and in front of a really large viewing audience? Are we, the smarter gender, really O.K. with that?

I admit I’ve never seen a complete episode, only the commercials or trailers that often show a split-screen of that season’s designated bachelor sitting in two different hot tubs with two different women. Wine glasses are clinked. Cheating tongues are intertwined. Instead of enticing me to watch the show, I’m completely turned off, and soon so is my TV.

Of course, one might say that The Bachelorette, with its one-women, many-men show is the franchise’s nod to equality.

*head tilt* But is it?

Seems to me guys wouldn’t appreciate their love interest getting busy with another dude on set any more than we ladies do. (I could be wrong there.)

And don’t get me started on the whole “take this rose” thing at the end of every episode. A rose by any other name is still a kiss-off, the televised equivalent of “I’ll call you,” and we awesome women—and men—of the world deserve better.

Ultimately I blame the producers who take our penchant for romance straight to the bank. So, to the makers and shakers of The Bachelor and its many spin-offs, I offer this heartfelt advice: Keep our love lives out of your f*ing money-hungry hands! But here’s a rose for your efforts.

There. I feel better.