I'm Mostly Here to Enjoy Myself: One Woman's Pursuit of Pleasure in Paris

by Glynnis MacNicol

When I press and ask, “Is this normal?” she says, “No one is sure,” because “no one” has ever done the research into the universal experience of half the population.

Which, lol (the only appropriate answer to that question is, truly, lol).

One of the unexpected realizations to come out of my forties is that being human is often largely ridiculous. This, and that how we experience romance at age fifteen is more or less the same as romance at eighty-five.

It was then I realized, no amount of paper can replace the deep confidence that comes from a lifetime of being given the benefit of the doubt.

I’m not here to fight that particular battle. I don’t want to fight any battles. I don’t actually want to do anything.

It’s in the face of this expression that I remember something I’ve always known. Not learned. Known. Far from cataloging the state of your breasts, or your hips, or your tummy, men are mostly just thrilled you’ve taken off your clothes at all. Women’s bodies are beautiful. Truly. All of them. The amount of energy that has gone into convincing us otherwise is extraordinary and telling.

We always want to exchange our aliveness for perfection.

We’re frequently reminded there is no greater sin a woman can commit than to take great pleasure in herself.