The lovely Amak over at the queer behind the mirror tagged me in his blog post about his recent food indulgences, asking me to reveal my own guilty pleasure. A few years ago, I’d have easily been able to point a finger to my chocolate-covered-almond habit, which saw me eating crazy amounts of these candies almost everyday. But I haven’t done that in ages, nor even eaten to the point of overfullness in recent memory. Even though I wasn’t consciously struggling with it, I still consider this an achievement, because I have a history of filling myself with food when feeling out of sorts.
What are my current guilty pleasures?
Well, I indulge in a love for Beyonce, despite (or because of) her pop sound. But then, a passion for dancing to this music has boomeranged around my social circle from ironic affection to admitted fandom, eliminating any guilt since most of my friends feel the same way.
How about sex? There’s nothing juicy to reveal about carnal interactions in my relationship, because though there is much pleasure, I feel no guilt. Oh, aside from the guilt over occasional loudness that no doubt can be heard by the neighbours: I honestly feel bad about that, but it’s less an indulgence and more an accident. Since they read this blog, let’s make this is my very public apology.
What else could I offer up? Television. After deciding that I was too punk for teevee as a teenager, I stopped watching it. This self-imposed ban began crumbling a couple years ago, when after the third week in my new house, I realized that we had cable (I don’t know what I’d thought my roommates had been watching… A lot of CBC?). That winter I made up for lost time, consuming a million episodes of CSI and discovering my love for What Not To Wear.
Yes, that’s pretty much the height of my guilty pleasures: I adore a horrible show in which people’s wardrobes are made over in an attempt to provide them with a new lease on life. Even as it makes me angry because there’s no gender diversity, little racial diversity, and nothing said about how appearance and class privilege are intertwined, I could watch this television show for hours.
And I have. In fact, I’m already a little sad, because there’s always a WNTW marathon around the winter holidays, and I don’t know anyone with cable. I will no doubt spend at least some of my upcoming free time searching the streaming and bit-torrent downloads websites, looking for a fix. It’s not so much entertainment as it is therapy, mindless and easy and comforting. I don’t like shopping, I’m not particularly fashionable or interested in clothing, but I do like style. More than anything, I like the reassurance that even at my most boring jeans-and-black-tshirts for days on end, I’m not a candidate for a WNTW intervention.