By Maria Padhila
I indulge in a secret vice, the loathsome practice of which robs me of sleep and peace and time spent in healthy family pursuits. It leaves me with deep, dark circles under my eyes (which are actually sort of fetching, in a Goth way), aching limbs, pale skin, and the inability to give a firm handshake and look someone in the eye.
What do you think this vice might be? Reading online advice columns.
When I make my surveys of online media for work or for leisure, my obsessed and corrupted eye is drawn, however I might resist, to certain words, certain depictions of depraved and debasing acts. These acts are not depicted right there on the home page, of course; you have to seek deeply for them, and once I’ve been caught in their sticky foretaste, seek I must. But I can tell you the words that entice me. It is usually a woman’s cry for help, and it is usually a woman who is unhappy, unfulfilled, alluding to traps and boredom and restlessness of her mind, her limbs, her emotions. A click leads me to the interior, where the full scenario is played out.
Truly, whenever a woman writes for advice or even writes a blog post or similar about what Betty Friedan called “the problem with no name,” she’s asking for it. Any reference to how your life is changing, your needs are changing, you feel like what once worked to make you healthy and happy isn’t anymore, and you’ll get more advice than you know what to do with. And anytime I see such a subject matter, I’m drawn to it like a moth to the flame. I used to think it was because I wanted to know what women in this world are thinking about. It’s true, that’s part of the reason — but I’ve come to realize it’s also an exercise in masochism and self-punishment. And a little self-exploration, too.