On Miranda July Rubbing Oil on her Perfect Ass

And jealousy telling me who I am and what I need.

I’m on Substack chat watching Miranda July rub oil on her perfect bubble ass per instructions by her Ayurvedic practitioner, and I’m flooded with a mixture of jealousy and horniness. I start to hate her, to be my nastiest puritanical bitch self. Why does she need so much fucking attention, it’s so annoying. Fucking publicity stunt bullshit, showing her body online. And how does she look this good? She’s 50, her ass must be fake, how is she so hot? Well she lives in LA, the mecca of the mummification of youth, sure she has the best plastic surgeons, and why does she care so much about fashion and looking cool, so vain, petty…

Then I’m jealous of her living in LA, that she’s steeped in coolness, the access to all the best, I’m jealous that she has an Ayurvedic practitioner. I think back to when I lived in LA (my favorite city in the world) and for my 34th birthday went to Surya Spa, an Ayurvedic spa overlooking the ocean, and had two people massage me at once with oil and then feed me hot vegan Indian cuisine while I stared blissfully at the wall, chewing slowly like a geriatric. Before I had kids, before I moved to swamp-ass New Orleans, when I had money to spend on luxurious things, on myself.

I look in the mirror at my dumpy sweats and wrinkled face speckled with brown spots from my recent pregnancy.

I’m jealous. I’m so jealous. I want to be her. I want to fuck her. I’m self hating.

I have to slow my breath. Fine, I admit, this is telling me something. When this nasty part of me arises, I have to listen to her. She is lacking something she needs. She has desires that are unmet. What is it that Miranda July has that I want so fucking badly?

Here we go. She’s an artist. Courageously making things, a huge body of work, films, books, art pieces, music. She’s brought communities of female artists together. She’s a woman over 40 with a child being openly sexual, provocative, hot as fuck. Her bestselling, award winning book sits on my nightstand, taunting me to read.

She is doing what I want to do. This is it.

Now, I hold this bitch inside of me, I let her cry over never being good enough, never being cool or stylish, not taking the right risks at the right time, longing for Los Angeles, I let her rage at her lost youth. And once she’s done with her tantrum, I tell her that her life isn’t over yet.

I look to Miranda July. She is not my enemy, she is my hero. She shows me what is possible. She is showing me the way. She is throwing my own desire in front of me and flaunting it in blue lacy lingerie.

Back to the drawing board. I have a film I’ve written that I want to make. I have music I’m recording. I’m writing again. I’m creativity coaching, uplifting artists, helping them to birth their projects. I’m trying to build a community of artists, of women, to support each other, to support me. I’m building muscle, lifting weights three times a week, starting to fit into my pre-baby clothes again. Fuck, maybe I’ll make a botox appointment, buy a sexy dress. Put some attention on my appearance for the first time in six years, since I started having kids.

Maybe I’ll even post a video of myself rubbing oil on my ass. Why not?

Interested in creativity coaching with me? Hit me up! I’d love to connect.

Julie Lake Creativity Coach