Anna Wintour might be one of the most exhausting people in the world. Wintour has taken it upon herself to rehabilitate not only Georgina Chapman, but to completely whitewash (operative word: WHITE) Lena Dunham’s image. In Chapman’s case, I sort of understand it because at least Chapman is a designer and Wintour is basically protecting herself when she protects Chapman. But Lena? Lena Dunham is supremely replaceable. Lena Dunham should have been canceled by Anna Wintour years ago. But no, Lena keeps on getting invitations to the Met Gala. Lena keeps on getting space in Vogue to write about all of her feelings.
In the March issue of Vogue, Lena detailed her lengthy ordeal with endometriosis and her hysterectomy. I understood why Vogue would have given Lena the space for that, because those are medical conversations that more women need to have with their doctors. That being said, that Vogue essay was an exercise in overwrought writing and honestly, even if Lena’s situation is genuinely sympathetic, no one will ever feel as sorry for Lena as she feels for herself. So with that in mind, Vogue gave Lena more space in the June issue to… detail her breakup from Jack Antonoff and how she’s learning to be single again. Again, this sh-t is overwrought. You can read the full piece here.
“I’m going to die alone.” It’s a refrain often uttered by women, with a kind of tragicomic self-awareness, after a bad date or the breakup of a brief romance or the adoption of a calico cat. I can hardly count the rom-coms that hinge on this premise (a woman has resigned herself to a life of takeout, cheap Chardonnay, and quirky pajamas). But even said jokingly, the words are possessed of a horrible tyranny, as though aloneness is an island on which, as punishment for failing to successfully adapt yourself to romantic love, you are marooned. Alone is a place that nobody would want to go on vacation, much less live permanently.
It was December when we broke up, that kind of confusing weather where glaring sunlight makes the cold air feel even colder. We sat in our shared kitchen of nearly four years and quietly faced each other, acknowledging what nobody wanted to say. That obsessive connection had turned to blind devotion, and the blinders were coming off to reveal that we had evolved separately (the least shocking reason of all and perhaps the most common). That anger wasn’t sexy or sustainable. That our hearts were still broken from trying so hard to fix it but no longer uncertain about whether or not we could. The finality nearly killed me, and I remember muttering, “But what if we still went on dates?” He laughed sadly. “Whatever you want.”
That’s as far as I got, even though I wanted to stop reading after the first paragraph. It’s just pages and pages of that sh-t. So instead of talking about how there could be one kernel of truth to Lena’s essay – that breakups suck – let’s talk about WHY this essay exists in Vogue? Why does Lena Dunham still get so many chances to write for major publications and speak as if she’s still “the voice of a generation”? If I was part of Lena’s generation, I would be outraged that she was speaking on my behalf. And again, why are continuously force-fed Lena’s Special Snowflake routine? I just can’t. I’m beyond over this.
Photos courtesy of Getty.