Welcome to spring, Wildcats! While it may still be a tepid 40 degrees in Evanston, in our hearts and minds it is a balmy 72, as noted by the optimism of sundresses and shorts meandering around campus. If Sex Week has taught us anything, it’s that spring is for copulating, and there is no better celebration of human sexuality and the human body in general (in all of its horrendous and extraneous details) than Roche’s Wetlands.
Let me be frank: Wetlands is not sexy. If anything, it can be championed as the least aesthetically pleasurable book I’ve had the recent joy of getting my hands on.
We follow the tale of our protagonist Helen, who is sent to the hospital after a questionable shaving incident that leads her to undergo a sphincter-related surgery. In her musings and ruminations pre- and post-op in what she fondly deems to be the “ass ward,” she describes her attempts to woo her male nurse and to reunite her divorced parents.
If you think this sounds hunky-dory so far, let me paint a more visceral picture of the subjects broached within the protagonist’s mind (or at least those fit for print). Helen takes it upon herself to be a human garbage disposal of sorts: She consumes everything and anything her body creates other than urine and fecal matter. Pus, snot, scabs, skin, hair and pretty much anything else (other than a curious aversion to ear wax) come out and go right back in via her mouth. Her body is not only an instrument for sexual pleasure, but also a factory of bodily functions that are never as attractive as we like to imagine them being.
Sexy, right? But that’s what is so refreshing about Roche’s unflinching opinions – she allows us to question the normal grooming and truly bizarre mating rituals women typically participate in. Why not let your eyebrows roam as free as the chicken at Whole Foods? Or let your armpit hair grow to extraordinary and braid-able lengths? Granted, Roche also brings into question many hygienic practices whose corporeal explorations are not for the faint of heart – or weak of stomach. One harrowing scene describing Helen’s penchant for placing avocado pits in a particular intimate area permanently scared me away from cutting them up in my kitchen.
Ultimately, Roche’s book can’t be particularly touted as the bastion of post-feminist texts. But, following in the squishy footsteps of Chuck Palahniuk, it is both gross and engrossing.
