Body Image and Self-Critique in Catherine Cohen's God I Feel Modern Tonight

The Thematic Claim

In God I Feel Modern Tonight, Catherine Cohen’s speaker articulates a relentless, often contradictory self-critique of her body and appearance, revealing a deep entanglement between physical self-worth and the punishing logic of diet culture. The poems argue that modern femininity is performed through a constant cycle of obsession with weight, shape, and perceived flaws, while simultaneously acknowledging the absurdity and impossibility of ever satisfying those standards. The speaker’s voice oscillates between confessional vulnerability and wry self-mockery, making visible the internal pressure to be thin, cool, and desirable—and the exhaustion that comes from failing to meet that ideal.

Tracing the Theme Across the Collection

1. The Gym and the Male Gaze in Chapter 9

In “poem I wrote after I went to the gym with someone I had sex with,” the speaker places herself in a setting coded as a site of self-improvement. She links her body to a sexual partner’s observation, implying that the gym is not just about health but about being seen and evaluated. The line about washing hair as a sign of adulthood hints at the banal labor of maintaining an appearance for others. The poem’s casual tone undercuts the pressure she feels, creating a tension between wanting to be desired and resenting the need to perform.

2. The Doctor’s Scale in Chapter 17

Chapter 17, “poem I wrote after you ordered fried shrimp at the diner and I was like ‘gross’ but really I was like ‘dang that sounds good,’” features a moment at the doctor’s office where the speaker learns she has gained fifteen pounds. The doctor’s flat “yeah…” mirrors the speaker’s own deadpan acknowledgment of her body’s betrayal. This brief exchange crystallizes how medical authority reinforces diet culture: the scale becomes a moral judgement, not just a measurement. The speaker’s impulse to hide her desire for fried shrimp reveals the shame attached to eating.

3. The Endless Diet in Chapter 51

The poem “poem I wrote after another exquisite morning on my phone” offers the most direct critique of dieting as a futile routine. The speaker asks whether she should “intermittently fast or intuitively eat” and confesses she has been trying to lose twelve pounds for fourteen years. This absurd timeline exposes the timeless trap of body surveillance: no amount of eggs or cucumber meals will ever deliver lasting satisfaction. The poem’s final line—“grow up”—punches through the self-absorption, suggesting that the obsession itself is immature.

4. Jealousy and Thinness in Chapter 31

In “poem I wrote after I asked my personal trainer if he believed in god,” the speaker admits that whenever she thinks someone looks cool, she realizes “they are just thin.” This brutally honest observation collapses judgment of style into judgment of body size. Jealousy becomes a house she swallows while it burns—a painful, self-destructive internal fire that she cannot extinguish. The personal trainer, a figure of physical discipline, frames the whole poem as a confession about how thinness masquerades as identity.

5. Sex, Recording, and Body Shame in Chapter 50

Chapter 50, “poem I wrote after I asked my friend if her new boyfriend cares about me,” depicts the speaker filming sex with a partner, only to feel “too big” while he feels “too small.” The symmetry of their mutual body shame underscores how pornographic self-surveillance distorts intimacy. The speaker then announces her plan to lose weight by eating only cucumbers—a joke that is also a cry for help. Her therapist urges gentleness, but the speaker admits it is “so fucking impossible to talk to her.” This poem layers body critique onto romantic insecurity and therapy resistance, showing how the obsession infiltrates every relationship.

Character and Symbol Connections

The speaker is the primary lens through which body critique flows. She is a young woman in New York, navigating dating, work, and social media, constantly comparing herself to thinner, younger women (the “girl younger than me” in chapter 31, the boyfriend’s exes in chapter 30). The lover/partner appears in several poems as a mirror for body shame—he joins her in filming sex and then feeling inadequate. The therapist represents the voice of reason that the speaker resists, calling for gentleness while the speaker insists on cucumbers. The friend appears in chapter 50 as a listener, but the speaker’s primary confession is about her body, not her friendship.

Symbols reinforce the theme. The phone/smartphone is a tool for self-recording, comparison, and exposure (the nude sent to three guys, the sex recording). The subway C train (chapter 2) becomes a site of mundane anxiety where the body is stuck in transit. The beaded bag is a fragile, feminine accessory that suggests performance. The cold brew coffee appears in chapter 3 as a purchased comfort that fuels the day’s self-critique. Even the crème of “crum” (chapter 3) blends physical release with emotional breakdown, hinting that the body’s pleasures are entangled with its pains.

Complexity and Contradiction

Cohen’s treatment of body image refuses easy resolution. The speaker both performs self-critique and critiques the performance. In chapter 27, she admits playing a video game where she could be “thin and blonde for a while,” yet immediately asserts she wouldn’t want to be hit by a car. She wants to lose weight but also loves eating and drinking (chapter 51). She knows dieting is silly but can’t stop. This contradiction mirrors a real cultural bind: women are taught to discipline their bodies while also being told to love themselves. The poems capture that whiplash in real time.

Moreover, the speaker often laughs at herself, using humor as a shield. The line “I can’t stop checking my pussy for weird bumps” (chapter 17) jolts from medical shame to absurdity. Yet the humor never fully defuses the pain. The final “Note About the Author” (chapter 64) reminds us that behind the speaker stands Catherine Cohen, a comedian who turns her own insecurities into art—blurring the line between the confessional and the crafted. This ambiguity is the collection’s power: the self-critique is authentic and performed at once.

Study Questions and Answers

1. How does the speaker’s relationship with her therapist reflect her body image struggles?
   The therapist repeatedly advises gentleness and self-compassion, but the speaker dismisses this as impossible. In chapter 50, she admits it is “so fucking impossible to talk to her,” revealing that body self-critique has become a stubborn habit that resists therapeutic intervention. Therapy represents a rational solution that the speaker’s inner critic will not accept.

2. What role do romantic partners play in the speaker’s self-critique?
   Partners serve as mirrors: in chapter 50, filming sex leads both to feel “too big” and “too small,” showing how intimacy is infected by performance anxiety. In chapter 17, the speaker’s jealousy over a boyfriend’s past girlfriends (chapter 30) extends to her own body, as she compares herself to women she imagines as thinner.

3. Why does the speaker mention diet plans like “cucumbers for meals only” or intermittent fasting?
   These diets are presented as absurd, unsustainable solutions that the speaker knows won’t work (she jokes about them), yet she still fantasizes about them. This contradiction highlights how diet culture produces endless striving without satisfaction. The twelve-pound goal she has held for fourteen years (chapter 51) exemplifies the treadmill.

4. How does social media and phone use amplify body image issues in the poems?
   The speaker sends nudes, films sex, and constantly checks her phone. In chapter 9, she fears that looking at her phone will lead to death—or worse, not death. The phone facilitates comparison (Instagram, following/unfollowing) and self-objectification. It is both a tool for connection and a source of anxiety.

5. In what way does the author’s real-world biography complicate our reading of the speaker’s body critique?
   The “Note About the Author” identifies Catherine Cohen as a comedian and performer who has been featured in Vogue and The New York Times. This professional success contrasts with the speaker’s constant self-deprecation. The poems become a performance of vulnerability for an audience, raising the question: Is the body critique a genuine cry or a stage act that itself critiques the pressure to be “cool” by confessing flaws?