Amazon.com Review
Emily Jenkins isn't ashamed of her insecurities, but she isn't throwing away her preconceptions, either.
Tongue First can be reassuring to anyone who has felt embarrassed about disrobing in public or wonders about being more adventurous, as Jenkins unleashes her wit on topics from sensory deprivation to tattoos to afternoon naps. All sorts of things get tasted in this book: scary things, exciting things, fun things, banal things. Somehow, Jenkins portrays them as all OK--or, at least, just as OK as anything else.
This catalog of emotions and experiences categorizes body decoration as celebration, explores what people do to control rebellious bodies (or to flout the convention that says they should), shows how getting a tattoo isn't all that different from the search for the perfect shade of red lipstick, and gives us a good look at the inside of Jenkins's head (and, in the chapter in which she shaves it, the outside as well). Her catty wit can sometimes occlude her message; when she slams an outré practice, then demonstrates that it's just like what ordinary people do, the reader may well ask if Jenkins is kidding or making social commentary, particularly since her criticisms rarely get more judgmental than a resounding "not for me, thanks." --Cheryl Trooskin
From Publishers Weekly
"Adventures" is not a misnomer: trying everything from sleep deprivation to sniffing heroin, Jenkins, a graduate student and author of a children's novel titled The Secret Life of Billy's Uncle Myron, serves as her own lab rat, all in the interest of exploring "how the body is both a prison and a vehicle for adventure." Can it be escaped, or at least briefly transcended? An unpretentious guide who doesn't indulge in fashionable bad-girl posturing or pat herself on the back for her daring, the author explores posh spas and grimy strip joints with sharp wit and a good dose of common sense. She tries to follow sex manuals, gets a tattoo, gets Rolfed, goes to a nude beach?she draws a line, however, at colonic irrigation. Strangely, Jenkins finds one of the simplest experiments?shaving her head?proves to be the most disturbing: it forces her to "look down in shame when an acquaintance passes me on the street, to hesitate going to a party because I feel so ugly, to choose clothes that render me invisible." While the book comes to no conclusions and settles on no single method of self-knowledge ("I am no convert, only a dabbler," the author admits), it closes with a wry?and characteristically ambiguous?vision of everyone's ultimate destiny at a Florida retirement community: "the invisible scarring caused by the sun reminds me of its presence with a persistent itch. Here is a taste of the physical changes that will come with age. My tan is telling me the future."
Copyright 1998 Reed Business Information, Inc.