In a world where thin is hailed as the ultimate goal for beauty, being fat is the curse and bane for women everywhere. It doesn’t matter if you have small breasts, or a flat butt – or even a big nose. All of these things become “cute” or “endearing” or some other meaningless term of endearment…as long as the person with these “flaws” is thin.
Just the other night, I was watching Bridgette Jones’ Diary. Finally! I said to myself. A movie about a woman who isn’t a wisp at 100 pounds. One who carries her extra weight – if not with pride, at least with dignity.
Imagine my shock, when the starting line of the movie, announces her as a 135 pounds! Oh send her to the fat farm! What horror that she dares to have a HINT of a potbelly! No, no. Show us no more. There are children in the audiences, by god!
When did 135 become fat? I always thought that it was still “cute” and “cuddly”. Evidently, I missed the memo that told me that I was now horrendously overweight and should wear the burqa to hide this hideous malformed body from the rest of the world.
Once upon a time, this perpetual state of anorexia was not considered the epitome of beauty.
Look at the artists of the Renaissance. They lovingly paint women with full lush bodies, and white soft thighs. The tiny little bellies that these women have were adoringly chiseled from marble, and you can practically imagine the artist’s hands caressing her curves.
When did the healthy appreciation for a body that was more then just skin and bones become an anathema?
When did curves become…unlovable?
Even through the sixties, buxom women were considered sexy. Look at Marilyn Monroe. Just her very name still evokes thoughts of lust and sensuality. She was a size 14.
So, at what point did thin, slightly anorexic women with flat stomachs and no figure become the norm? Since when did waists that would make Scarlet O’Hara jealous become the standard, and not something extraordinary?
I would like to say that such things while amuses me, don’t affect me. After all, I’m so above it all. I know who I am. I’ve accept a lot of the quirks about me. And heck, there are days when I think my body is pretty damn cool.
However, that doesn’t mean that I don’t shirk in self consciousness, every time I see thin, lithe women gyrating in g-strings with perfectly flat tummies on television (just as a side-note – only 1/3 of the women at clubs have such bodies. Yet according to any music video, or movie, evidently all women are supposed to look like this. Must be going to the wrong clubs).
It isn’t the bodies that bother me so much, but the attitudes that go along with it.
Almost like a “what is wrong with you, that you don’t have this body”.
I admit. I have a small belly. And my thighs would probably make Botticelli swoon with joy. But for the most part, I’m happy with my body. Clothes fit me well, and I’m happy being able to indulge Ben and Jerry’s without feeling the need to rush to the toilet and expunge myself of any culinary treats. I don’t count calories when I eat, and dammit, I enjoy myself.
But still…
This attitude is what bothers me. The belief that average sized women (like me) should be on a perpetual diet, because our “average-ness” has been replaced by waif like bodies. I reject the notion that this new body-image has been imposed upon us by television and glossy magazines. After all, these mediums are not the trend-setters they portend to be, but merely followers of current attitudes.
I blame this. I blame the god-awful after school specials on anorexia and bulimia. I blame the ballerinas and the mothers that encourage their pink little girls to want to be one when they grow up. I blame food commercials that never show a fat person eating. I blame the schools who are so obsessed at teaching kids nutrition, that everyone thought that they were fat. I blame the Barbie doll that taught children that this is what their bodies should look like.
But most of all, I blame ourselves. Women everywhere that is willing to buy into the notion that there is something wrong with their body, just because it’s not a size four. I blame ourselves for not have the courage, the strength, nor the will to reject these notions. I blame us, we, myself for not standing up and looking at ourselves proudly in the mirror.