I admit it. As a teen, I stressed over my body parts more than my homework. As I got older, I kept stressing over the same parts, but usually for different reasons. My bits were never in the right place, or even in existence, when I needed them to be. There is no end to the female litany of Not Good Enoughs, and it’s reinforced daily, hourly, minutely. Airbrushed beauties, photoshopped into perfection have the audacity to model the shirt I want to buy. Damn it.
If we’re lucky, we finally stop sweating about it. Maybe not all of it, maybe not all the way, but the smart money reveals you can cram almost anything into a pair of Spanx for a few hours, and stop worrying about it for awhile. I am torn between sympathy and shock when I see women my own age (and younger) fighting the clock desperately, which must truly suck if you’re an actress, but when they all end up stretched and pulled and pumped and propped, I am thankful for two things: I’m not Meg Ryan (who erased the cute) and nobody cares.
BUT. Now it’s getting interesting. Oh yes, implants and Botox are for amateurs. Now, we’re supposed to get our hootchie kitted out so it’s pretty. This surgery has been snipping about the edges of mainstream media for a few years now, but some ExHouseWife of Some Guy I’ve Never Heard of announced she’d had it done (it’s called vaginal rejuvenation; and here I always thought that’s what men were for) as a neener neener to her ex. I believe her wording was “I want him to know what he’ll never have again”. I’m thinking he’s thinking, “how tragic”. Or not.
I am now reading story after story of women apparently unhappy with the looks of their nether regions. I, of course, have been as nearsighted as a bat since birth, and I get to just assume my flower is as lovely as ever. I do not need anything else to worry about. I understand if you hate your nose, and want to get it altered. When you walk in a room, your nose is one of the first things people see. Unless you got cartoon-size implants, which means your nose doesn’t matter anymore. You share your nose with the world. I’m presuming you mostly keep your hoohoo under wraps. Mostly. And if someone is getting to see it, I’m thinking you should know them well enough that they know not to look, point, and run screaming from the room. It’s just polite.
I wear makeup. Sometimes. I like heels. Sometimes. My jeans are tight and my talk is loose; I’m addicted to my leather jackets, I care how I look (unless I’m writing, then all bets are off), and while I’m decidedly not very girly, I like being a woman. And while I may frown over the wrinkles that are creeping in and stick my fingers in my ears and sing la la la la when my hairdresser tells me she finds a grey hair, it’s fine. It is. I look back on all the time I wasted worrying about things when I was 20, when for some reason I’d decided my butt was too big and my boobs were too small and nothing would ever, ever be good enough. I look back and have only one thought: If I’d only understood that was as good as it was gonna get, I would have shown it to way more people.
I try to work out because my doctor yells at me if I don’t. I have Adam Higson at the ready, the lad who can actually make me fit. Ish. If you’re in the Hamilton area, he can give you a new body. Seriously. He’s magic. Call me for his contact info. But I haven’t seen him in two months, and I have to go on Friday and I will be in agony. But I do that to get strong, not sexy. There is nothing sexy about me bitching and complaining my way through pull ups, covered in sweat, clothed in stretchy things that make my arse resemble two cats fighting in a bag.
So to all the Brandis out there rocking the headlines with this nonsense, I say piss off. If you have time to literally be focusing so intently beyond your navel, you need a hobby or a job. Nice message to send to your kids. And if you’re a guy suggesting this to a woman, I say only, get your own naked self to a mirror and report back when it’s pretty.
Yeah. Didn’t think so. Hit the lights on your way out. We all got tired of waiting.