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.
Blame the Brazilians for this latest fad …..
Back in our parents day , your Lady Bits where covered by equal parts , hair and mystery ,
accessed only in a dark room or the dome light of a 55 Chevy ….
With the advent of string bikinis and waxing (or shaving ) to fit , your Lady bits are on display . Nothing like the eradication of hair around such a tender area to bring total awareness of ones nether regions as never before ….
Sex with the lights on … during the day even , is now the accepted norm …. Labia too
” big ” , trim them down . Bored ? Vajazzle …. Need to be a virgin for your traditional marriage ? Rebuild your hymen and throw a few stitches in ….
Like a rock should describe your Chevy truck , not , your new implants when you foolishly went from an A to a D with the budget surgery ….
Perfection is an unreal goal . Far better to accept and love yourself .
After everything I’ve been through in my life, I reserve the right to grow old gracefully. I’ve earned every single one of my silver hairs, and every crinkle on my face (laugh lines, Mr. Zena calls them, and they mostly are), and the burgeoning roadmap on my legs. If the world is repulsed, it can find something else to goggle at.
And whenever I get morose about the whittling effects of the years on my physique, I’ll crank up Stan Rogers (“Lies, all lies….”) for some perspective. I know what real beauty is.
I’m just an ol’ chick magnet.
Can’t hepp it. Never could. Why change anything?
One of my favorite jokes involves a woman who got “vaginal rejuvenation”, and she gets a thank you note from little Billy in the burn unit, thanking her for his new ears.
And nice picture, Chris. What the hell is coming out of your nose?
The pope, I think…
Oh that’s rich!! I was having a Booster Juice when I read that one, jmd. Almost had to send you an invoice for a screen and keyboard rejuvenation.
All I can tell you is that it was a cold, cold day.
Too funny jmd …. That Pope is everywhere Zena .
Yeh, he does seem to, erm, ‘pope’ up in the most unexpected places.
Lorraine
First you want another cat and now the pussy rejuvenation story? Hmmm Ladies, let’s face it, men don’t really care. Most guys think Vagina is the capital of Saskatchewan. It’s all good as long as you are content with your own self. No one is happy with their looks!
Someone once said that you should open your heart before you open your legs. Probably good advice for us all.
By the way…
“…clothed in stretchy things that make my arse resemble two cats fighting in a bag.”
That’s poetry, that is.
(vaguely Chaucerian, but still…)
And damned funny poetry at that Zena , lol .
The world has gone crazy. Rejuvenation, Bah. Holy Hannah, I’m most grateful to still be tall and slimmish. 5’9 and 138 lbs. If more than a few things aren’t like they were, so be it. 49 ain’t 29 no matter how you slice it. Thankfully.
Right on, Tricia.
And everyone else who has pronounced the same basic message (I’m just too lazy to wander up the list and comment in the appropriate slots.)
I am so grateful not to look like this. And to not be the new 29. And one day, when I look through the misty haze that used to be my memory, I will forget everything and think I am perfect. As well as everyone around me.
And when my daughter yells “Squirrel!!” I will bolt out the door and into the pond.
Long live the imperfectly perfect, and those who are so. Thanks CB.
That was SCARY !!!!!
hootchie?
“flower”?
Hoohoo?
WTF? Where is WGJ? Do you have him roped and gagged in the basement? And, CB, blowing yuck out his nose. Eeeeeeewwwwwww.
God help us all. I’m going to pet my kitty.
Nope nope too easy …….
Stalker.
Where ? where ? Ware !
Now I know I’m getting old – I don’t really have a dog in this fight.
No kitty, either?
Hahahahahaha!
Call me crazy but any man that wants his woman to have a Brazillian, I have to question why he wants her to look like an 8 year old.