Feminism+Beauty=Chlorine Gas

I feel a bit like the straggler on the donkey, following behind. However, I’m going to say my piece anyway.

There’s been quite a bit of kerfuffle about body image, and the way women treat each other because of all that. At Feministe an interesting article was up about modeling and sizes. The whole model thing is disturbing, to say the least. Girls are told over and over, through the media, that they are to look a certain way, wear a certain size, if they want to be considered beautiful or acceptable.

Then there’s the notion that a woman ought to be able to look however she pleases, whether it’s hard and muscular with big fake boobs, or covered with tattoos, or (ahem) Rubenesque, it’s her right to make that decision, and she should be able to decide without fear of reprisal from other women. Another article at Feministe handles this concept adeptly here, tho I must warn you that the comments, which start out civil enough, degrade into petty name calling and general pissiness. The article is short, and a worthy read. Don’t bother with the 591 comments, tho. Unless you want to and have a couple of hours.

See, I have, since hitting puberty, had a rather negative body image. I am not classically beautiful. My legs are short, my hair is thin, and my face is completely forgettable. I’m ok with that now. There are good qualities to my looks, I have nice eyes, my ears are small and don’t stick out, and I have a classic hourglass figure. even though I know these things intellectually, and I know that I’m not remarkably ugly, there is still a part of me that has bought into the whole Beauty Myth, and suffers for it. I think that suffering lends itself to a degree of sympathy for people who *want* to be beautiful, but fall short. I also have a degree of admiration for ordinary looking people who are able to make themselves remarkable, whether it’s with makeup of exercise or even surgery. There is a level of dedication required to do that, that I don’t possess. I am far too busy pulling weeds or reading the latest on endocrine research to be bothered with deciding between grey or blue eyeliner. But then, sometimes an occasion arises where I wish I knew “grey or blue” and I have to punt.

I think personally, the body image issue is something I simply avoid altogether. I don’t look in the mirror, except to check for spinach in my teeth. I keep my clothes very simple, and I own maybe 6 pair of shoes- 4 of them are sneakers. So, I don’t really know how to put myself together. Apparently, this would make me a good feminist, this disdain for looking good and pandering to the desires of the (mythical) Patriarchy. However it’s not disdain. I don’t dislike the idea of looking good. I truly don’t think it would bother me one bit if a head or two turned when I walked in the room. I don’t think women who alter themselves are committing a great crime against womanhood. Nor do I think women who opt for hairy legs and practical shoes are necessarily Protesting the Patriarchy.

Some of them are, to be sure. And many women make themselves beautiful to please men. That’s their business. Some women make themselves beautiful to make themselves beautiful. Believe it or not, I, with my closet full of black pants and white shirts, would get bigger boobs in a New York Minute, if I had the means to do so.

When the boys were babies, and I was nursing them, my A- chest blossomed to a C+, and I absolutely LOVED it. Clothes fit. I could buy dresses that the chest and the hips were in proportion. I felt lush, and womanly. It was a fabulous feeling. It had nothing to do with my household Patriarch (whom I love and adore), and pleasing him, tho his admiring gaze certainly didn’t hurt any. It had everything to do with my own internal self. I’d love to recapture that feeling, and that *baBOOM* physique.

The concept that I am looking at, kind of as an outsider because I don’t participate in the Feministe sorts of debates, is this jealousy (?) or internal strife withing the feminist community of women treating other women exactly like they claim they don’t. Bashing them for their looks. When I was 12, I was bashed for my looks. I was called ugly, told I needed to wear a bag over my head, made fun of for my physique. Then I go read comments in feministe blogs, where women who make an effort to look a particular way (makeup, boobs, exercise) are bashed for their looks. It’s like, you’re only an acceptable feminist if you make an effort to be ugly. I suppose because a Good Feminist does whatever she can to turn off the Patriarchy?

Why, women of the world, why do you spend so much effort tearing each other down? Why has the sexual competition of 7th grade carried into adulthood? Are you afraid the pretty woman is going to steal your man? I thought you didn’t like men. Are you afriad they’re going to steal your job? Wouldn’t that be better than working for a man?

I sense a pervasive inconsistancy here. No wonder I choose not to participate.

Now, who’ll donate to my Rootie Gets a Rack fund?