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Showing posts with label vanity. Show all posts
Showing posts with label vanity. Show all posts

Friday, May 23, 2008

00. The new 0.



So there are apparently enough women out there who are 5 feet tall (like I am) and 88 pounds (definitely not me) to warrant the fashion industry creating a size 00. Now this is not new, though it is newsworthy. I'm not mathy, in fact, I like to say that I'm the only Indian in the world who is bad at math and science. OK, so that schtick is old for those who know me. Nonetheless, while I was no Mathlete, I don't recall learning about a double 00 unless there was a 7 at the end. The integer preceding 0 is -1, right? So why don't we size those doll clothes made for hideously skinny women a -1? Oh, pardon me. I meant those women who are naturally petite. Wink. Wink. I suppose a size denoted by a negative number would carry a negative perception. Because we all know that the introduction of a size 00 is completely positive. I mean, now those skeletons have a place to shop aside from the little girls' department! Oh yeah! But let's face it, even the girls' department is looking more and more hoochie everyday.

Are women really skinny enough to warrant a size 00 or are clothing designers pulling a fast one on us, creating vanity sizing to boost our egos? Either way you look at it, the practice perpetuates unhealthy, unrealistic expectations. Thin does not equal beautiful. Let's get that straight.

I am 5 feet tall. 105 pounds, give or take that time of the month when I consume more chocolate than anything else in the food pyramid. I am naturally petite. Anything smaller is plain unsightly. Unhealthy. Unnatural. Yes, I have my mushy parts, my thighs are practically Siamese twins, my arms jiggle. I can't complain...well, not too much anyway.

The fashion industry has a long history of creating unreasonable physical "norms" in our society. Girls and women of all ages fall into the trap. Present company included. I lived in a sorority house in college that had a designated puking bathroom. There was a silver spoon on the back of the toilet that the girls used to gag themselves. They'd clean up the spoon and lay it back down for the next bulimic victim. It was a secret sisterhood within a sisterhood. Gross on so many levels. I was horrified when I learned of this practice, and the house mother and sorority president turned the other way. I later found out that the sorority president was a frequent spooner. No wonder her figure looked like that of a 10-year old boy.

My childhood friend Lisa died at age 16. She was always taller than the rest of us, though being a grown woman of 5 feet tall, you can imagine that everyone was taller than me my whole life. She was chunky, but in that baby fat way that you knew she'd outgrow. I moved away and lost touch with Lisa. We were living in different cities during those gawky, confusing, teenage years when we were learning to understand our new bodies and struggling to get to know and like ourselves. Apparently Lisa's baby fat wasn't melting away with puberty so she took control of the situation. That's when she became anorexic. Severely so. After a long battle that left her body weak, decrepit, and unrecognizable, Lisa's heart gave out.

This, my friends, is what anorexia looks like. It is not sexy. Or pretty. Or desirable.

That was my first brush with death. And my first brush with eating disorders and the battle to be thin. Granted, I have been naturally thin my whole life, even being force fed protein shakes for a while to try to keep weight on my tiny frame. Ironically, I was downing calorie laden shakes at the same time Lisa was starving herself 200 miles away. One in the name of health, the other in the name of vanity.

Lisa's ideals of pretty and thin were from 1978.

Fast forward 30 years to what our little girls (and grown women) see now. Bratz dolls, Victoria's Secret Pink ads, Britney, Lindsay, Lauren, Miley, the list goes on. Even DQ has gotten into the act. An entire generation of girls worships celebrities and tries to emulate their outrageous diet fads and styles. Seriously, we're subjecting our children to unrealistic ideals from such a young, tender age. A 5-year old girl should not be worrying about her big belly, as a friend's daughter does. Such influences are coming from the flippant ways we degrade our own bodies, the flurry of inescapable marketing messages, the Disney princesses with waists the size of my upper arm, and those damn celebrity rags.

Look in any catalog, magazine, billboard, movie. You'll see women who don't relish the pure joy of butter oozing on hot bread or giggles over strawberries and homemade vanilla ice cream. What's worse is those women likely smoke to keep the weight off. And we pay them TOP DOLLAR for it. Be thin, be pretty, make a shitload of money. Be smart, be healthy, eek out a living. The pretty girl visions our children conjure up are detrimental to them both physically and emotionally. Lisa starved herself to be thin, simply a manifestation of larger, deeper self-esteem issues. It's our responsibility to arm our children with confidence, self-worth, and dignity.

What messages are we sending to girls these days? Are we encouraging them to be smart, assertive, passionate, powerful? Or pretty, demure, silent, passive? Isn't it our responsibility to society, to our girls and boys, to reinvent the definition of beauty and femininity? To establish the difference between "fit" and "skinny?" Sure, there's a severe problem with obesity in our country. The focus should be on FIT, regardless which side of the weight coin you land on.

A size 00 is an outrage. And that's coming from a girl who wore a 0 until she bore two healthy children. I've come to grips with never wearing a 0 again. I donated all those clothes, with no remorse, tears, or regrets for not having done more crunches or time on the elliptical machine. And I'm cool with that. My body carried and delivered two healthy children. Nothing defines beautiful more perfectly.
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Tuesday, April 8, 2008

TSPUM: Treaty to Stop the Proliferation of Unflattering Momwear


I do not claim to be a fashionista, fashion slave, or trend setter. OK, admittedly I can be a fashion victim. No one will ever add "Style Icon" to my epitaph. Audrey Hepburn I ain't.

That doesn't stop me from having an opinion on what moms wear.

Here's the Dirt & Noise Treaty to Stop the Proliferation of Unflattering Mom Wear:

Mom jeans. Burn them. Turn them into dog bed covers. Use them as ground cover to keep weeds at bay. Just do not wear them. A high waist, full thigh, and tapered leg is not flattering on anyone. Even my nine foot tall super model friend MH wouldn't look good in them. And trust me, she looks good in everything because clothes are made to fit a nine foot tall size 0 these days.

Keds. Seriously, why are you wearing the same sneaks you wore when you were 7-years old? Mischa Barton pockets the paycheck, but the girl doesn't have one lousy pair of Keds in her closet. Go ahead and sport some cool Pumas instead.

Wind suits. Track suits. Call it what you will. Your clothing should not make more noise than your children. The whoosh whoosh sound of your thighs rubbing together in a pair of nylon sweat pants is warning enough to make others leave the playground premises. How about some capri sweat pants and a cute hoodie instead? Just don't wear "Juicy" across your ass. And by all means, don't match your husband unless you are on the same Olympic team.

Your husband's button down shirt. Only my friend Newman can pull off this look. And that's with her husband's crisp white oxford tied in a knot atop her Lilly capris. Sure, it's kinda sexy to wear your husband's shirt after a quickie, but keep it contained to your own home. Most women don't look so chic in oversized menswear. You'll find some lovely white shirt options at Boden. Or Target. Or Old Navy. Just wear one sized and cut for a woman. Promise you won't go all 80's on me and pair your husband's shirt with black leggings.

Anything with licensed characters. Even Bird and Deal don't wear Pooh or Nemo on their clothing. Certainly grown women should not either. It's bad enough that they make diaper bags emblazoned with that crap. Leave Minnie Mouse on your kid's lunch box where she belongs. I find it ridiculous that the Disney Store even has an adult apparel category.

For the flattering but ridiculous Momwear category:
Rock and Republic jeans, kitten heels, and a Stella McCartney top...at the park. Clearly these women don't get down in the sandbox with their kids. High fashion is not for play dates. Save the Lucky Magazine getup for date night. Your kids deserve machine washable garb if your time with them is indeed quality. And PS, get over your big bad self.

Form, function, and fashion are not mutually exclusive.

What other mom apparel horrifies you? What should we add to the Treaty?
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Wednesday, March 19, 2008

Sock it to 'em.


To the hyper woman at Helios this afternoon who was worked up about how quickly she's aging: Get over it. It beats the alternative. I'll take some gray hair and wrinkles over a pine box or copper patina urn any day.

And here's a tip that I won't even charge you for. Ditch the Christmas socks. It's March 19 for criminy's sake! And by the way, holiday theme socks are a bad, very bad, idea (unless you're a preschool teacher, of course, but even those should be donned at the appropriate holiday). The wacky little red socks peppered with Christmas trees and stars ain't helpin' you look any younger. Or cooler. Or hipper. Or sassier.
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Saturday, January 12, 2008

Mount Vesuvius





Though Age 40 is flirting with my reality, breathing its hot, sultry air on my neck, I still have Mount Vesuvius erupting on my chin. I haven't paid attention to a Clearsil ad in decades. Luckily, I have been pretty blessed with good skin. No sun worhshipping in my teens, daily moisturizer with UV protection (dedicated fan of Oil of Olay!), and my mother's good genes all contribute to my pretty healthy, blemish-free skin. By the way, Mom, we're so on to you smoking, despite your youthful skin. Suddenly I have a zit. A humdinger one at that. I'm talking the zit that you see in the sidebar of Webster's when you look up zit in the dictionary. I make a perfect "before" picture for any dermatologist developing her own line of adult acne medication.

Last night as I was lamenting (some might say whining) about this aberration on my chin. My husband stroked my hand and assured me that it wasn't so bad. "Not even the worst I've ever seen on you," he said (or lied). I took comfort in that and thought maybe, just maybe, he was right.

Fast forward to 7:30 this morning. Bird wakes up with that adorable half awake/half asleep crumpled look as he scampers into our room. He climbs into bed, snuggles in and gets comfortable. I give him a kiss, and he stares at me aghast and starts cracking up. "What's THAT on your chin?!" he manages to get out amid laughter and horror. I told him it's called a zit. A mere boo-boo on my face. He's too young to understand that zits are one of many of life's little cruelties. Right up there with ear hair and fat thighs (grade A chicken thighs as I like to call them) despite hours of cardio and five million squats, not that I have firsthand knowledge of either. But I digress...

Five minutes later, Deal comes in and clambers into bed. He takes one look at me and is clearly startled. He pokes his chubby little finger right into Mount Vesuvius (OUCH) and asks "What's that red thing on your face, Mommy?" "A zit," I say, now getting weary of this game. I shot an accusing glance toward my husband, while he pretended to fiddle with the sheets and not notice me...or Mount Vesuvius on the verge of eruption.

Lesson learned: A loving husband boosts his wife's ego (let's face it, because no woman who feels unattractive wants to participate in hot action later on). Children tell it like it is.
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