Weighty.
Trying to lose weight is tricky for a feminist. I don’t mean that reading Jezebel somehow causes you to retain calories, but rather that it can be hard not to feel a bit defensive, as if you are abandoning the sisterhood by pursuing a more defined waistline. “I’m trying to lose weight” ends up followed by “…healthily of course—I mean I’m trying to eat better and exercise and yes, I do want to be smaller, but not because I think I have to be a size two—there are plenty of strong, fit, larger women I’d be happy to look like (not that there is anything wrong with being an UN-fit larger woman, and not that I hate my body and need to resemble someone else), and women don’t have to be a certain size to be appealing (not that being appealing is all that important, or that women should be judged by whether or not they appeal to some arbitrary standard of beauty), and anyway…I’ll have the salmon. Sauce on the side.”
I’ve been thinking about it, though, and the more I think about it, the more this semi-shamefaced approach to weight loss annoys me. The idea that women who wish to lose weight do so only because they’ve been brainwashed by the patriarchy is insulting. Surely proponents of said idea are not suggesting these women are simply too dull-witted to realize they’ve been had by clever marketing departments? After all, it is hard to argue that we are the intellectual equals of men whilst simultaneously denigrating our decision-making abilities.
Additionally, I find the notion that by wanting leaner bodies we are betraying some vague ideal of acceptance to be, to put it bluntly, bullshit. Being overweight isn’t particularly healthy, but the fact that I would like to be thinner is not an endorsement of the position that all women should have thighs like chopsticks. Am I less of a feminist because I want to be able to find my abdominal muscles or wear jeans without my flesh mutinously surging over the waistband? Isn’t the pigeonholing of women into compartments labeled “smart” or “pretty,” “career woman” or “mother,” “feminist” or “fond of shoes,” getting a wee bit old?
A few weeks ago, we had a visit from a home care nurse. After she had drawn Simone’s blood, she opened a band-aid and let out a little moan.
“Oh, no,” she said, “I’m so sorry!”
I leaned in to see, wondering whether she had accidentally grabbed a package of MRSA-brand bandages by mistake.
But no.
“It’s Spiderman,” she sighed, “I thought I’d brought you Barbie.”
I looked at my bald, seven-pound daughter. Oddly enough, she seemed unconcerned.
“Spiderman’s better than Barbie,” I said, wondering if I was really having this conversation with a health care professional.
The nurse laughed, “Your husband would prefer it?”
(Actually, my husband might, seeing as Mary Jane was responsible for his sexual awakening some twenty-plus years ago).
“No,” I said, “I would.”
Frankly, I don’t care if Simone wears a Barbie band-aid. She is, after all, an infant. But the relentless gender-identification of babies does make me want to vomit, preferably all over a spangled “DIVA!” onesie. When she was first big enough to wear clothes, Simone’s best-fitting sleeper was from the gender-neutral section at Gymboree. It was yellow, and featured tiny trees and dogs, some playing frisbee, surrounded by the words “dig,” “sniff,” and “bark.” The boy’s section carried an identical sleeper in blue.
The pink version in the girl’s section, however, was different, printed with the words “pretty pup” and pictures of a girl dog receiving a flower from a male suitor. If you’re wondering how I could tell the sexes of these dogs without seeing their undercarriages, it was simple: the girl dog was a white poodle with poofy hair and a bow on top.
Despite the perfect fit, I stuck to the yellow model, as just seeing the disparity between the other two made my skin crawl. But I don’t think putting Simone in a jumper covered with flowers is dooming her to a life of vacuuming in pearls. She wears quite a bit of pink, and the occasional dress—along with a set of blue nautical-themed onesies from the boy’s section. When she’s old enough to choose her clothes she can wear whatever she damn well pleases. It isn’t important that she doesn’t wear a Barbie band-aid, merely that she doesn’t think she has to.
When I was little, my favorite television show was Donna Reed, and my parents were terrified that I would grow up into Alexa P. Keaton, Phyllis Schlafly acolyte and 50s throwback. But of course while the messages our children receive from the media are influential, much more influential is imparting the ability to view these messages critically. I would hope that if Simone struggles with her weight as an adult, she will be able to distinguish dissatisfaction with her body from hate of it. Wanting to change your appearance and taking healthy steps to do so is not the same as fasting your way into a pencil skirt. And as for my recently-embarked-upon quest for a less lumpy silhouette, one reader expressed surprise, and asked whether this is what clever, educated women do in America. I suppose to that I would say that if she means making the choice to take charge of our health and care for our bodies, even if it means eschewing bacon, then yes. Yes it is.
