Last week I went to a PR event for the French author Mireille Guiliano who was out promoting her new book French Women don’t get Facelifts (she previously wrote French women don’t get fat). This teeny tiny woman was as fabulous as you would imagine a French woman to be – a perfectly manicured Anna Wintourish short bob, stylish little glasses placed just so on her head, a beautiful voice with an accent to die for, class, glamour and grace oozing out of her pores. She also had on this fabulous outfit, a little crazy, definitely European and she looked amazing. I told her so, took a snap of her and whacked it up onto Instagram which fed through to Facebook and Twitter.
Boy did her outfit ruffle a few feathers. I know the pants wouldn’t be for everyone, but there were all kinds of words used to describe them but the most common were: fucking and ridiculous. Sheesh, tough crowd. Easy enough for us all to sit back on our phone or laptop and throw out a quick one liner. Jesus, I am the queen of these kinds of lines but I must say I was a bit surprised at the pace and venom. In any case, I don’t suppose the opinions of us would concern Mireille very much as she goes about her business making millions, being fabulous and well-balanced with her diet as she leads a hugely successful life living between her apartment in the West Village of NY and Paris.
Funnily enough, on the way up to Sydney the day before I was listening to Lisa Wilkinson discuss her Andrew Olle lecture that she gave on the previous weekend discussing women in the media (you can listen to it here). She discussed lots of issues but did talk a lot about how often her outfits and appearance are mentioned. How men and their appearance or age is never mentioned, and yet if a female is being profiled her age will always be mentioned, her outfits are up for opinion, her hairstyles discussed. I am to blame for this to, I will be the first to comment on someone’s outfit when they are on TV…not to mention myself when I sit back and cringe at my lack of neck, 54 chins or guts sticking out over the desk when I’m on The Daily Edition just once a week (thank goodness).
Then a day or so later I was on Instagram when a lovely lady whacked up a snap of herself when she was 16. She looked AMAZING. Young. Carefree. Gorgeous. And I commented to her that I bet she thought she was fat at the time right? And she said yes! Didn’t we all do that? Don’t we all do that? I found this photo this morning:
Attractive isn’t it? It’s me. Aged 13 I think. Look at those legs! So young! So taut! So shy! Whilst the flanno is questionable, at the time I still thought I was fat. A bit ugly. Who didn’t when they were 13? I bet my Mum told me I was beautiful every single day. Wished I’d listened. Dear GOD I hope my girls listen.
My silly little hashtag of calling myself a fat mole is tongue in cheek. Of COURSE I know I’m not a fat mole. I’m certainly carrying extra guts at the moment. I see them when I avoid looking in a full length mirror when I jump in the shower, or do up my jeans. Winter was good to me and my guts. And now I’m trying to budge them, get moving again – mostly for my mind which feels better and deals so much better with EVERYTHING when it’s moving. But I am harsh on myself. And others.
Why? Why do we do it?
What is it about women that makes us look at the stretch marks as being ugly rather than as a reminder of when she managed the miracle of growing an ACTUAL PERSON in our stomach? What makes us talk about someone’s outfit rather than what they have to SAY? Or judge someone on their choices, or life? Why do we apologise for our bad hair that needs doing, or un made up face? To make us feel better do you think? I don’t know the answers…I am guilty of all of it. I do it to myself, and others, every day. Human nature? Boredom? Feeling bad about ourselves? Or just part of being a woman?
While this is how I sometimes portray myself (DAMN this was a good selfie thank you channel 7 make up and Instagram filters) because it makes me feel good about myself, and it’s nice to feel good about yourself right?
This is actually how I look.
And you know what? I like the second one better. I suppose in 10 years time from now, when I’m even fatter, and even less concerned about other people’s opinion that I’ll look back on now and think I looked pretty good. Yes, even those guts hanging over the top of my jeans, those stretch marks all over my stomach.
It’s time to start listening right now, instead of looking back. Time to stop judging others. I mean WHO REALLY CARES? It’s not like we are changing the world with our own fashion choices every day is it?
This post is all over the place I know, a vomit of thoughts and pictures not really knowing what it wants to say, but there’s something here.
Something.
How do you see yourself when you look in the mirror? Tired? Old? Beautiful? Happy? For me? Well, I see a Mum. A wife who could try harder. A body that is underworked. A content, happy and extremely lucky woman who is starting to care less and less about what the fuck anyone thinks of me. And hoping that I can start to do the same when I look at others.
What do you see?
How do we stop ourselves from giving a shit about what other people do?
Why are women such complex creatures?
You can upload a photo if you’d like? See that little picture icon in the comment box? Snap away!
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