I don’t read women’s magazines anymore.
There was a time, during my teens, when I devoured teen mags and then “graduated” to Cosmo and other women’s magazines. Looking back it strikes me as strange that I enjoyed reading them so much, because I never was interested in all those beauty and fashion tips. I guess it made me feel grown-up, part of the glamorous world of confident, adult women. And all those articles on how to combat cellulite, how to get the perfect tan or shave without getting irritated skin, made me think that, if I just tried hard enough, I could have a sexy, smooth body like those women in the photos.
And then I grew up. Or rather, I grew into myself. I gained weight – first all on my legs, so I changed my diet and lost it again, but then again more evenly, turning my decidedly pear-shaped body into more of an hourglass. A very pale hourglass with bumps and veins and hair in places beauty magazines (and porn films) make us believe women shouldn’t have hair. But really, I’ll never get rid of my big butt and thighs (short of liposuction), I’ll never be tan (believe me, I tried, resulting in painful weeks spent looking like a lobster), and what the hell is wrong with hair anyway?
I must admit, in summer I still shave my lower legs, and I’m lucky in a way that here in Switzerland (or at least in my circle of friends) having a ‘bush’ is the norm, so I never felt pressure in that area, but I’ve mostly embraced my body the way it is. I don’t judge women who prefer to look differently1, who enjoy primping and shaping their bodies, but I hope they do it for the right reasons, not because they somehow got the impression that their natural body is disgusting.
I’m probably a 1 on the Kinsey scale2, but I find women beautiful. As with men, their attractiveness often doesn’t have much to do with the way they look, but rather with the way they meet the world: open and honest and confident in their self-worth. Seriously, is there anything sexier than a happy smile one someone who looks as if they love the way they are?
That’s something I enjoyed about the burlesque class I took last year – it was a bunch of women of different shapes, ages and ethnicities, strutting our stuff, cheering each other on. Wobbly bits, sweaty faces, wrinkles and all, we all felt sexy in that room, for once unafraid of the judgement of the mirror.
