Mirror mirror

I've spent much time recently pondering the vagaries of self image and the connection between self image and self worth. In our body-obsessed culture, it is hard to escape the media attention placed on the perfect body.  Despite the fact that few people are genetically blessed to have the capacity to achieve what our society defines as a "perfect" body; those of us that hold a full time job simply don't have the time to hone our outer vessels into something society accepts as perfect.

In fact, the preferred body shape for women has not always been slim and big breasted.  The ideal women in the 1800s was fuller figured while in the 1920s women bound their breasts to achieve what I can only term a boyish figure.

Personally, I have struggled to obtain a 'perfect' body since my early teens.  I have been known to skip dessert, whine over my muffin top and refuse to wear a two-piece in summer.  I frequently feel inferior around my fellow women who always appear to me as skinnier, more toned, less hairy and generally better looking than I could ever dream to be.   However, I consider myself lucky to not have succumbed to the pressure to achieve such an elusive goal through eating disorders or obsessive exercise (perhaps I lack the necessary dedication to the cause or perhaps I just like food too much and am not willing to give up chocolate pudding in order to have a flat stomach).

Styling advice abounds on how to dress according to your body shape.  Some people, like the infamous Trinny and Susannah, have made this pursuit their profession and have made shapewear a household term.  I recall one bridesmaid experience where a member of the bridal party was aghast that I would attend the wedding day without tummy trimming underwear, especially when I had carried two children.  Amazed by this, I did a quick survey of the rest of the bridal party and some of the guests at the wedding and found that I truly was a freak.  So much for donning sexy lacy underwear for a special occasion!  I was shocked that these women, almost all of whom were younger than me and not mothers would feel the need to squeeze themselves into uncomfortable, restrictive and, to my mind, unflattering underwear in order to look a little more toned in their frock.

It's possibly no surprise to hear my reaction to a sub-30 year old friend who recently had botox on her forehead and dermal filler for her lips.  I was floored.  Not only did it look like she had been subjected to an encounter with a hive of angry bees, she'd paid $700 for the privilege of spending a weekend with an ice pack on her lips.  To top it off, she's now committed to going every quarter for repeat treatments.  I look at that and equate the money she's spending to have a smooth forehead and fuller lips with an annual holiday and I know which one I would choose!

But on a grander scale, I am saddened to think that a woman in her 20s is so upset with the way she looks (and how she is perceived by those around her) that she willingly injects neurotoxins into her body.  And she's not the only one.  Botox is increasingly popular with 1.5 million injections delivered to Australians in 2010.  We spend billions every year on treatments to seemingly halt the aging process.  It's the plastic fantastic phase.

I am relieved to know that there is an upsurgence against the body obsession with some governments banning advertising (and airbrushing) that portrays unhealthy bodies and rare journalists reporting on the perceived strength of media to manipulate women and the torture they put their bodies under. 

I have, over the last few decades, come to realise how much more important my actions are than how I look.  I like the reflection in the mirror more on the days where I have done something for myself or for someone I love, regardless of the wrinkles and imperfections.  My children care not for my orange peel thighs but love that I will play with them on the swings or attempt to amuse them with handstands and failed attempts at round-offs.  My friends don't know if I move from a size 8 to a size 10 but appear to like that I deliver dessert when I visit.  And I am guessing my husband prefers black lace over nude shapewear too, even if there is bulging of skin here and there.

I feel better on the days where I exercise.  The endorphins help me ward of stress from work and living away from my family during the week and I get some fresh air and outdoor time which I love.  Ideally my exercise would be in the sunshine but even a walk in the rain in the dark of pre-dawn sets me up for a happier day than I would have ordinarily had.

For me, it has taken a long time to get to this point.  I have put in a lot of work to be able to turn against the media pressure to look a certain way.  Some days I still fail. 

Perhaps I am a freak but I like to think that women are smarter than society gives them credit for.  I'd like to think that women would make a conscious decision to live a healthy life, an authentic life.  One where they are comfortable in their own skin.  A life where they eat food, mostly plants, not too much (Michael Pollan); exercise and get enough rest.  But, to butcher the lyrics of Carly Rae Jepson, call me crazy.