A smartarse friend of mine asked me if I'd be joining the throngs of angry women posting naked pics on the net, now that I had my own mummy blog page for ranting about stuff.
I spent some time crafting a carefully worded reply that encapsulated my feelings on the burgeoning trend for women to post their mummy tummies, stretch marks, droopy boobs and god knows what else (the day someone posts their saggy lady garden -- and I'm sure someone will because boundaries seem to be out of vogue -- I'm out of there) to give the middle finger to impossible beauty standards.
"Fuck off,'' I replied.
I get what they're doing. Impossible beauty standards (even the models themselves don't actually look like that, it's mostly editing) have done damage to generations of women, taught us to hate ourselves and cunningly distracted us from being inconveniently demanding about things like equal pay, discrimination and other boring shit because we were spending our money on gym memberships and glossy manuals for inadequacy (otherwise known as magazines).
A Perth artist I follow on Facebook, Constance Hall, posts pics of her post-twins mummy bod and encourages other women -- she calls them Queens, which I adore -- to follow suit.
She has a point. A woman I know stung by the criticism of her ex-boyfriend listed "knows what a mother's body really looks like" under essential qualities for her next partner.
Let's be clear. This ain't that type of blog.
I've got nothing against nudity (other than my own). I still regale people with the time I covered a nudist festival as a junior reporter. You truly haven't seen anything until you've seen a nude highland games (but skip the nude fun run. Nobody, and I mean nobody, looks good running naked. Everything jiggles.)
I have interviewed, with a straight face, several naked men at once, including one who earnestly told me that the nudist lifestyle helped him come to terms with his penis size. I got flustered and couldn't remember how to write very small penis in teeline.
I have even composed an informative story, with not a single snigger, about towel and hat etiquette at nudist camps (hats are more important than pants and the towel? You don't want to ride the communal bikes without them).
Body acceptance is great. I learned years ago from these people, who had a remarkable ability to laugh at themselves, that you actually get over things pretty quick when it's all hanging out for you to see, and that there are many, many versions of the human body.
People laughed at them, they knew it, and they didn't mind. They were happy, had love in their lives, and generally liked themselves. Years before the internet dominated our every waking moment and people felt they had to make a stand against the horrible standards it imposes on us, the nudists knew better.
So I get what the mummy body pic sharers are trying to do. But their goal is not my goal. I'm just here because I have too much to say, you don't need the visuals as well.
The net is forever. FOREVER. Remember prospective employers Google you. Uncomfortable job interview, here you come. As it is, I'm going to have to explain my swearing. At least back in the print days we didn't show everything (although the Timaru Herald's phone ran very hot the day we ran a pic of a naked man throwing a caber. He looked like he had a six-foot erection).
But holy hell do I bow down before the bravery, the Goddess-like serenity and strength of the women who do this. Like I believe there is a bias towards negative depictions of single parents in the media, I'm absolutely bloody clear that there has been a bias towards only reflecting one image of women, and boy did it do us some damage.
The Queens are fighting back. Maybe, just maybe, our daughters won't look in the mirror and hate what they see. I bloody salute every one of you. I just won't be joining you.