I never wanted to be one of those women who wore Spandex. I developed a Lycra allergy in the 1980s when "control panel" panties became the must-have in every fashionable gal's wardrobe. I suppose, too, that my aversion to fabric restraint, to "foundational support," came from my mother. While cleaning out a box of things from her closet, she told dark stories about her adolescence, tales of bullet bras and full-body girdles, then pulled what appeared to be a housewife pelt from deep within the storage box. I gasped in horror.
"God," she said. "I remember helping my sister into her girdle every day before school."
I shielded my eyes with a copy of Tiger Beat magazine. "Why in the hell did you wear those things?"
"Honey," she said in a tone that suggested I didn't appreciate just how much the Women's Movement had done for me, "I grew up in a time of restraint."
Later that afternoon, looking through her yearbook photos from the class of '69, I noticed the women captured in polite, glossy black and white had a certain uplifted spirit. It was as if their breasts pointed to the heavens with resilient hope, a pert optimism in the face of economic and worldwide uncertainty. Though their childhoods had been spent in the fear of Cold War nuclear annihilation; though their early teen years had been marred by the JFK assassination; and even though the Vietnam War was claiming more and more of their young, small-town beaus, I couldn't see the gravity of their time by looking at their chests. No, they were pertly defiant and bullet-sharp with full-cup American pride.
"Gosh Mom, you look so … perky."
"You know, getting out of those things was a nightmare. No wonder the teen pregnancy rate was so low back then."
"Eww. Gross," I said, then rolled my eyes.
"Young lady, one of these days you're going to thank the women of my day. You've got it so much easier than we did. Don't waste it."
The older I get, the more grateful I become. The women of my mother's generation started something, asked questions of our culture, dared to imagine alternatives and made it possible for my generation to do the same. But, my spandex resistance isn't political. In the locker room at the gym, suiting up for aerobics class, as I pull my stretch capris over my abundant thighs, I feel as if I'm squeezing into a scuba suit. Haunted by National Geographic specials from my youth, I can hear Jacques Cousteau's narrative of my efforts. "Zere she iz, the eloosive creature of zee wa-ter, pre-paring to re-turn to her ocean. Na-ture haz geeven her everyzing she needs to sur-vive. Zee extra lay-er of zee blubber keeps her warm in zee blue bee-low."
Sometimes, as I watch myself in the full-length mirrors in the studio, as I try to keep up with Candi, our flawless and lean aerobics instructor with the endless supply of cheer and oxygen, I see my torso hovering above two dancing Virginia hams. It's not that I have low self-esteem. I know I'm beautiful. But I also know that I'm even more beautiful roasted in a 325-degree oven and basted with brown sugar and butter every half hour. But I digress. As I bob and weave, kick-step and shadow box to techno pop, trying to improve my health, I think of my mother and those girdles. Sometimes I wonder if our nation's current fixation on weight loss, physical health and surgical beauty is a girdle we can't stash away. My generation, it seems, has its own restraints.
And all I know is that I can't breathe in this thing, this airbrushed beauty ideal, the myth packaged and sold through bulk distribution within a mass media sphere. "Ideal" women are postured like sleek automobiles in full-color gloss. Everyone, it seems, wants the sports model, the convertible with a hot engine that can handle the curves with sexy elegance. Gorgeous, polished to a shine, these are the cars that keep heterosexual men in touch with their [cough] manhood. This sucks, of course, for women like me who are built like tanks with big Hummer grills, and handle like mini vans. You'd think having room in your trunk for a cooler would be a good thing, but it's not. Cargo stowaway capacity and seating for eight won't get you rolling on the highway of love.
Trust me. I'd give anything for a long ride in the carpool lane.
Instead, I'm hoisting my hams on the rack my trainer calls a "StairMaster," climbing to nowhere, sweating my shanks off, wondering if anyone else can smell burning bacon. If "pretty is as pretty does," then what kind of beauty is this? Whose beauty is this? Whatever happened to the Rubenesque, well-fed seductress, laid back in decadent repose while cherubs feed her grapes — or better still — donuts? She didn't go to aerobics classes. She didn't reign in the unruly curve of her bosom, or suck in her gut while passing a mirror. She didn't wiggle into a wetsuit and migrate to the studio with Cousteau's film crew in tow or eat salad on a date then head straight to the fridge after the good-night kiss. There was no binge, no purge, no self-punishment and guilt. No post Weight Watchers, Jenny Craig or Nutrisystem stick chick ever posed for Peter Paul Rubens. No sir, those women were big. Beautiful. Bad ass.
My trainer says, "Losing weight is a mental game." So I workout my brain. I'm losing it, too. I've decided the Venus of Willendorf figures were beauties ahead of their time. Fertility goddesses aren't lollipops, with their assets chiseled away by Photoshop. They're full, round, saucy wenches … like me. My feminine mystique connects me to these ancient ladies. I try to remember that more than I hear Jacques Cousteau. When I do, then I know I'm making a political statement. I know I'm standing for my right to take up space, to fill my frame, to be myself. Like a Volvo, I'm "boxy but good." And sometimes, I have to channel my own pert optimism, find my own fast lane, despite the gravity of my situation. I learned that from my mother.
Erica F. Rogers is a fourth year doctoral English student. Reach her at ericarogers@dailynebraskan.com.
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