Some |-|airy pits

Some |-|airy pits

It was a nice day, today. The kids and I did a few things, lounged at the park under the sun, after which we were nicely tired and Doddman and I had a lay down on the bed. He slept, I read. Dinner was nice and after I cuddled him to bed again, I got out and caught a documentary half way through. It was about women.

There was this girl, couldnt have been older than her early twenties, having breast enlargement surgery. She was beautiful, definitely a beautiful young woman. Looking at the surgeon measuring her perfect little body with a tape and noting some numbers that mean nothing, I just felt so sad. There was this girl, with her visually appealing body, by any stretch of the imagination, perfect, underline this, perfect, be it little, breasts. Not dots, not saggy skins or any other variation that could be considered unattractive. Not. And they cut to the surgeon who so compassionately comments “She is not doing it for anyone else. She is not doing it because that is what others feel is sexy. It is something she is doing for herself, so she likes herself more”…

Are you freakin KIDDING ME!

If anyone thinks this poor creature would be slashing bags of saline in her body if she lived in a tribe out there in whoop whoop, they have had a lobotomy of some kind. Or they have lived in our society too long and consider its fucked up values as something inherently normal for our species.

Be it marketing driven, be it fueled by desire to get more money out of the already depressed souls of women, there have been some steps to counteract the ridiculous imagery we are bombarded daily. Real women, they say, we love you and want to celebrate you. Dove, I believe has the most loud one so far. What are those “real women” I dont know, but according to them its something like that:

Real Women Dove

click for larger women image

And you know what, we buy it. We feel happy, we feel like things have been finally set straight to some degree. And yet, the image above is just depressing when one puts it next to an equal sign for what a “real woman” is. Lets look at it in more detail, shall we. She is finally some more realistic shape, not a stick figure with two boobs, huge mouth and plastic skin. But she is still devout of stretch marks, cellulite, saggy belly or bum, things that just about every real life woman I have met has at least one of. They all have lovely styled colored hair. Perfect white sparkling teeth. She is bigger sized, but still a wonderful hourglass shape, forget about weight in the middle. She poses in the oh, so natural, one foot in front of the other, model position or sideways. She doesnt have saggy boobs or such that are irregular in any way. Her proportions are within some limits, her underwear beautifully white, nails groomed and polished, eyebrows plucked, no hair on legs, upper lip, underarms, bikini area…no hair at all really. That is the real woman, you see. It is depressing because this has little to do with the natural woman. The way the female IS without all the adjustments we have imposed on her and ourselves.

As a woman I have been dealing with the whole body issue most of my life. Thankfully we didnt grow with all the bombardment of advertising my girls have to exist in, but still, I got a bathroom scale for Christmas from my mom when I was 13 or so…need I say more. I disliked my little (but oh, so perfect) breasts the whole time they adorned my body until they gave way to my very uneven soft adult ones. Shame.

I have learned slowly to be more accepting of myself. It may be age, it may be some wisdom or who knows. So, a little while ago I thought maybe I should see if I can accept some real hair on me. My own body’s hair, the natural state of it, the way it was meant to be, you see. Its winter, the tops are long and I can give myself some time to adjust. I admit, I am not ready to deal with people’s attitudes on the subject or to be sitting on that fringe of society. No, this was for me. To try to overcome my own brainwashing and to be able to accept myself 100%.

And I let it go, something I have not done in…well, I dont remember how long. I have left the underarms go for a bit here and there, but not all the way. It was strange. Really, it was scary. I would look at this hairiness in the mirror and look away quick. But slowly, slowly, day after day it was becoming more and more easier to take. I cant say I like it, or that I have totally embraced it, but I have gotten more used to it.

I was getting dressed the other day in the bathroom, with incidental audience. Mr.Blab was holding the little one, the girls were discussing something while getting ready and then he casually comments:

– Those are some hairy pits!

And it all went to hell. I was shaken, I admit. I felt that little girl that has been beaten to a pulp to accept all these interferences on her body as normal try to hide the offending bits. On the other hand, I felt anger with her and wanted to be strong and not care. And all I could mutter was something like “So what!..Whats with my pits?!”. Weak.

And Mr.Blab is a good man. I have not felt pressure from him as far as my appearance is concerned, hence my attempt at liberating armpit hair exposure.

So, I was thinking tonight, while cuddling my little man to sleep. That is the difference between men and women, that is. Men do have some pressures as far as their looks, but they grow up sufficiently confident with their own bodies, that they can take it. Mr.Blab is hairy. He knows I dont like hairy and yet I dont see him sitting in the bathroom shaving, waxing, lightening his hair. Even if he cares, he doesnt take it to heart that much and is confident enough this is not a deal breaker of any shape or form. Enough that he will care less to flash me on the odd occasion. I, on the other hand will not even dream of doing the same with my imperfect normal unadjusted body.

This is not about him though. He was just an easy example and in need of a full body wax for stomping on my run for bodily freedom.

As a mom of two girls I am becoming more and more painfully aware of all the trappings there are for them in their way to happiness and love, love of themselves most importantly. I want to be a good role model and to shield them from the crap messages. It will not happen unless we move somewhere else. I did a search for one, just one image of a completely natural woman and found nothing. Not a thing. Not one image.


Towards the end of the documentary they show the surgery for the breast augmentation. The surgeon cuts into the young unblemished skin. He opens the pocket and shoves inside to make space for the bag. Shoves that inside quite roughly. At some point the bed is raised and he moves back to have a good look at the breasts, to make sure they look alright and to discuss it with his assistant. And there they are, pointing, looking at this lifeless body, propped on the bed, head covered in blue sheet, torso naked with bursting large breasts with open wounds underneath.