Now, don't take this too seriously. This is an observation of female-focused popular television. I realise this is not the most high-brow or intelligently created, politcally correct or even morally conscious media ever. It's aim is to sell certain products or ideas. Do be warned: this post makes me sound like a tamed feminazi. Apologies.
I was watching one of Gok Wan's creations (I recognise he didn't create it and was just asked to front it - ultimate credit/blame goes to the production team and marketing managers) and whilst I was content to be entertained, I was struck by the mixed messages it was giving out. The clear statement was that there was no perfect body shape. It recognised that there are different proportions: pear, hour glass, apple, straight/boyish, top heavy and so on. It did concentrate on the main recognisable types in order to simplify it to its daytime(ish) audience but I do give it credit for at least being, at first, unjudgmental at these perfectly natural differences in women.
Immediately after introducing different body shapes, Gok takes varying women and dresses them accordingly. He points out weaknesses or 'bad points' of their figures then tries to create 'that perfect hour glass'. Hold up. What? Pointing out weaknesses is the worst possible thing you can do to a body-conscious woman. It doesn't matter if you sandwich that with 'you have a great bum' and 'your face is stunning', that woman will focus on the negative that's been found by the beady-eyed body spy. And to then dress this woman to create a 'perfect' body shape... excuse me, reverse back to the original statement of there being no perfect body shape!
This is the one consistency I see in any television programme, magazine article, video or website that advises on dressing to suit shape: a large, hugely noticable percentage of them aim to create an hour glass. How about the women who have 'boyish' figures and want to maintain that look? How about those who really like having wide hips and small boobs? What about them? How about embracing the 'bad points' which they may be proud of? Aren't we in the age of liberation? How have we got to this point and not created clothes that actually flaunt supposedly bad features? Surely, with the clothes-hanger models the industry drapes the catwalk with, we've come up with at least a two-tone range that consists of clothes normal people can wear and pieces of needlessly expensive material that is dropped onto size minus two models with fierce cheekbones that pretends to look like actual clothing. ...I'll put my claws away.
But seriously, in this particular show, Gok was creating 'high street' looks to compete with super expensive bottom-less wallet looks. If I remember correctly, one of them, along the theme of 'blue', set the expensive look back over £1000. It was just a sparkly dress. It looked hideous, too. If I wanted to look like a disco ball, I'd dip myself in glue and roll in a paddling pool of glitter and sprinkles. Or maybe go to a primary school and spell correctly to be covered in gold stars. Too far? The problem here, apart from the ridiculous prices of high-end fashion, is that the high street outfits just were not affordable. Gok created what he referred to as a 'halterneck top'. It was a scarf, only just covering the modesty of the model and showing the entirity of her back. It was literally just tucked in to the trousers. If she walked for more than the length of a catwalk and back, the movement created may have displaced it and released her twin bad points. Hey, they were small. This is abhorrent, right? Sigh. My point is that this scarf-top was marketed as affordable at £30. No. If I wanted a silky top, I'd buy a silky top. I wouldn't buy a scarf in order to create one. And if I was lacking one, I think I'd just think of something else.
I'm all for recycling and coming up with new ideas for clothes I have already but I'm not up for being told that a £50 top plus £30 accessory, £80 shoes and £35 trousers/skirt is an 'affordable' outfit. It just isn't.
Gok and co, please stop reeling women in by reassuring them that there is no perfect body shape then telling them that they MUST have an hour glass figure or the dreaded disappointed face will be round the corner. Please stop trying to make them spend large amounts of hard-earnt money on items of clothing that they won't use as their primary purpose. Not everyone wants to look 'edgy' or 'high-fashion'. It's okay to be content with casual, unremarkable day wear. It's okay to not wear a suit to a coffee meeting. It's okay to be imbalanced in figure. It's also okay to occasionally show a bit of bum and get things 'wrong' for a while. A confident woman could look good in a bin bag if she really wanted to. That's cool, too.
Tuesday, 21 August 2012
Monday, 13 August 2012
Not quite introductory.
Supposing that when I read a book written in first person, the satisfaction I get from the author is completely honest, it seems only appropriate for me to expose the ridiculousness of my mind in my own prose. As a younger version of myself, I took pleasure from unloading feelings into diaries, introduced to me by my English aunty, who insisted that secrets were never to be kept a secret for very long, and transferred this expression onto blog posts when I realised typing was far quicker than putting pen to paper. However, given the benefit of more words per minute, this is exploited by lengthy introductions and needless information. One would imagine that this would be a negative effect of the keyboard. On the contrary, it is just what I need. I have too many words, phrases and jumbled sentences floating in my head that to be able to release them at such speed is a required skill.
It would seem entirely, or very nearly entirely, self-centred of me to create a blog solely for the purpose of unloading my own thoughts, most likely about myself or relating to myself, and publish it. Not being the only one doing this, though, is giving me some sort of fantastical comfort that it's okay to do such a thing. That and to use one of the millions of blogs floating around the expanding interwebs gives my mind-vomit a platform that should, in theory, receive less of an audience than would justify sustainable quality or, at least, conscious effort. Instead of getting a mellifluous stream of consciousness, instead you, whoever you are, will receive a constantly analytical and overly wordy stew of whatever I'm worrying about or trying to decipher.
Though introductory chapters, posts or sections are not designed to include specific details, I'm defying the unwritten structures and rules of blogging and I'm going to dive straight into one of the reasons I really need this square metre of space.
I'm vulnerable. I'm a recent graduate of formal education. I say this, rather than of the final institution I escaped, because I didn't take a break in all my years of being a pupil/student. After four years of being taught by my parents followed by seventeen years of attempting to outsmart the experts, I've been released into the real world. I didn't really prepare for it as much as I'd have liked to. Though I managed to organise a house of my own (if renting with two friends really is having a house of my own) and teach myself, and be taught, plenty of interesting meals to keep myself alive for a while, I didn't do that really useful thing of saving money to live, pay bills and keep a roof over my head, while I attempt to impress the world with the skills I learnt in my twenty one earth years so far in order to swap my talents for precious British pounds.
As well as being unstable in the bank account region, I'm also at the point where I was supposed to be sorted with one or two life goals. Getting a degree was supposed to mean the pinnacle of academic success that was guaranteed to give me something to be smug about. I made a huge mistake, however, in choosing to be an Arts graduate. Going to University was, for me, just the thing people did. I admit to not having much faith in people who strayed from the path and went to college to do alternative courses that taught specific skills tailored to a career outcome. I wanted to continue studying, gain life skills and feel more intelligent. This would make me accomplished. This would give me a good chance of getting a job. A job. See how vague I was in my aims. The gradual realisation of becoming a real world citizen came with the epiphany that smart goals really were smart. Achievable, attainable, understandable goals that were specific and measurable. That's what I was missing. I shouldn't have to come up with them now that I need to have achieved them already. Damn.
So I went to University to study something I knew I was good at but that was a wide enough subject that I could still learn new things and be presented with new challenges. Good, I can achieve easily in this field. I didn't necessarily have a career outcome but hoped I'd come up with something. I think I did come up with something. This something, however, is freelance. Not knowing enough about how to be self-employed, this is going to take some time to adjust to. I'll get there.
Being this age in this situation is also pushing me to maturity, though allowing the simple pleasures in life like playing in parks after dark and drinking through straws simply because I can, and introducing thoughts about old-people-life-landmarks. By this I mean the big scary things like marriage, having my own family, owning a house, having a career and being completely independent. I'm still, however, trying to figure out which of the above are suited t o me and which have just been instilled ideas by those who influenced me as I made my way through the world so far.
One of the topics of conversation that intrigues me is the philosophy of life. This was always an intrinsic attribute of mine but has only really been explored in the last five years thanks to A level Philosophy and Religious Studies as well as challenging others to discuss existentialism, the Kantian imperative and other common theories that many people don't know they understand.
Existentialism, I continue to assert, is what every single individual, bar a milli-percentage of the population, lives their life by. It is simply the way of finding ones own reason to live, whether that's to follow a religion, defined by officiality or by common interest, or to accept state rules (for the convenience of law and to stay out of harm's way) but be free in everyday choices. The Kantian imperative is what many people mistake for something possible. The only Kantian imperative is that every living human must have a parent (to be pedantic, I'm taking that even test-tube babies have parents in a form).
Perhaps because of this intrigue, I worry constantly about my own identity. Who am I, really? I notice that I try to please people by doing certain things and being a certain way. I can't rely on that, however, to define who I actually am. That's almost like being an actor and knowing I'm being a character separate from myself. The problem comes when I realise I'm bowing down to outside pressure and become uncomfortable with whatever it is I'm doing. Sometimes this manifests in a way that gets me frustrated for being a pushover whereas other times I have the opposite problem and have to stop myself from rebelling against whatever it is I'm supposed to be acting like: stop myself being so stubborn and, potentially, mean for no good reason. The latter problem comes when I get too much of a good thing.
To be really personal and intrusive, for example I'm noticing that I can be unintentionally mean to people I care about. Perhaps this is the cliche response to finally being happy. Being happy would clearly be too boring, I must find a way to make myself unhappy. The quickest way is to make someone I care about annoyed with me. Then I'll be unhappy that I caused that. Et voila, lack of dullness. This isn't a sensible response, though, brain. Stop doing that.
As well as realising I'm not as happy as I was meant to be after graduating, I'm also not in the right body. Not only was I meant to be happy and intelligent, I was also meant to be a beautiful size 10 (or 12-14, I'm not picky) with the contentment that comes with being able to pick near enough anything off a rail and look good in it. I've been told that I'm always pretty, even when I don't try (though I'm reassured that when I do try, it's noticed), and my body worries are irrational. When I was sixteen or so, I managed to squeeze an A* out of an exam board by writing for an hour and a half about body image and the media. I used the pen to liberate women away from the pressures of dictated sizes and impossible aspirations. You'd think I'd have listened to myself. No. I've always been unhappy with being like this. If I had the money, which now you know I don't, I'd hire someone to motivate me daily to sort myself out. On TV, you can achieve that in about six months. This means I can do it, too, right? I'm brainwashed.
Whilst I appreciate the people I care about telling me that I shouldn't be so overcast with this worry, but encouraging me whenever I decide to do something about it (which is always, though I don't necessarily broadcast it to many people), this is something that I'll only get over once I'm actually over it. I can achieve what I want. In 2010, I lost about two stone and I was so happy. I was on the way to exactly where I needed to be. Things got stressful, however, and my concentration wavered. Though I'd been incredibly disciplined, I fell back into old ways. Albeit, I'm not as bad as I used to be.
I use Maths to really work out that my goals are achievable. The problem with this huge aim, however, is that it's so huge. Even breaking it down into smaller goals doesn't satisfy me. I've met people who have done what I want to do. They're men, though. Biology is against me. It isn't impossible, I just feel it's more difficult for me. It doesn't help that I'm impatient and far too attentive to unachieved goals. I'll get there one day. Please let it be one day soon.
And with that fundamental reason for my misery unloaded onto the internet, I'm going to let Jon Ronson entertain me a little longer.
It would seem entirely, or very nearly entirely, self-centred of me to create a blog solely for the purpose of unloading my own thoughts, most likely about myself or relating to myself, and publish it. Not being the only one doing this, though, is giving me some sort of fantastical comfort that it's okay to do such a thing. That and to use one of the millions of blogs floating around the expanding interwebs gives my mind-vomit a platform that should, in theory, receive less of an audience than would justify sustainable quality or, at least, conscious effort. Instead of getting a mellifluous stream of consciousness, instead you, whoever you are, will receive a constantly analytical and overly wordy stew of whatever I'm worrying about or trying to decipher.
Though introductory chapters, posts or sections are not designed to include specific details, I'm defying the unwritten structures and rules of blogging and I'm going to dive straight into one of the reasons I really need this square metre of space.
I'm vulnerable. I'm a recent graduate of formal education. I say this, rather than of the final institution I escaped, because I didn't take a break in all my years of being a pupil/student. After four years of being taught by my parents followed by seventeen years of attempting to outsmart the experts, I've been released into the real world. I didn't really prepare for it as much as I'd have liked to. Though I managed to organise a house of my own (if renting with two friends really is having a house of my own) and teach myself, and be taught, plenty of interesting meals to keep myself alive for a while, I didn't do that really useful thing of saving money to live, pay bills and keep a roof over my head, while I attempt to impress the world with the skills I learnt in my twenty one earth years so far in order to swap my talents for precious British pounds.
As well as being unstable in the bank account region, I'm also at the point where I was supposed to be sorted with one or two life goals. Getting a degree was supposed to mean the pinnacle of academic success that was guaranteed to give me something to be smug about. I made a huge mistake, however, in choosing to be an Arts graduate. Going to University was, for me, just the thing people did. I admit to not having much faith in people who strayed from the path and went to college to do alternative courses that taught specific skills tailored to a career outcome. I wanted to continue studying, gain life skills and feel more intelligent. This would make me accomplished. This would give me a good chance of getting a job. A job. See how vague I was in my aims. The gradual realisation of becoming a real world citizen came with the epiphany that smart goals really were smart. Achievable, attainable, understandable goals that were specific and measurable. That's what I was missing. I shouldn't have to come up with them now that I need to have achieved them already. Damn.
So I went to University to study something I knew I was good at but that was a wide enough subject that I could still learn new things and be presented with new challenges. Good, I can achieve easily in this field. I didn't necessarily have a career outcome but hoped I'd come up with something. I think I did come up with something. This something, however, is freelance. Not knowing enough about how to be self-employed, this is going to take some time to adjust to. I'll get there.
Being this age in this situation is also pushing me to maturity, though allowing the simple pleasures in life like playing in parks after dark and drinking through straws simply because I can, and introducing thoughts about old-people-life-landmarks. By this I mean the big scary things like marriage, having my own family, owning a house, having a career and being completely independent. I'm still, however, trying to figure out which of the above are suited t o me and which have just been instilled ideas by those who influenced me as I made my way through the world so far.
One of the topics of conversation that intrigues me is the philosophy of life. This was always an intrinsic attribute of mine but has only really been explored in the last five years thanks to A level Philosophy and Religious Studies as well as challenging others to discuss existentialism, the Kantian imperative and other common theories that many people don't know they understand.
Existentialism, I continue to assert, is what every single individual, bar a milli-percentage of the population, lives their life by. It is simply the way of finding ones own reason to live, whether that's to follow a religion, defined by officiality or by common interest, or to accept state rules (for the convenience of law and to stay out of harm's way) but be free in everyday choices. The Kantian imperative is what many people mistake for something possible. The only Kantian imperative is that every living human must have a parent (to be pedantic, I'm taking that even test-tube babies have parents in a form).
Perhaps because of this intrigue, I worry constantly about my own identity. Who am I, really? I notice that I try to please people by doing certain things and being a certain way. I can't rely on that, however, to define who I actually am. That's almost like being an actor and knowing I'm being a character separate from myself. The problem comes when I realise I'm bowing down to outside pressure and become uncomfortable with whatever it is I'm doing. Sometimes this manifests in a way that gets me frustrated for being a pushover whereas other times I have the opposite problem and have to stop myself from rebelling against whatever it is I'm supposed to be acting like: stop myself being so stubborn and, potentially, mean for no good reason. The latter problem comes when I get too much of a good thing.
To be really personal and intrusive, for example I'm noticing that I can be unintentionally mean to people I care about. Perhaps this is the cliche response to finally being happy. Being happy would clearly be too boring, I must find a way to make myself unhappy. The quickest way is to make someone I care about annoyed with me. Then I'll be unhappy that I caused that. Et voila, lack of dullness. This isn't a sensible response, though, brain. Stop doing that.
As well as realising I'm not as happy as I was meant to be after graduating, I'm also not in the right body. Not only was I meant to be happy and intelligent, I was also meant to be a beautiful size 10 (or 12-14, I'm not picky) with the contentment that comes with being able to pick near enough anything off a rail and look good in it. I've been told that I'm always pretty, even when I don't try (though I'm reassured that when I do try, it's noticed), and my body worries are irrational. When I was sixteen or so, I managed to squeeze an A* out of an exam board by writing for an hour and a half about body image and the media. I used the pen to liberate women away from the pressures of dictated sizes and impossible aspirations. You'd think I'd have listened to myself. No. I've always been unhappy with being like this. If I had the money, which now you know I don't, I'd hire someone to motivate me daily to sort myself out. On TV, you can achieve that in about six months. This means I can do it, too, right? I'm brainwashed.
Whilst I appreciate the people I care about telling me that I shouldn't be so overcast with this worry, but encouraging me whenever I decide to do something about it (which is always, though I don't necessarily broadcast it to many people), this is something that I'll only get over once I'm actually over it. I can achieve what I want. In 2010, I lost about two stone and I was so happy. I was on the way to exactly where I needed to be. Things got stressful, however, and my concentration wavered. Though I'd been incredibly disciplined, I fell back into old ways. Albeit, I'm not as bad as I used to be.
I use Maths to really work out that my goals are achievable. The problem with this huge aim, however, is that it's so huge. Even breaking it down into smaller goals doesn't satisfy me. I've met people who have done what I want to do. They're men, though. Biology is against me. It isn't impossible, I just feel it's more difficult for me. It doesn't help that I'm impatient and far too attentive to unachieved goals. I'll get there one day. Please let it be one day soon.
And with that fundamental reason for my misery unloaded onto the internet, I'm going to let Jon Ronson entertain me a little longer.
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