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Thanks Martha, I think
Thank you Martha. The truth is I’m not really sure I feel thankful about Martha’s foray into baring some of her octogenarian bits for Sports Illustrated. However, from what I’ve read, as a woman I’m supposed to be pleased for another woman’s accomplishments. If I viewed the cover photograph of a “sports” magazine as an accomplishment I guess I’m pleased, sorta kinda but not really. I understand Martha spent two months getting ready for the photoshoot. Two months! No doubt she crash-dieted. I understand she did Pilates three times a week, and who knows what else, to ready herself for the eight-hour magazine cover shoot. I’m a bit hung up on the two months of preparation. And, imagine how much money was spent on the NINE BATHING SUITS! Nine!
I don’t know about all y’all, but when I get ready to hit the beach it takes me about fifteen minutes to find my one and only bathing suit and another ten minutes trying to fit all of this into all of that. Nine bathing suits? Over the fifty-plus years I’ve lived in the County I don’t think I’ve purchased, or owned, nine bathing suits. The one I have now was purchased about nine years ago, probably longer, from an online shop. I purchased online because trying a bathing suit on in a retail store isn’t my idea of a good time. My fear is someone will ask me to come out of the change room and show off the suit I’m trying on—to twirl around while wearing an unflattering bit of spandex with my big white granny panties peeking out, because, you know, germs. And, for that matter, photographs of me in a bathing suit do not exist, to the best of my knowledge. It is forbidden, by my own decree, to point a camera in my general direction when I’m suited-up—even if I’m in my own pool. Forbidden. Point that lens at anyone else, not me. I actually feel as if Martha has set the bar way too high for all of us older female types. Since the news of her spread hit the press, I’ve been asked several times how I feel about Martha’s adventure. Heck, two friends asked if I would ever consider doing something similar because, apparently, she’s brave and so am I. Believe me, no one wants to see this battered body in a skimpy cozzie. Kids, time, gravity, too much sun, too many Lay’s Potato chips, too many beers, bad lifestyle choices and cute cover-ups that don’t cover-up have prevented me from saying cheese. Cheese—yum.
So, thanks and no thanks, Martha. I know so many women who have been adversely affected by advertising and marketing campaigns that essentially tell women how they should look. Personally, I struggled for many years with dysmorphia. I’ll bet dollars to donuts (yum, donuts) most of the women I know have dealt with the same problem. We want what the model has, but we don’t have it so if we buy what the model is wearing we’ll garner some of that look. In our eighth decade, most of us still love to have the sun warm up our winter-chilled bodies, but we don’t want to be compared to someone who has all of the time and money to sit pretty. (Does she even do her own gardening? Asking for a friend.) We just want to be comfortable, soak up some sun, have a cool drink, read a trashy novel, shoot the breeze with family and friends and not give a good gosh darn about stretch marks, scars, stray hairs, saggy skin and blotchy faces.
So, “Thanks Martha”. You’ve challenged us to make some choices. I choose to be how I look right now. I choose my unfiltered, unPhotoShopped, “this is me” life. I choose to say “If you don’t like what you see, don’t look”. I choose to not have nine bathing suits. I choose to avoid the local beaches during the summer. I choose to be exactly who I am without two months of preparations to get me out the door. I choose to continue to scoff at magazines that promote unrealistic behaviours.
I choose to be me wearing my ancient, bright blue tank suit, my Boston Red Sox’s ball cap, my scratchy sunglasses and my cover-up, which looks a whole lot like my tatty, fuzzy housecoat. Now, where’s the beer and Lay’s™ Potato Chips?
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