Why can't women celebrate food?
Women don’t seem to like being women any more. From years of Androgyny Waif, all boy buttocks and flat chest, we’ve gone to Construction Site Girl – rippling hardbody with muscle-buttressed boobs.
Who is it for? Bridget Jones may have spent most of her time and diary focused on her excess calories, but the resulting shape didn’t seem to put off either the Hugh Grant cad-and-bounder or the Colin Firth pill of a hero. It was that cow of a pencil-shaped publisher from New York, not one of her two suitors, who cattily observed Bridget Jones was fat.
Madonna went voluntarily from Marilyn Monroe siren to civic-realism statue, all sinew and brute force, devoting as many hours to refining her body each day as the rest of us spend earning our livings. Now Liz Hurley, who once gave herself curves by sticking loo rolls in her back pockets, has gone brutal on us. And whatever happened to bouncy bunny, Geri Halliwell? And why?
Let’s all struggle to keep thin. What fun. Let’s not sit over a glass of wine (70 calories) setting the world to rights. Let’s spend our free time at the gym sweating into Schwarznaggerettes. And if we haven’t got the time or the money, we can just stop eating altogether. It’s empowering. As sexy as a pair of Christian Louboutin red-soled, studded-heel stilettos.
But for whom? What man wants to cuddle up to someone whose body leaves blisters on his hands? Or who could toss him over the back of the sofa with a single armlift?
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