The Novelty Girls

Are these the bodies of lazy slobs, couch potatoes, closet bingers? Are these statues versions of ancient Before photos, showing what we used to look like before we took hydroxycut or phen phen or lived on grapefruit juice, desperately trying to copy those air-brushed hotties or metabolistically speedy freaks who look fantastic in string bikinis?

No.

These are images of the goddess. Images that were worshipped by men. Worshipped for the curve of their thighs and the ample sensuality of her breasts. Diefied for the fertility in her hips, promising the richness of the crop and the miracle of new life, season after season.

Does this knowledge make me feel better about myself as I lie across my bed, red faced from wrestling a stubborn zipper? Not at all. I too, am a victim of our obsession with body image. At least I didnt come of age in the 70’s when Twiggy was considered a sexpot. I may have drowned myself in double fudge chocolate ice cream.

I’ve always been pleasantly plump, and being a writer is 50% creativity, 50% sitting, so I’ve gained substantial  posterior on my journey.  I now flop in places I should bounce, and jiggle in places I should…well…NOT.

But I’m trying to logic myself out of my depression. As a teenager I just wanted to be hot. Now? I just want to be strong and healthy. I love my husband and my life and I want to experience it for as long as I can, in as good health as I can. So I’m working out in order to ensure that future.

And I’m trying to remember the goddess. The paragon of femininity who is not ashamed of her body, who revels in her voluptuous repose. And reminding myself that beauty is not static, and that we are all the goddess, in our own, unique way.