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Does a woman really have to choose between her FACE and her BOTTOM?

২৭ শে মার্চ, ২০১৫ সকাল ৮:৪৬
এই পোস্টটি শেয়ার করতে চাইলে :

Does a woman really have to choose between her FACE and her BOTTOM? One woman challenges the classic advice given to women over the age of 40

The classic advice was given to me first by no less a figure than Dame Barbara Cartland — then aged 90 — at one of her bizarre lunches to launch yet another romantic novel.

She was busy rattling off a roster of men who had proposed to her over the decades, when she broke off and fixed a skinny guest with her gimlet eye.

‘After 40,’ she told me, ‘a woman has to choose between her face and her figure. My advice is, keep a lovely, plump pretty face, and stay sitting down.’

Then she took to a chair to demonstrate, in a froth of princess-pink tulle from which her elaborately painted face rose in triumph.

As she got up again and started working the room, distributing souvenir gold-leaf acorns from her garden and finishing the list of long-deceased suitors — the object of her remarks, a skinny fellow journalist, scowled and fiddled with her lettuce.

I — past 40 by then — smiled my chubbiest, most complacent smile. It’s not often my tribe get our bums and faces validated over those of grumpy glamazons.

Now, that face-and-figure tip has been reiterated by Candice Bergen, former model, actress and Oscar nominee, whose memoir A Fine Romance will be published soon.

In it, 68-year-old Bergen merrily admits that over the past 15 years she has put on more than 2st. ‘I am a champion eater. No carb is safe,’ she joshes.

Food is fun, she believes, and it is ridiculous and sad that her contemporaries either starve or vomit in secret to stay stick-thin.

Bergen sounds a riot, just the girl for a grand night out. She also sounds — and here’s the key — confident and sexy.

None of that weird, skeletal, Sarah Jessica Parker or Victoria Beckham vibe for her, nor that gristly, hard-body Madonna look, all abs and biceps.

Her brand of femininity, which is shared by domestic goddess Nigella Lawson, is a bounce and a grin, a wink and a cuddle.

The buxom woman’s image may not suit the gay-dominated fashion industry or the anxious self-hating celebrity circuit, but children (and, frankly, most men) gravitate towards the comfortable female form.
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Both have an entirely natural instinct to bond with a female who seems fun, comfy, confident and able to enjoy her food.

Indeed, scientists lately delighted us with news that the particular sort of fat on the female backside is rather special. It is vital for the formation of the healthy foetal brain in pregnancy.

So any cheek from your teenage offspring, and you can riposte: ‘Your brain is made out of my bum! Ha ha ha!’

Before the health-police start pursing their lips, I hastily say that by ‘buxom’ and ‘comfortable’ I absolutely do not mean obese.

There is a clear line to be drawn between the chub of the healthy and vigorous middle-aged and the vast jelloid spread of the clinically obese.

This is not about those sad whale-forms who wheeze and waddle and risk diabetes; who can’t fit in train or plane seats. Of course, serious obesity needs help, or in the last desperate resort, gastric-band surgery. But that is quite different from the 2st-above-model-weight which Candice Bergen is talking about.

We all know perfectly well when we are ladling on the lard in the wrong places: if sensible, we take action. There are times — post-pregnancy, doing double-duty as a working mum or just imprisoned by sedentary work and depression — when women (and men) cross the line. But we do know inwardly when that point is.

That is quite different, though, from the neurotic, bulimic daily anxiety of struggling to be unnaturally thin, too skinny for your natural metabolism.

Of course, some wiry women stay very slim all their lives without giving it a second thought.

It can be very annoying for cautious eaters to see these lucky freaks piling into the pies with no apparent effect. Others enjoy engaging in such ferocious sports that they rarely put on an ounce.

But what about the rest of us? As long as we walk our 10,000 steps a day, eat lots of veg, swim or bike or Zumba and can nip upstairs and sprint for a bus, there’s no problem with a bit of extra round the bum. Or in having (shock!) a stomach which is not concave, or thighs which occasionally meet.

The upside, as Cartland and Bergen remind us, is that a woman’s face doesn’t become haggard so quickly; her skin stays peachy and she won’t have that mean, cool, pinched, starved-weasel look so common on the social pages.

Rather, she exudes a contented, cheerful aura of enjoying life. She does not carry the quivering paranoia of one who is frightened of knives and forks, or sit with an agonised, tense expression in restaurants sipping mineral water and pretending not to be hungry.

It’s about confidence. That’s what makes many happy, rounded, smiling women attractive.

The morbidly obese aren’t confident — how could they be? But neither are those for whom every morsel, every pinch-of-an-inch, every dress size above 8 is a source of self-loathing.

They have been conditioned to think they have no real right to take up space, and must keep a vulnerable adolescent skinniness all their lives. They fear food.

A lovely moment in the Bridget Jones’s Diary movie is when she is counting calories and someone says: ‘Don’t you need 1,200 or something just to live?’ And she realises it had never occurred to her before that food was actually necessary. It was, to her, just a reprehensible addiction.

But you can’t go cold-turkey on food, so what you need is a cheerful relationship with it and your body. And if, as life goes on, some of nature’s bounty settles as padding on your healthy active body, so what? It’s certainly nobody else’s business.

One of the most irritating eras in journalism was when Sarah Ferguson was first married, long before she blotted her copybook. The papers sneered ‘Duchess of Pork’ and laughed at her broad-bottomed, bouncing shape, so far from Diana’s fragile, bulimic slenderness.

However, young Sarah was active: a rider, a black-run skier, a sexy, larky happy girl. Nothing wrong with her except an unfashionable shape. Has she looked better, happier, jollier in her skinnier after-years? I think not.

So hurrah for Candice Bergen and her rollicking attitude to life. She looks great.

I find myself humming an Irish ditty we used to sing in the pubs of West Cork, with the chorus: ‘For she’s a great big shtout lump of an agg-er-i-cultural Irish girl. She neither paints nor powders and her figure is all her own…’

The last line rises triumphantly with a cry of ‘The full of your arms of Irish love — is Mary Ann Malone. Whoopee!’

And I will bet Mary Ann Malone had a gorgeous, peachy, Irish face and the comfiest of backsides. Good for her.
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