Bad body image: Who to blame?

Today, my blog is going to be about body image. Yes, I know it’s been done to death but it’s my blog and I’ll write what I like. 

In the last week or so, I had a revelation of sorts. It was amazing. I was sitting in my favourite chair; the telly was on, when all of a sudden, vaginal surgery comes on to the screen. Needless to say I was horrified, and proceeded to nearly choke on my crisps. The women featured on the show were creating a patch work quilt, made entirely out of pictures of lady parts. Their aim was to raise awareness of female genital mutilation. Not really sure how a blanket will do that, but good for them. The surgery we had just unwittingly witnessed was considered by the women to be self-mutilation, the destruction of a body part in order to lessen some internal self-hate. Of course it was wrong of these women to want to change what God gave them, and of course we as a society had to discourage women from going to these extremes. We shouldn’t let the media tell us to be unhappy with our bodies, but we should let these women tell us what not to do to it.

The doctors performing the procedures had a different view on the matter. Given that the doctors are paid to do these surgeries, it would have been a bit much to expect any discouragement from them. For some reason however, the host of the show was shocked to hear the doctors telling them to just accept that this is what girls want to do to themselves. Well, why should the doctors take the pulpit? They don’t go out handing out leaflets for the procedures, do they?

If you want me to come to a dazzling conclusion, telling the world that surgery is wrong and all plastic surgeons should be burnt at the stake, stop reading now. That isn’t my conclusion. I do not see surgery encouraged in general society. In fact, if someone has excessive surgery, they are treated as an outsider, their different alterations overshadowing all that they do. I have never come across a situation in which I was told “you know, you should really get that done.” 

Why is it that whenever we see plastic surgery on the television, no one has ever decided to get it out of their own free will? There is always someone else to blame for the procedure being done.

Scapegoats for a woman’s bad body image:

1: The pretty women in the media. If products used ugly women in their adverts no one would buy it. Advertising doesn’t mould society, it simply responds to what we want to see. Stop responding the beautiful people and adverts won’t use them anymore.

2: Porn. If you don’t like it don’t watch it. Seriously, who watches porn and thinks ‘I wish my lady parts looked like that. I might go and get surgery now.’

3: Men. If a woman doesn’t like the way she looks, you can guarantee that someone, somewhere, will blame a man for it. If you stay with a man who makes you feel ugly, it’s safe to say you already had self-esteem issues. 

My overall point is not that the media needs to use ugly people in their adverts. Advertising creates jobs, and gives boosts to industries that need it. My overall point is not that porn needs to be stopped before all our children want to look like porn stars. There will always be porn, because there will always be people who want to see it. The anonymity of the internet means that there’s no point trying to shame people out of it, so my advice to those offended is, stay away from it. There, simple.

My overall point is that if you have self-esteem issues, the only one who can change that is you. It’s all very well blaming anything and everything, but only you can change what’s happening inside your head. Surrounding yourself with positive things can help you do this, but it is still down to you to make sure this happens. So stop blaming everyone for body hang ups, and start doing something about them.

I’m happy with my body. Haven’t always been, and probably won’t stay happy forever. However I feel, I know that I will never resort to chopping bits off, and adding bit on. As long as that’s the case, I know I’m fine.

A new creative writing piece

“We agreed no more toys for the kids until Christmas.”

      

“It’s a £2 truck, Minerva, what’s the big deal?”

“Where’s the treat for Bonnie then? If it’s no big deal, why not buy two toys?”

“Don’t start this again, not now; I’m not in the mood for it.”

Jimmy sat in his room, playing with his new truck, listening to his parents argue downstairs. It didn’t really bother him, not anymore. Ever since daddy and his new mummy got married, all conversations seemed to end in loud voices and angry faces. It didn’t matter though, because Jimmy was the proud owner of the reddest, most amazing-est truck that ever was ever.

“How are they supposed to feel like siblings if you keep treating him so differently? How’s Bonnie supposed to feel? With her brother being spoilt rotten while she’s left wondering why she couldn’t have the £3 doll she asked for two days ago.”

“Dear God you can nag woman.”

“Don’t you DARE speak to me like that!” Screeched mummy, making Jimmy jump and nearly drop his toy. Nearly, but not quite. Nothing would make him let go of shiny new truck. Jimmy loaded it up with Lego brick debris, and drove them over to the under the bed dump site. 

“Look out below! There’s rubbish from the giant red super truck!” Jimmy dumped the rubbish, making sure not to squish any of the dumpsite workers, because the truck was a goodie truck, not a baddie truck.

“See how happy he is?” Daddy asked Mummy, “Why are you making such a fuss over a little red truck, if it’s going to make the boy so happy?”

“When was the last time you bought Bonnie something? Hmm? When was the last time I bought Bonnie something without getting Jimmy anything? It’s all the time, Ryan, you ask for extra sauce on Jimmy’s ice cream, but you leave Bonnie’s cone plain. You come down to the school when Jimmy’s being bullied, but you tell Bonnie to toughen up. It’s wrong, Ryan.”

Jimmy’s bedroom door opened. Bonnie came into Jimmy’s room, and sat down near the bed. She didn’t say anything, so neither did Jimmy. Anyway, he was too busy saving the village of people from a fire, a terrible fire that only a big red truck can stop. Bonnie watched for a while, with her knees tucked up under her chin, without saying anything. 

“Mummy?”

The loud voices stopped for a moment.

“Yes, Bonnie honey what is it?” Mum called up. Her voice sounded oddly high, like she had breathed in one of those balloons from birthday parties. Jimmy liked breathing in the balloons; they made him sound like a mouse.

“Why doesn’t Jimmy have to wait till Christmas?”

It was a while before Mummy answered. Daddy didn’t say anything, but Jimmy new the answer, it was obvious. It was because he had been so good all year that Santa didn’t mind him having an early present. Bonnie must have been bad or something, that’s why she doesn’t get as many toys.

“It’s because Jimmy was a very good boy for daddy yesterday, helping me carry in the shopping like that.” Daddy called up. Jimmy was too busy to agree with daddy. The old blue truck had gotten jealous, and challenged the red truck to a duel. 

“I was good too, I helped carry in more shopping than Jimmy.”

Daddy sighed, “yes, but Jimmy is a lot smaller than you, so it was harder for him. Look, you can have something tomorrow, ok?”

Bonnie got, up and walked over to the door. “I don’t want anything, I’ll wait till Christmas.”

“You see, she doesn’t want anything. So what is all the fuss about? Let’s just get on with dinner so we can get the kids to bed.”

Mummy didn’t say anything. She didn’t even tell Jimmy off when he played with his truck on the dinner table. Jimmy let Bonnie play with his old blue truck, and they raced each other around the living room all night. Daddy came in 8:30 and told them both it was bed time.

“Where’s my mum?” asked Bonnie, while they were brushing their teeth. Daddy didn’t answer he just told them both to get a move on. Jimmy decided that he didn’t like daddy tonight. He was being really mean. He didn’t even say goodnight properly to the truck, like Jimmy asked him to. 

The next morning, the house was too quiet. There was none of the usual noise, no Bonnie asking everyone to help find her bow. Mummy obviously didn’t need to go to work, because she wasn’t trying to find her keys. In fact, no one was saying anything. Jimmy didn’t like it. He went downstairs, to ask his daddy what was going on. He had decided to forgive daddy for being mean, because daddy had bought him the best ever truck of all time.

Daddy was in the front room. He looked like he was crying, but Jimmy knew that daddies didn’t cry. Daddy had a new toy too! It was only a little toy, but maybe Jimmy’s truck could rescue it from a group of bigger toys after breakfast.

Ryan sat on the sofa, sobbing silently. It felt cold, and hard between his fingers, not at all like the day he had placed it onto Minerva’s hand. Till death do us part, he recalled them both saying it. The vow still held true. She had parted, and he had died a little.

You never get something for nothing. Trust me. I know.

I have been ripped off. Like a million other people, I was sucked in by a promise of getting something for nothing, and didn’t read the small print.

I saw the advert on the web one day. Free makeover and photo shoot in a top London studio. I had a look on the makeover studios website, and I liked what I saw. The photos were a bit chavvy I thought, but that was fine. Should I win, I would take classier clothes, and get them to do something different with my hair. I had a look at the prices of their photos. They cost £40 each, which was not too bad. Better than some studios anyway (I had previously paid £130 for 2 photos after a similar competition proved successful.)

And so, fool that I am I entered. I didn’t seriously think I would win, but it never hurts to try with these things. It was a free makeover, I didn’t have to buy any photos should I win, and so there was no visible harm in entering.

A week later, I was in my room, looking for job vacancies on the internet. It never felt right when I spent my student loan on a social life, and so I thought a job would clear my conscience. My phone started buzzing, interrupting my fruitless search. The number wasn’t one I recognised. I picked up to be told I had won a competition, hurrah for me. A free makeover, for me and a friend, worth hundreds of pounds I was told. As it was a competition, I would receive one free photo and the rest would be discounted. Great! Not really.

After many arguments, protests and us very nearly breaking up, my boyfriend agreed to come with me. I had paid the refundable deposit for us both, which I was promised I would get back. It was £50 for us both, but that didn’t bother me. I would get the money back and all would be well.

Wrong. The day was awful. The makeup took far too long, when all I really wanted was black eyeliner and red lips. I was taken into the ‘studio’ which consisted of a single room, done up with different wall papers and a tacky leather sofa. For the next 90 min, I did the same pose over, and over, and over until my brain went a bit numb. I tried to cut the proceedings short but only using 2 outfits, but of course that didn’t work, they just took more with the same clothes on. My boyfriend, thoroughly irritated by the whole thing, and rightly so, paced the waiting room relentlessly, making no attempt to hide his displeasure. The photographer, not getting the hint, carried right on asking me to look this way, then that way, then this way but with my head facing that way. It was getting beyond tedious.

Then came the bit I was waiting for, seeing my photos. There were so many, and they all looked the same. It was as if, rather than take any photos, the photographer had taken one, and just imposed it onto different coloured backgrounds. I chose my favourites, thinking I would be able to purchase one or 2, as a little memento of the day. After all, it isn’t everyday a girl wins a makeover and photo shoot. Then, I was informed I couldn’t buy one or 2. I had to buy a collection. £250. After the reduction. The free photo I was promised was available, but only if I bought at least 10.  The best they could do to ‘help’ me was to give the ‘privilege’ of instalments. At this point my boyfriend interjected, reminding me that I didn’t have a job yet, and that my bursary wasn’t for photo shoots. 

Despite me and my boyfriend’s best efforts, there was no deal to be negotiated. I was to leave with no photos. Which didn’t bother me too much, as the photos were all a bit, well, shit. After all, the day was free, and I would leave no more out of pocket then when I came in.

Except that I would be £50 poorer. Do you remember that refundable deposit I was talking about earlier? Well it wasn’t refundable. It was transferable. So it was less a deposit, more a monetary contract, ensuring I would buy some photos. If I didn’t spend anything, I wouldn’t get my money back, whether or not the photos were of buyable quality. I was too tired to argue. The previous night hadn’t been the best, and I painfully recalled a conversation with my mother that morning.

“Why are you going, if you’re so under the weather?”

“I want my deposit back, it was fifty pounds.”

And the moral of this story is, hit google before you give them your bank details. Or better still don’t enter these things. Every business wants to make money, and they don’t care how empty your pocket is before they pick it.

This should have been my first blog really, but im a bit backwards.

If you're here, hello to you and thanks for taking the time to have a look at my blog. To cut a long story short, I'm going to be posting a load of random stuff on here, and seeing what people think.

We recently had a career planning day at my uni, and a piece of advice given to us was, all budding writers should be blogging. So here I am, and here is my blog. It will mostly be short stories, but everyonce in a while I'l try to get something a bit different in. Yes I am aware that I'm one in a million 'Bloggers with High Hopes' but you never know, someone out there might like it. I hope you do!

Ta for reading, and I hope you visit my blog again :)

Jumping on the supernatural bandwagon

James sat in his study, silently wishing a slow and painful death onto his tutor. Each and every day, they sat in the kitchen, learning pointless bits of information that weren’t ever likely to be used again. Learning where x was, or how to measure the length of a triangle’s side without a ruler. Why can’t they just use rulers?

“Where is x?” James read out lout into the empty room. “Here’s an answer for you.” James picked up his pen and wrote, in large letters ‘WHO GIVES A FUCK’ before throwing his maths book into the box marked ‘school things’. James tilted back in his seat and admired his ceiling. It wouldn’t be so bad, he thought, if he could call his friends to talk about it. For a moment, James imagined he was someone else. That he wasn’t home schooled. That he had friends. That he has someone, anyone to talk to.

He would pick up the phone, like a normal 15 year old, and complain about the amount of work he was being given. It would go something like this.

“Hey James glad you called, wanted to ask for some help with the algebra. Mr Page has really gone mad setting work this week, hasn’t he?”

“I know! It’s like he’s punishing us for his lack of a life. If they want to know what x is why don’t they do it themselves? Gosh man, there’s no way I’m taking maths for a level.”

“Just forget about it, say it was too hard and that you couldn’t do it. You coming out tomorrow night? Ben’s having a party, should be good.”

Snapping out of his reverie, James sighed. Of course he wouldn’t go to the party. His parents would never let him out while the sun was down. It wasn’t safe, they said. He needed to be kept where they could keep an eye on him. James recalled a conversation with his mother, where he had asked to go to one of his friend’s houses. 

“Why can’t I go?” He’d winged, failing to comprehend why his mother would be so needlessly cruel.

“For the last time James I said no.” she had her back to him, busying herself with making dinner. It was easier to say no when you didn’t have to see the disappointment on your child’s face. Easier to remind yourself why it isn’t safe when you don’t have to see their innocent bewildered face. He had stormed off in a rage, hurt and confused. Why wouldn’t she let him go? He was 14, and his friend’s house wasn’t far. It was one night; it wasn’t like he was moving out, why was she being so strict?

James walked over to the school things box and retrieved his homework, trying not to recall the night he stayed round a friend’s house for the first time. But it was pointless. The memory rose in his mind, as unstoppable as the rising of the full moon. 

To his eternal shame, James had disobeyed his mother that night. He had gone up to his room, and locked the door behind him. James’ mother, relieved that she wouldn’t have to keep saying no, didn’t follow him. This meant that when James climbed out of his bedroom window, no one was there to stop him. When he climbed down the back of the house, using windowsills as footholds, no one noticed.

James was thrilled. He was going to be able to stay at Ben’s house! Climbing over the back fence, James planned what he would say to his mother should he have been caught. He would tell her that if she wasn’t so strict, he wouldn’t have had to sneak out. Maybe it was because she was lonely, thought James. Dad was away on another business trip, and perhaps the woman wanted company. James had dismissed these thought, concluding that it wasn’t fair to punish him for dad’s actions. He wasn’t the one always away on business, she should make dad stay at home all the time.

James, sat at his desk, shook his head in disgust. How foolish he had been. It was a year ago now, that night. The night he disobeyed his mother, the night he found out why he was never allowed out past a certain hour.

He was halfway over the fence when it happened. Straddling the fence with one leg either side, James started, convinced he had just heard a fox in the garden. Angry as he was at his mother, he couldn’t let a fox dig up her precious garden. She was his mum, after all.

“Shoo, fox, shoo!” Thinking that any noise would scare away something as timid as a fox, James didn’t make too much noise. It was too dark to see, but James was certain he could hear something in the bushes.

Out of nowhere, the garden was as illuminated as it was on the brightest day of summer. This light was too bright, too harsh, blinding, bewildering. He put his arm up to shield his eyes. When his eyes adjusted, he tried to make out what was happening.

The creature before him was hideous. It hadn’t been a fox in the garden, it had been it, this thing, this incomprehensible thing. Its amber eyes were squinting against the light, its nose pointed away from the house. Its claws scratched the earth beneath them, its fur hung dirty and matted. This creature embodied everything that was wrong with the world, all that Mother Nature did her best to wipe out. This creature, whatever it was, had James too scared to move. He sat there, unable to register his mother’s pleas for him to come back into the house. She stood there with her torch, blinding the creature, in the hopes that her son would get back into the house before the thing’s eyes could adjust.

James sat at his desk, trying so hard to block out what happened next. He closed his eyes tight, but there the memory was, waiting to play out like a film on repeat every time he closed his eyes. The creature had lunged at him. His arm had been out, in front of him like a shield against the light. Unfortunately, it took more than an arm to stop teeth like those. James rolled up his sleeve, feeling the jagged scar on his arm. He switched his focus back to his work, away from the night he discovered why his father spent so many nights away.

And thats why city girls don't go to the woods...

“Everyone say cheese, Michelle, stop pulling that face.”

So Michelle was forced to pretend to be a normal person for a full two seconds. After the picture was taken, the girls rushed forward to view the picture, and would all go through the timless ritual of picking out flaws with their own faces, and telling everyone else they looked like supermodels.

“I look like I have a double chin!”

“No, I look fat, you look amazing.”

“Rebecca man, why do you always take such bad pictures of me?”

“Someone has to document the first time you see a tree! Not my fault you have a double chin sugar.”

“That is it, we are not friends.” Maxine turned her back playfully on the girls. “Come on; let’s see what we can find. You never know, there might be some real gems around here.” Walking in front of her two friends, Maxine set off to explore the surroundings. It had been Michelle’s idea to have a ramble in the woods, an idea she didn’t expect to be taken seriously. To her amazement, and quite frankly her horror, Maxine had accepted the idea with a slightly indecent amount of enthusiasm. Within half an hour of the idea being playfully brought up over lunch, she had bought her hiking boots from the local Army & Navy store.  Slightly strange for a girl who used to think sheep could moo, but there they were, in the woods, with hiking boots on.

Rebecca put away her camera, and started after the pair. Keeping the map in her back pocket, she made a mental note of any unusual sights, ones that could help them if they got lost. She wasn’t too concerned though, as the trees weren’t too thick, and the main road was directly adjacent to their chosen path.

“Do we have to stay so close to the road?” Moaned Maxine, “How can we connect with nature when there’s a constant stream of cars going past?” Without waiting for a response, Maxine changed path completely, heading deeper into the trees. Rebecca and Michelle hesitated.

“Err, are you sure we should do this? I mean, our routes are already mapped out, and I just don’t think it’s wise…” Rebecca had spent a long time mapping out a safe route. To ignore it seemed almost sacrilegious. Surely they should follow a safe route?

But off Maxine went, and as usual, her friends followed. They would soon wish they hadn’t. But for now, they set off, ignoring their reservations and enjoying the views around them.  It truly was spectacular to the city girls, to see so much green in one place. They felt like explorers, finding new and exciting territories. So spectacular was their sight, it was a long while before anyone stopped and asked the inevitable question.

“Not to dampen the mood or anything,” said Michelle slowly, “but does anyone have any clue where the hell we are?” She looked around, trying to make out any of the land marks she had found on the map. Of course she couldn’t, because Maxine, in her infinite wisdom had taken them intentionally away from any recognizable places. Bloody typical. Michelle broke out into a slow, sarcastic round of applause.

“Well done Maxine,” She drawled, “You’ve gone and got us lost. Never mind the fact none of us knows what we’re doing. Just as long as you get a closer look at a tree.”

“Michelle,” Rebecca stepped forward, placing a restraining hand on her friends arm. “Michelle you’re not being fair.”

“My fault? This is my fault?” Maxine looked incredulous, “This whole thing was your idea!”

“Yeah, you know what else was my idea? MAPS!”

“Will you both stop shouting? This is getting us nowhere!”

“You’re shouting too, bloody hypocrite!”

They stood there for what seemed like an eternity, passing the buck back and forth, rather than trying to figure out a route home. It was an unwritten rule that whoever’s fault it was they were lost, had the responsibility to get them home. Everyone was desperate to avoid that seemingly impossible task.

Rebecca sat on a nearby stump, and placed her head in hands. It wouldn’t be so hard to get back, she thought, if one of them just stopped shouting for thirty seconds. All she needed to do was remember what direction they had set off in, and then trace their steps back. They had planned to set off north, but then Maxine had decided on north-west. No, it was south. What direction was it? If there was just one second of silence maybe she could remember.

“Will you two shut. The. Hell. Up.”

She hadn’t shouted. Girls like Rebecca don’t shout. Her words had the same effect as if she’d screamed them. Immediately there was silence. Anyone but Maxine would have stayed quiet.

“Who the fuck are you talking to me like that?” She asked with unwise amounts of belligerence.

Rebecca slammed the map book shut, getting up from her stump.

“Fine. Screw you all, I’m taking myself home. “

Michelle started forward after her. “You can’t leave,” She wined, “You have the maps!”

“Oh so now everyone suddenly loves maps.” 

“We’re gonna have to live in the woods.”

“Give us the bloody maps!”

The next moments would seal the fate of all three girls. In a fit of frustration, Rebecca pulled the map out of her pocket. Her friends watched in horror as she tore it once, twice, three times and sent the confetti floating off with the wind. It seemed to take the pieces an age to disappear into the trees.

And so, with no maps, no sense of what direction to turn in, they sat there, in the woods, hoping that someone would find them.