Yesterday the British government watchdog banned two L'Oreal print ads because they were 'misleading to the consumer.' The politician behind this decision, Lib Dem Jo Swinson says, "There's a big picture here, which is half of young women between 16 and 21 say they would consider cosmetic surgery and we've seen eating disorders more than doubled in the last 15 years. This ban sends a powerful message to advertisers -- let's get back to reality."
I guess I'm confused. A reality without makeup? Or a reality without supermodels wearing the makeup in advertisements?
While I applaud her goal - a world where women feel comfortable in their own skin - I have to say I found this just a teensy bit ridiculous. Banning a magazine ad of Julia Roberts' face isn't going to impact anorexia numbers one bit. In fact, the implication that government intervention is required to prevent women in general from mass misconception would be funny if it weren't so patronizing. Heads up! We don't think a $7 pot of foundation is going to turn us in to Julia Roberts or Christy Turlington.
I need my government to protect me from lead in my kids' toys and radiator fluid in dog food. I don't need my government to protect me from delusion.
I don't have the answers. Wish I did. I spent the first 40 years of my life wishing for less height, straight hair and smaller feet. I can't even tell you what was different at 40 - wisdom perhaps. I find myself surrounded by the friends who like me, in all my wonky weirdness, and letting all the others go. I don't really have any tolerance for the "friends" who buy me beauty products "to help." Nor the ones who come to inspect my housekeeping or compare kids.
Perfection to me is hours spent laughing with my gorgeous friends - who come in all shapes and size, ages and genders. It is sitting down to dinner with a spouse and children who have so much to tell each other that long after the food is cleared, we are still sitting there. Perfection is wonky weirdness. Because how boring would the world be if we all looked and acted the same? Even if we all looked like Julia Roberts and George Clooney...
Thursday 28 July 2011
Thursday 7 July 2011
Running Away with the Produce Man
Have you been to a Whole Foods Market? Until I went home to Denver last month, I had never seen one. Now, I want to live there.
For those of you who have not had the privilege:
Isn't it gorgeous? Everything in it's precise place. Neat and orderly. Makes me feel almost woozy!
Here's another one:
Sadly, someone with children like mine has been through and messed it up a bit - but it is still pretty spectacular.
Today, I told my husband I was going to run away with the produce man (PM) from Whole Foods.
He said anyone who spent all their time aligning lettuce with a spirit level had a profound mental defect and should be hospitalized.
This from a man who cannot locate the laundry basket with his dirty socks. (Hence, my enchantment with the PM.) My husband of 20 years feels that socks should stay on his feet until his backside hits the mattress. At which point, they hit the floor and remain there until he runs out and must do laundry.
I didn't know this was a genetic fault until I asked him to move the dresser in our sons' room. Twenty-seven (27!!?!?) filthy socks later, I am in therapy. Or, at least, my version of it - a big bubble bath and a glass of sangria.
I live in a house of slobs. Three men who have much more important things to do (recode computer games to make them more fun, light saber battles with the midges in the garden, reading LOTR for the 93rd time) than pick up after themselves. And they really don't understand what my problem is. They are perfectly content climbing over a mountain of socks to get in to bed at night. They see no problem with stacking the CD's from the broken holder (casualty of a wrestling match) on top of the dog's kennel and leaving them there for eternity.
It doesn't help that the dogs are all proper Yorkshiremen and have begun shedding as much of their coats as possible because the mercury passed 80 degrees three days in a row.
For 18 years, I have picked up and tidied and generally organized everything. If it were up to me, we would live in a place that resembled the PM's. Or at least as close as the Container Store could get us. But now I am in the chair and it isn't up to me anymore. God help me, the slobs are in charge of tidy and order.
And because they are all so adorable when they are sound asleep - I am going to have to learn to let things go and live with it. Or become a really sloppy (bubble scented) drunk...
For those of you who have not had the privilege:
Isn't it gorgeous? Everything in it's precise place. Neat and orderly. Makes me feel almost woozy!
Here's another one:
Sadly, someone with children like mine has been through and messed it up a bit - but it is still pretty spectacular.
Today, I told my husband I was going to run away with the produce man (PM) from Whole Foods.
He said anyone who spent all their time aligning lettuce with a spirit level had a profound mental defect and should be hospitalized.
This from a man who cannot locate the laundry basket with his dirty socks. (Hence, my enchantment with the PM.) My husband of 20 years feels that socks should stay on his feet until his backside hits the mattress. At which point, they hit the floor and remain there until he runs out and must do laundry.
I didn't know this was a genetic fault until I asked him to move the dresser in our sons' room. Twenty-seven (27!!?!?) filthy socks later, I am in therapy. Or, at least, my version of it - a big bubble bath and a glass of sangria.
I live in a house of slobs. Three men who have much more important things to do (recode computer games to make them more fun, light saber battles with the midges in the garden, reading LOTR for the 93rd time) than pick up after themselves. And they really don't understand what my problem is. They are perfectly content climbing over a mountain of socks to get in to bed at night. They see no problem with stacking the CD's from the broken holder (casualty of a wrestling match) on top of the dog's kennel and leaving them there for eternity.
It doesn't help that the dogs are all proper Yorkshiremen and have begun shedding as much of their coats as possible because the mercury passed 80 degrees three days in a row.
For 18 years, I have picked up and tidied and generally organized everything. If it were up to me, we would live in a place that resembled the PM's. Or at least as close as the Container Store could get us. But now I am in the chair and it isn't up to me anymore. God help me, the slobs are in charge of tidy and order.
And because they are all so adorable when they are sound asleep - I am going to have to learn to let things go and live with it. Or become a really sloppy (bubble scented) drunk...
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