Talking The Talk In The Conversation: Women Dress for Women

Deb: In our ongoing conversation about women and our self-esteem or lack thereof, I started thinking about the source of it. I started wondering what makes us change and nip and tuck and fix and futz with our looks. And more to that point, I started wondering who we do it for.

As opposed to popular thinking, most women do not dress for men. Most women dress for women. I think we have done this for centuries. And along those lines I think that women get “work” done for other women, with the possible exception of breasts. I think a large part of the plastic movement is done to impress our own gender. I think we need to look good for other women and, as a result, we might just be doing each other in. Eating our own as it were.

Wouldn’t it be lovely if every woman would look to a friend who is aging or is less than perfect and say,  “You look great.” There is an oft bandied about phrase which goes, “A smile is your best accessory.” But the truth is, it is! If we feel good about ourselves we look great. Inner beauty has gotten a bad rap for being, well ... inner beauty. Yet there is nothing “inner” about it. If we nail the inner, the outer comes along for the ride.

The world is obsessed with “hot”. We have this burning desire to look “hot”.

What is hot? Really. Isn’t hot chemical? Isn’t hot in the eyes of the beholder? Can we possibly sustain this media image of hot? No one friggin can. But between the “hot” flashes we can, in no particular order, look lovely, pretty, cute, gorgeous, rested, sparkling, happy, sexy, engaged, spirited graceful and ... handsome. I have always been miffed at the use of “handsome woman” as a derogatory term. Some of the most attractive and sexy women I have known have been “handsome”, for the record.

I think Ashley Judd was spectacular, strong and poised in her rebuttal. But thinking forward, what would happen if we all just stopped caring? I know, I know ... but I think we have to spend more time changing our own perceptions of ourselves. And we need to spend conscience time doing this. Like ... equal to Facebook time. We worry too damn much about what others think of us. And people in the public eye have the added worry of what the media thinks of them and as a result, the world.

But here’s the thing. Maybe we have to accept what we cannot change. Because we can’t change what people say publicly or privately about us. But we can change what we put out there. And in the end, the only logical answer is to stop taking the bait. And maybe by doing that, we will change it.

In the meantime, we must find a way to fall in love with the image we see in the mirror. WE MUST! Remember that others do not see what we see. I have a friend who wants to get her neck done. I get it. I see that she has a little middle-aged chin thing going on there. And I admit that when she points it out, I see that. But that is the only time I ever see it. What I usually see is her heartstoppingly beautiful face. And I am not just saying that to ease her saggy chin pain. She is beautiful. But she sees the neck. I know. I have been there. Full disclosure in a later blog.

But the truth is, in the last little while I have worked consciously to not only make my peace with, but to embrace my imperfections. I have been diligent in my attempts to banish them from my psyche. Or at the very least form a truce with them. I have decided to do the best I can with what I have. Because I am aging. We all are.

Jennifer Aniston is going to be an old woman some day.

And it’s not like we weren’t told. This is the life we expected. Getting old was in the offing from the get-go.  And yet we seem shocked and panicked by it. And the media rants and the media belittles and the media mocks.

And they do this because they know that we believe them. And in the meantime we hope they will change.

But I think it’s us who have to.

Barbara: Oooh, so many juicy points here I want to respond to. First off, when you mention how most women dress for women, I know you’re so right. I mean, there is some stuff I wear for Phil, but in the every day sitch, I’m thinking more about “fashion” and “trend” and “style” than I am about, well, sex.

As soon as I read this, I remembered a moment earlier today when I was standing in a bookstore in front of the magazine aisle and a young woman stopped not too far from me—and I was tired and so maybe not as conscious as I would normally be. But I suddenly realized I had literally been eying her up and down for several very looooooong minutes. I am sure—given that my relaxed face now looks (okay, okay, in my mind’s eye, Deb, but I am sure in real life too!) like I am an angry, judgmental bitch— that anyone passing must have assumed I was secretly lambasting her, cutting her up, cutting her down. But the truth is, my face looks like that when it is relaxed!!! And I was absolutely LOVING her outfit. I wanted to drink it in. I wanted to memorize it. She looked amazing. But betchya anything she would’ve been shocked and outraged at my blatant staring, and surely would have misconstrued my utter lack of intent. So there’s that.

But I do also want to say that I take up the noble and brave gauntlet you’ve thrown: that we need to be aware of how we judge our physical selves so very harshly—and that we need to STOP IT. If we go along with the old credo that the media likes to scare us, then them openly playing to our insecurities would surely fit in with that, right? Let’s take away that power. Let’s take our own power back.

Can we do it??? 

Adding To The Conversation: Women And Media

Barbara: So last week Ashley Judd asked us (and by “us” I don’t mean The Middle Ages specifically, but wouldn’t that’ve been cool???) to “join in—and change—the Conversation” about women and how we’re seen and represented in the media. In case you missed it, she wrote this biting piece for the Daily Beast in response to the overwhelming attention she’s received lately based SOLELY on her looks. She’d wanted to ignore it at first, but then she got mad. And then she knew she couldn’t sit back anymore and “take it”. She needed to speak out.

Now Ashley isn’t the first person to speak out against this kind of thing, but I really believe one of the reasons themes keep repeating themselves in our blogs here or in our conversations in life or in society in general is that we need to keep remembering—and reminding each other—to adjust. Because adjustment is so incremental (another common theme here!), we need to practice working and re-working our gears toward the truer and clearest path toward compassion and acceptance.

Why was Ashley lambasted? Because she’d “had work done” … or because she hadn’t. No one (in these articles) talked about how she’d scored a strong lead role in a new TV show, that she was setting a great example for strong female characters, one which didn’t need to be overtly sexualized to be interesting. No, the articles were all about her looks. And the mean-spirited writers of these pieces were usually (maybe exclusively) women! She calls it a misogynistic attitude. Not anti-male, but anti-female. That we are so conditioned to deconstruct each other that this is the only conversation worth having in our media right now: the insulting speculation goes viral, the nasty comments pile up, the media jumps in to ride this next wave of escalating vitriol. Ooh, we love to hate each other!

Now, I almost didn’t talk about this here because I know we’re not of this ilk. I’ve seen it over and over in how we support each other and celebrate our spiritual wellbeing. But then I also realized that if we don’t talk about it here, we’re missing a chance to spread the consciousness of a really important issue. We can put our feelings into words here—and everyone will have slightly different words—and we can make a difference in how women and men talk about women.

As an actor, I obviously have had to give my looks a lot of thought. But I was almost never cast as the “beautiful” girl, was almost always as the sweet mom. And so I didn’t really feel the onus of needing to look a perfect way. That said, the “beautiful” girl roles are usually the most exciting. And I do remember the whole “is she fuckable” question that was applied to who would eventually be cast in any given role. And, yes, this question gets applied to male actors too. But I’ve never been in a position where my looks have been scrutinized, picked apart, and spit upon like Ashley Judd has. People say Ashley was “asking for it” because she chose a career that puts her in the public eye. I have news for you: people who want to be actors are almost never in it for the fame. Is fame seductive, can it twist you around? Most certainly. But fame is really only part of the equation for an actor because if you’re famous, well, then you get to work—and actors want nothing more than to work (you can’t perform a little show by yourself, for yourself, the way you can, say keep a writing or drawing journal or dance or sing). People become actors because they have a deep-seated need to communicate with other people, to help share the human experience by showing you yourself. We’ve needed actors as story-tellers since the beginning of Man. Why would we excoriate them for not looking like some increasingly bizarre notion of "perfect"?

As a now “middle-aged” woman, I see my role in society shifting, my looks changing. Of course, I ask myself from time to time if I would ever get “work done”.  Funnily, this is probably the one instance when I have been guilty of deconstructing a woman’s looks: when she’s had so much work done, her face looks like an unnatural mask. I don’t know where to look; I blurt out how “great” she looks because I don’t know what I’m supposed to say. And what am I doing when I do that? Implying that in her natural state, the one where she looked utterly like herself, she was somehow not lovely?

I had lunch with an acquaintance a little while ago. I had only met her once when we’d had an amazing dinner together years before. When we got together the second time, I was delighted to see her again. She asked if she looked different; I said no, she looked exactly the same! It was just so great to see her! But she was disappointed. She’d lost a lot of weight, changed her hair colour, and felt like she’d shed some old unhappy, unhealthy version of herself. I was gobsmacked. I swear, my connection with her had been through her eyes, through her spirit that one night, through her stories. I guess how she looked hadn’t made as strong an impression on me as how she WAS. Sure, she looked great the second time, but she’d also looked great—to me—the first.

I think, like with health and wellness issues, how we look is only important as far as how it makes us FEEL. And we all need different things to make us feel good, don’t we? But we’re also making it harder to FEEL good about ourselves when so much focus seems to be on how we LOOK.

By reading or passing around the nasty garbage about how this person has cellulite and that one has wrinkles and the other one is “puffy-faced”, we are giving this kind of discussion weight. We need to stop valuing each other and ourselves for how good we look (or not). It’s not “innocent banter” or “silly gossip”. It insinuates. It snowballs. It corrupts. It undermines. And it is so IRRELEVANT.

Think about it: the people we really admire, the ones we really love, the deepest, realest connections in our lives have nothing to do with appearances.

Maybe if we practice believing it, we might actually one day believe it.

Deb: This is a subject I have wanted to tackle for some time and have had in my notes and on my mind.  Thank you, Barbara, for bringing it up. I have continued to marvel these last years about the continued and growing attack on woman—by women. I have much more to say on it, but it will be for another time. Right now and for this post, you have nailed it. But I must say, I think the conversation should continue at The Middle Ages. I think we have just landed on a theme that deserves some length of time. I might even suggest a spring theme if you will. I will build on what you have written if you like and you do the same. A great dialogue will ensue, I am sure. For women and for men, we MUST start setting new ground rules. We must. It has lost its way ... mostly, but not entirely. Not by a long shot.

Barbara: Yes, let’s do it!!! 

PS Tomorrow, Annette is going to guest-blog here about her own hilarious encounter with trying to walk this delicate line!

How We Celebrated International Women’s Day

Deb and Laurel

Barbara: Because we love and honour you women so much, of course we had to acknowledge this most important day: International Women’s Day. Yesterday morning, Deb was invited to speak at a breakfast hosted by Ontario MPP, Laurel Broten (a smashingly lovely, articulate, and sincere politician). I accompanied Deb—to my great delight. Because Deb is a damn good speaker. As you can imagine, she is charming and funny and insightful and compassionate.

She used this chance to speak from the heart about what being a woman means to her. She asked me if her speech was too long to publish to the blog—and I answered, as we often do, that people can read as much or as little as they choose. But I can’t imagine anyone choosing to skim it (although you can skim the (unexpected) parts about me ;) ); Deb’s speech is fantastic. Of course I am always aware of how amazing Deb is, but she still manages to surprise me and take it to a whole other level. She makes me so so proud. So here is Deb’s Women’s Day speech in all its unadulterated glory!

Deb: In honour of International Woman’s Day, I want to talk about the joy of the female presence in my life. I say “female presence” not only because of the women in my life, but because I am blessed to have in my family two men who are very much in touch with their feminine side. I am married to actor Colin Mochrie and we have one beautiful 21-year-old boy, Luke. Colin, for his part, cries like a girl during So You Think You Can Dance. It is sweet—and yes, I got his permission to share that. 

When we had a boy, we thought, “Okay, here we go, hockey, baseball, soccer. But the boy had other plans. Ballet, jazz, musicals, modern art. When he was around ten, he decided to add a game to family game nights. He called it: Luke Goes on a Date. I would play his “date” and my husband would be relegated to play bus driver, chauffeur, waiter, cab driver, and that ilk.  He had to reconcile himself to being a “special business extra” in our son’s dating life. So we would play the game and Luke would take his part very seriously, as would I (Oedipal implications aside).

At the end of playing our very first time, our son broke down in tears. We were shocked, especially Colin who felt that he had particularly excelled at the role of the valet guy. We asked the boy what was wrong. God bless him, through tears he said, “It’s just that, some day, some day it’s going to be real!”

One day when playing the date game, he stopped in his tracks as we fake-walked into a restaurant, “Mom what do I do about the door. Should I open the door for my date? Will she like it; will she be upset?” And I said, “Luke, here are the three stages of opening the door in a woman’s life. In her teens she will think it is sweet and romantic because she is all squishy about the prospect of love and romance. In her college years she will reel on you. ‘Why the hell are you opening the door for me for? Am I helpless, am I an idiot? Do I not know how the damn handle works?!’ In her middle years, she will be comfortable with her equal role to men and be grateful for the thoughtful gesture, secure in the fact that masculine and feminine have nothing to do with equality.” He soaked it all up like a sponge and, although he is only going on 22, he has had a great relationship with a beautiful young woman for three lovely years. I’d like to think I had something to do with that. Me and his cab-driving dad.

I am a lucky woman, my friends tell me, as my husband does all the cooking, grocery shopping, and laundry. I know what you’re thinking: What the hell do you do? I think my son said it best when asked to describe what his parents did for an essay at the age of 6. After listing Colin’s jobs for two long pages, he finished with: “Mommy lights the candles and pours the wine.” He was exaggerating a little, of course. I now use battery candles that are on timers, leaving me extra time to allow the wine to breath.

But in my defense, my husband LOVES to cook. It is his hobby and his joy. And he does the shopping because he does the cooking. He does it alone because he says, and I quote, “You just slow me down.” And he does laundry because—given the vastness of my wardrobe—I need only do laundry twice a year, during summer and winter solstice. My husband on the other hand has enough socks and underwear to last exactly two weeks. That is the way he likes it—and who am I to argue if a few of my items get cleaned in the mix. I am just that kind of collaborating partner.

And believe me, I do plenty. Believe you me. I know it sounds like I doth protest too much and I admit that my list would sound lame if I spouted it off, but I do what every other woman I know does, I keep our family afloat; I keep all the cogs greased and turning; I keep all the balls in the air. Okay I know that sounds like I am generalizing because I have no real list, but it’s not. All I know is, I never sit down. You are going to have to trust me on that.

So, branching out from the TESTROGEN in my house (just invented that word), I am surrounded by a wealth of wonderful women. I have tons of dear friends, some that I have had from the age of five whose relationships I still cultivate. But I have also come to friendships later in life that surprised the heck out of me. One such relationship is my guest here today. My wonderful and charming friend and writing partner, Barbara Radecki. We have collaborated on TV scripts, movies, and the project closest to our hearts: our blog, The Middle Ages. When I met Barbara in 2001 doing a film together I was instantly struck by her charm, gentle manner, energy and haunting beauty. But I had no interest in pursuing a friendship with her—and not because she was a shade taller than me (6 inches) and a tad prettier (waayyyy prettier). You know how it is when the friend roster is packed to capacity and you barely have enough time for the friends you currently have? Well, that was the case here. 

Barbara and I had started shooting a film called Expecting on the unfortunate start date of 9/11 and the day after, Barb went to her local mall to get some school stuff for her girls. The short story is that as she sat in the parking lot chatting with her husband on the phone who was in Windsor on business and she suddenly found herself the target of an attempted carjacking. Suddenly she was kicking and screaming as she fought off her aggressor, a man wearing a scarf around his face demanding the car. She kicked his ass from here to there. The next day I asked her how she did it? Wasn’t she scared? How could she kick and scream and win? She simply said, “After 9/11, I was not going to be a victim.” And I thought, “DAMN, gotta make room for this one in my life. Gotta. That girl is the whole package and I need this special gal in my life!”

I think woman are stupendous creatures and not just the stuff of the online poems and platitudes that I get in my inbox every day. Now, make no mistake, I am not casting aspersions at the Irma Bombeckian bombardment. On the contrary, I love Irma. She was one of the great broads. But I will warn you. If you send me one of these, I tell you in advance that I will not be forwarding them to 5 fabulous women I know and sitting by the computer to see if I get five back. Apparently getting five back in the yard stick by which my worth as a fabulous woman is measured. My reasons are this: I am secure enough at this stage of my life to know that I am fabulous and insecure enough to sit waiting all day, staring at my inbox, obsessing over how many I am getting back or not.

Because of our blog, The Middle Ages, I am now lucky enough to also be warmly surrounded by women from all over world. These women come in the form of teenagers and grandmothers, and everything in between, with every point of view imaginable. My world of woman is branching out thanks to our blog. Oh, and if you are thinking of joining the party, keep in mind that typing “blogspot” is imperative after “The Middle Ages”, unless of course you are interested in medieval forms of torture and tales of scurvy and the plague.

Because of all my women, young and old, far and wide, family and friend, with their voices secure in my heart and in my everyday life, I really don’t need the little daily reminders of what women are. I know what women are, as I have seen the stuff of which they are made every day throughout my life.

The women in my life are the people who drop off coolers of food to my 85-year-old parents to lessen their load. They arrive at my doorstep when they know I need a face-to-face and can’t ask. They sit at deathbeds ushering a fellow human out of this life when others can’t take it. They plant gardens and send flowers. They keep the family traditions going year after year. They emphasize the beauty in this world when it is threatened by the bad. They keep their relationship conversations going in good times and bad and refuse to be silent and let issues slide. They stand up for other women. They do not paint all men with a single brush. They judge each human as a human first. And yes platitudes abound as we laugh till we pee while we eat chocolate and watch An Affair to Remember. Thank God there are plenty of those good times. But when times are bad, these women are the people I turn around and see in front of me. They are the one’s asking, “What can I do?”