Reinventing the real

When results of the Body Truths Survey are published in a forthcoming issue of UK Marie Claire, expect to hear a lot of talk about “real women”. The tag “real women” was dreamed up last decade to both describe and flatter those who are not necessarily buoyant of bone and light on flesh - those who slide their bodies comfortably into size 14 and upwards. I suppose such women needed to bless themselves with a new moniker, having grown weary of “plump”, “overweight”, “fat” and “obese”, but I think their choice was a scornful one – more of a Tarzanesque roar from the health farm than any noble redress of a linguistic wrong.

The term “real women” suggests, of course, that there are some frauds out there in the ranks of womanhood, and such counterfeits just happen to be everyone size 12 and under. Apart from encouraging some general misrepresentations (Cheryl Kernot is the genuine article, while Queen Rania of Jordon, social reformer and Muslim feminist activist, is a phoney), the term is a total insult to any woman who happens to be travelling light.

For years we listened as “real women” told us their realness was not of their own doing. Their bodies, they said, were hostages to obstinate genetic schemes and wayward molecular trajectories completely out of a woman’s own control. Hasn’t it occurred to “real women” that the bodies of the bogus are governed by the same biological designs? But even if it isn’t so – even if a woman deliberately outfoxes her DNA – where’s the beef? The “real women” would say that such an imposter has caved in under the weight of meretricious social convention – that such sluts for popularity, had they lived when the brush of Rubens was the truncheon of public taste, would have been feasting furiously on pork and lounging in front of the piano in a desperate attempt to stack on the pounds. It’s interesting to note that, in the same era, “real women” would have been envied for doing exactly that which they do now; nothing.

Which is not to say that “real woman” are all slouches – that biological argument of theirs is valid. But it’s rubbish to claim that one who works towards something and achieves it is a cheat compared to one who surrenders to fate. By that logic, a man who lives and dies in the slums is more gallant than the kid who fights his way out.

Years ago I worked on the nation’s most socially indefensible magazine, The Picture. We poked fun at almost everything, and there are those who could argue the magazine was physically exploitative, but one laugh officially off the agenda was that which was at the expense of a woman’s body. Go through the archives of The Picture (if you must) and you’ll find plenty of large women, but you’ll not find a single one of them being ridiculed. By contrast, flip through the women’s magazines of today and you’ll find them peddling this “real women” nonsense, slandering the thin as “sickly”, “painful”, “anorexic”. I don’t recall it ever being acceptable to vilify the overweight in such a righteous tone. And if anyone should feel outraged and exploited, it’s the slim women on the covers, used to sell magazines by the very same women who spit at them for being hucksters.

It’s no secret that Casey Donovan from Australian Idol – just like Sarah Marie from Big Brother before her – is popular with young girls not because she is beautiful (although some might find her so) but because she makes many feel good about themselves. There’s nothing wrong with that, but it’s not a particularly courageous reason to elevate somebody. It is more honest and natural – indeed, “real” – to exalt those who are what we feel we can’t be.

The “real women” tag is a product of exhaustion. It’s the scream of the drunk at the scurrying commuter – the sound one makes when one couldn’t be bothered, and so despises the one who is. It’s a wonder more thin women don’t stick up for themselves. But then, they’re probably comfortable with their bodies, which is exactly what “real women” purport to be. If that’s the case, they might like to prove it by going silent on the topic of their own flesh, and certainly the topic of everyone else’s.

As for us overweight men, we are what we’ve always been; fat bastards.

Jack Marx
(First published in SMH, December 3, 2004)