I was working on my food column and Googled
”
melons
”
for information on the different varieties of melons and ideas
choosing and preparing them. What came up in the ad (paid link)
column?
I was working on my food column and Googled “melons” for information on the different varieties of melons and ideas choosing and preparing them. What came up in the ad (paid link) column?
“Breast Jobs,” “Looking for size? Get bigger now,” “Breast enhancement tips & more,” “Breast-Jobs.com”
I didn’t dare Google “bananas.”
I’d like to think somebody at Google just has a naughty sense of humor, but I suspect there are some consumer-driven algorithms at work here. Every other day or so, there’s a TV news story about the dangers of surfing the Internet and the one-track-mind creeps out there who use the Internet to pursue their unwholesome hobbies.
What’s even sadder is that we women are still willing to pursue the voodoo of larger body parts and other drastic transformations in the quest for beauty and love.
It isn’t just on the Web. Remember that TV show called “Extreme Makeover?” Women would undergo facial and body cosmetic surgery, wardrobe consultations, hair coloring, makeup lessons and crash diets to transform themselves into somebody’s idea of beauty.
In the everyday world, cleavage, once relegated to the risque evening gown or beauty pageant, now appears in offices, stores, even day care centers. Tank tops, visible underwear, bare tummies, tight jeans, ankle bracelets, tattoos and piercings add to the attention that women are eager to attract to their bodies.
Don’t get me wrong; I like to look good and get dolled up. But what I enjoy are the creativity of putting together outfits and makeup for a “look,” and the festivity of wearing special clothes to special occasions.
I had been tootling along the last 30 years, happy in the hope that the feminism of the ’70s, tempered by the ambitions of the ’80s and the disillusionments of the ’90s, might finally mean that women would feel free to look the way they were created. If somebody has a physical disfigurement, whether by birth or, say, from a mastectomy or other radical surgery, I don’t begrudge them the choice to change that.
But I do resist the notion that we should all be carved into identical Barbie-doll style blondes.
I had been hoping that we would learn to be attracted to each other by the warmth of our smiles, the twinkle in our eyes, and the courage of our conversations. I was hoping that women would learn to value themselves for their inner voluptuousness, not their visible volume. I know that physical beauty is always going to be a factor, but since few of us are endowed with it, I was hoping that progress would prevail, instead of an ever-coarser emphasis on becoming a “hottie.”
Silly me. I was even hoping that the notion of “hot” would refer to the passion of convictions, or at least the ardor of true love.
Not the promise of a wild one-night stand.
