Jenifer Beaudean

The May 2012 issue of Vogue

“I taped it for you,” said MyUPSGuy, and played the story from NPR over the phone. The story, reported by a happy-sounding British reporter (doesn’t everything sound wonderful with the British accent?), described how fashion leader Vogue magazine has recently taken a stronger stand on promoting healthy models and healthy body image through their pages.

“Maybe it will help to change things,” he said.

“Maybe,” I replied, “Certainly it’s a move in the right direction.”

And kudos to MyUPSGuy for being the guy’s guy he is but for also understanding the crisis in this country with the way women see themselves.

Just as a reminder of a few of the stats, according to the National Eating Disorders Association:

• Over ten million people in this country (mostly women, 90%) suffer from an eating disorder

• 42% of 1st-3rd grade girls want to be thinner

• 81% of 10 year olds are afraid of being fat

…and my particular favorite for this particular discussion…

• The average American woman is 5’4” tall and weighs 140 pounds. The average American model is 5’11” tall and weighs 117 pounds.

A connection between the rampant number of eating disorders and the fashion industry has long been suspected.

I grew up on Vogue. Every month I would take a bit of my precious babysitting money to buy the latest issue at the local drugstore. I loved the “artisticness” of the fashion – artistry in the form of fabric with gorgeous photography, shot in fabulous light in glamorous settings. To this day I read Vogue every month and keep the more recent copies stacked on the console table in the living room.

But I will join the voices who criticize magazines like Vogue because, truly, the models have gotten thinner…and thinner…over the years. They are now dangerously thin and yet representative of what we also see in Hollywood on the red carpet. This unnatural and unhealthy state has become the standard for beauty — a completely unrealistic standard and one that, some research has shown, has a connection to poor body image and eating disorders.

NPR, in its online version of the same story, reported on May 4th that “Vogue Says it will only Work with ‘Healthy’ Models.” Vogue “encourages designers to consider the consequences of unrealistically small sample sizes of their clothing, which limits the range of women that can be photographed in their clothes, and encourages the use of extremely thin models.” The commitment was made by 19 global editions of the magazine to limit the age of models to 16+, ensure that healthy eating habits are promoted backstage and promote the use of a variety of model sizes and shapes.

It’s a start.

I think for Vogue and for fashion designers there is a great opportunity here. It has always seemed to me less complicated to create fashion for a model so thin as to be compared to a “clothes hanger.” But to create extraordinary fashion for a woman like Adele, or a woman like me, curvier in form — this seems a designer-worthy challenge – to make us look beautiful with our (as Bridget Jones called them) “wobbly bits.”

So we’ll see where these new commitments take Vogue and the fashion industry. I challenge the fashion leader to fully embrace their global commitment and push forward toward a real focus on health, for models and for readers.

Wishing you health and happiness,

Jenny

Credits: All photographs J.Beaudean

“What’s worse than shopping for a bathing suit?” I asked my friend — the wonderful, mysterious and always completely anonymous “Inner Circle One.”

“Shopping for a bathing suit in February with no tan,” she replied without hesitation.

I nodded my head in agreement and said, “Yes, but what about Sears?”

“Ohhhh,” she groaned, “You have to go to Sears?”

This was the response I got from a handful of women this past week. The you-have-to-go-to-Sears-how-unfortunate groan. Because it seems that I am not alone wishing that new appliances would simply magically appear in my home, installed, ready to push “play.”

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My mother was always a stickler for good table manners when we were growing up. No elbows on the table, fork held correctly, no slurping your soup (or your milk) and so on. And she often made each correction with the words, “This is very important, because one day you will dine with the President.”

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MyUPSGuy and I are now in that relationship phase where we’re making plans without really making plans. I understand lots of couples go through this – when we start to speak in code, referencing long term commitments and possibilities without terrifying each other or ourselves with something as emotionally loaded as the M word.  For two people in their forties, with a failed marriage each, I think it’s natural to “take it slow.”

So we are in the “dream phase.” Where we talk about things that might, could or hypothetically happen and this phase is lovely in and of itself.

And one of our crazy, absurd and ridiculous dreams involves an RV.

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Hadley and I traveled to Paris a few years ago. It was a wonderful trip. The Eiffel Tower, Mona Lisa at the Louvre, the beautiful architecture and amazing food. We lived like queens for four days and took lots of pictures.

But there were rules.

Hadley and I agreed at the start of the trip that all photos required approval by both of us before being posted on Facebook. At the end of the trip we went through the photos together selecting only the ones where we both looked sufficiently glamorous, chic and thin.

And apparently…we’re far from alone.

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A few weeks ago Rena, my dietician, looked at me over her papers.

“Let’s talk about family history,” she said, “what are the body structures of the women in your family?”

I thought of my mother’s quote that we come from “sturdy, peasant stock.”

Take the “sturdy, peasant stock” concept a bit further and it goes something like this:

An asteroid hits the earth in an apocalyptic way. Our way of life on earth is devastated…and what’s left? The cockroaches in New York City. Cher, of course. And my mother, sister and I, sitting in lawn chairs on what’s left of the front yard. Will we worry about food? Of course not. Because we’re made of sturdy, peasant stock and we will be able to live for months before we’ll need food. Sure, we’ll grieve over the loss of good cheese, wine and fresh milk but will we survive? Certainly.

Because we’re…sturdy.

Moving on.

(Lest you think that I’ll whine over a topic that I’ve written about before – making me repetitive and you bored – let me fast forward to dinner with my dear friend Tyler at the beautiful Marea two Fridays ago).

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The woman in the red dress made it abundantly clear that she was not to be touched.

“Don’t TOUCH me,” she screamed as she held her phone in one hand and Gucci handbag in the other. The drama at the restaurant Marea unfolded last Friday night while Tyler and I looked on in fascination.

Tyler is one of my dearest friends — I affectionately call him “my gay boyfriend.” He has been in my life for years and is my favorite kind of person – optimistic, loving, with a rapier wit and mischievous sense of humor. Two years ago Tyler landed on a new project – a tour of all the fabulous restaurants in New York. He couldn’t have picked a more willing dinner companion. I happily agreed to make the tour with him and we have had some magnificent food mixed with great conversation.

Back to Friday.

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Hadley and I were talking about men and what creatures of habit they are – self-involved, completely focused on themselves with occasionally smelly feet. We talked about the impossibility of changing another human being — that we have to go into a relationship without expecting to change our partner.

I certainly saw the “no change” behavior in my father. He was a man of habit and would have admitted it. Each evening he emptied his pockets onto the bureau (this was when men carried a small comb, handkerchief and maybe a pen knife). In the morning he dressed and replaced the items in his pockets, then went to the kitchen for coffee, which he took black. Each step, each process was deeply ingrained, and never altered.

(Now before you get all crazy that I’m railing on the opposite sex, read on….)

Because resistance to change hardly belongs only to men.

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“Stop the car!” I cried as MyUPSGuy drove the car in to the toll booth in southern Florida.

“Where is it?” he asked in reply.

We both looked for the large bird which had swooped to the pavement in front of us.

“Maybe he’s under the car,” I said, “Is he under the car?!”

We inched forward, up to the gentleman in the tollbooth. He was grinning. Turns out, the bird was attached to our car grille – apparently the bird and his cronies have figured out that if they grab hold for the minute while a car passes through the booth, they can eat all of the freshly killed bugs off the grille.

Disgusting. But brilliant.

Opportunity presented itself and these smart birds have grabbed hold. Literally.

During this past week, opportunity knocked for us. MyUPSGuy and I flew to Florida for a few days of much-needed vacation in one of my favorite areas of the country – Miami Beach. Our hotel was on the water and we sat on the balcony and looked at the ocean, sat at the pool reading, drank our coffee on the beach in the morning, ate great food and drank too much wine. Three nights in South Beach felt like a week and it was wonderful to have the chance to really rest.

And…we saw my dear friend Charlotte – who is one of the greatest “opportunity takers” I know.

Six years ago, Charlotte was my neighbor in Connecticut. She hated (and I mean hated) the cold winters and longed for the beach, the sun and the surf. So she sold her condo, downsized and went south to beautiful South Beach on a wing and a prayer. She knew nearly no one. She didn’t even have a job! But now she has a fabulous, happy life — all in a wonderful community that she adores.

But what a risk she took – picking up everything and changing her life completely. And at an age when many people are starting to think about retiring…pulling back. Making life…safer.

So many times opportunity knocks for me and I hesitate — because I’m afraid. I see what I have…currently…and even though there are things about “currently” that aren’t perfect, at least it is a known entity. It is an understood reality and it’s…safe.

But then how do we know to say “yes” to a new opportunity?

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Ahhh, I remember it well – back when I was twenty five — the days when I woke up on a Saturday morning, and, before anything else happened, put on my makeup. In those days it was unthinkable to go…well…anywhere without cute shoes, my mascara done and hair looking va-va-voom. My ex-husband and I had married at a young age and I swear I don’t think the man saw me without makeup until I was thirty.

Now?

On any given Saturday morning you will find me happily browsing the apple display at the local Stop & Shop…in my pajamas.

I hear it. There are those of you sucking in your breath. Shocking!! That a woman would go out in the day in her nightgown? What happened?

You’re thinking that I’m heading out to Kmart in my plaid flannels…and it’s not so. All of my pajamas, just like my clothes, are black. I heard someone say, maybe last fall, that grey was the new black. I have news for this person. Black is the new black. All of my shoes match (because they’re black), all of the outfits mix and match and, let’s be clear, black hides a multitude of body parts that I wish were just a bit more lean. (Yes, I know, I need more therapy).

But.

IF my pajamas were plaid flannel, I would still be in Stop & Shop with the flannels on, post-Saturday morning workout with a fleece for warmth, wet hair, and enormous Prada sunglasses, because everyone needs a little fashion, even in pajamas.

So I asked a number of women – what has happened here?

Because I’m not alone. I see the woman at the fish counter at 8 a.m. on Saturday morning. She is clearly in her nightwear (is that a word?). And she doesn’t care.

Is it that we have gotten lazy about our appearance…or is it liberation? Is it that we just don’t give a heck anymore about what the guy in the melon section thinks as we poke through the lemons and limes?

“I know who I am,” responded Ivona my waxing maven, as she waxed/ripped the hair from around my eyebrows, “I don’t give a crap what the guy in frozen foods thinks. If he doesn’t like me, who cares…I like me.”

But is it getting out of hand? Is there cause for…real concern?

Last Sunday I drove down to LaGuardia Airport in New York to pick up my mother and stepfather from a trip. Sure enough. Pajamas. Fleece. Prada sunglasses.

I hugged my mother in the baggage section.

“Hi Mom,” I said with a grin.

“I said to your stepfather,” said my mother in her Queens accent, “I’ll bet you she’s in her pajamas.”

(This coming from my fabulous and independent-minded mother who goes out every morning in her flannel nightgown and green wellie boots to fill the birdfeeders).

In the end I think it’s not laziness. I do think it’s a sense of liberation.  The sense that we, at forty-something, have finally…arrived. We know who we are. We like who we are. And we don’t have to “perform” anymore. I now realize that my guy should see me dressed up and rockin’ in high heels on the weekend. But I also feel that he should see me for who I really am – a woman who doesn’t mind hunting through bargains at T.J. Max in her P.J.’s.

It’s liberating.

Freeing.

Finally.

Wishing you health and happiness,

Jenny