Society is in its arm shaming era. Unless you are the First Lady of the Immaculate Brachium you will be judged.
My feed is flooded with advertisements for toning and tightening body serums made from microalgae, rice protein and (not stated on the label) unspeakable amounts of unnecessary angst. I squint at my screen trying to see any difference at all in the before and after photographs of outstretched arms that have spent seven days worshipping products that cost almost $5 per teaspoon. If you had been wondering what to worry about after climate change and Trump, the answer is just above your elbow.
I was going to ask who decides which bit of a woman’s body we should obsess about next, but the real question is why do we keep letting ourselves be framed as a problem? Women can never have their cake and actually eat it. We are, tiresomely and ultimately, our own worst enemies.
Only recently released from the tyranny of the skinny jean, there was zero chance we’d breathe out and wear baggy pants with a shirt that has two sleeves and accommodates a regular bra.
Imagine a fashion industry forced to cut its cloth comfortably. Legroom is costing us a fortune – lose the sleeves! Can we interest you in an asymmetric shoulder with a side of self-loathing? How about a singlet that reveals your clavicle, your scapula and your degree of willingness to let nature have its hairy way with your armpits?
Much has been written about the coded privilege of Women Who Look Good In Tank Tops.
“Strong is the new skinny” sounds empowering until you realise you are listening to a high wealth individual with the money to pay a personal trainer and also the cleaner, nanny and gardener who free up the hours that are required to bet onboard that sweat-wicking Wunder Train (available in multiple colourways including Sinatra Blue and Ashen Rose).
I am certain there are sectors of society who long for the good old days when fatness was a reliable barometer of another person’s worth; when double chins, back bulges and arm flab were a 1000% likely indicator of greed, laziness and ill discipline.
In the Ozempic age, when nobody knows whether you had a doughnut or a shot of semaglutide for breakfast, “slim” has lost its cachet and “muscular” has gained status. Sure, you wear a size 10, but can you bench press a solid 40kg?
Who decided biceps maketh the woman?
It drives me crazy the way we have elevated the literal ability to lift. I sincerely don’t care that your biceps carry barbells; I want you to lift me and me to lift you. I want clothes that are wearable, not weaponised. I want my arms to be absolutely none of your marketing department’s business.
In 2005, an Australian Idol judge told a contestant that, if she wanted to be successful, she’d have to work on her “tuck shop lady” arms. It was indicative of the slang that has developed to decry this very specific piece of flab.
Nannas. Widow’s curtains. Auntie arms. Men without muscles might be characterised as weaklings but women in the same, bicepless boat, are old, single and definitely not being cast as the main character any time soon.
On the day I wrote this column, Auckland had turned to soup. The streets smelled like yeast and condensation pooled in the bags under my eyes. I suspect, if I had stayed outside long enough, I would have sprouted mushrooms.
It was a good day for orchids and monstera plants and anybody with hair like Lorde’s. It was a day for shoestring straps and singlet tops and off-the-shoulder dresses. For baring it all – without bearing it all.
Kim Knight joined the New Zealand Herald in 2016 and is a senior journalist on its lifestyle desk.