I have not weighed myself for about ten years, after a gynecologist forced me to climb naked on a huge scale, and I found this very disheartening and vaguely rude. Since then, in addition to having changed gynecologist, I have used another foolproof method to determine how far I am from what is – or at least, I guess I am – my ideal weight: a pair of Levi’s, strictly elastane-free. If I get there, fine; if they squeeze my thighs and I struggle to close the buttons, it means that I have given too much confidence to my metabolism. And since, having to choose between wearing my favorite jeans without any problems and continuing to drink and eat not giving a damn about physical fitness, the first option puts me at peace with myself and with the world, for a few weeks I banish carbohydrates, fried foods, various crap, beer. , cocktail (no, the wine no: lean yes, not masochistic) until the finish line is reached.
Diet – “the only game where you win by losing”, rightly observed Karl Lagerfeld – requires some virtues rather rare in today’s human being: determination, dedication, rigor. On the other hand, if it were a simple activity, we would all be Gigi Hadid. You have to keep hunger in check, refuse temptations (read: invitations to aperitifs and dinners), give up the beer at the end of the day that makes you so relaxed; in return, you get the satisfaction of looking in the mirror and liking yourself, and if you like yourself – crazy revelation – life is downhill. The reasons why a person decides to follow a diet are various and unquestionable, be they the desire to put on a dress, the order of a doctor, the desire to kill men. Too bad that, in an era that has invented body positivity and that wants to delude itself, the aesthetic canons are carriers of various traumas (another crazy revelation: a healthy body is destined to live longer and develop fewer serious and fatal pathologies) , such a statement is tantamount to committing blasphemy.
Kim Kardashian, to show off at the Met Gala the dress in which Marilyn Monroe sang “Happy Birthday, Mr. President” to John Fitzgerald Kennedy in 1962, followed a strict diet, losing more than seven kilos in three weeks. What’s the problem, I thought, good you who did it. But no. “Kim Kardashian was keen to emphasize (of having lost seven kilos in three weeks, editor’s note) to reiterate that in his part of body positivity nobody gives a damn », wrote indignant costume journalists a few days ago. But what the hell of reasoning is, I wondered, while he was mounting it in the United States scandal du jour. Reduced to the bone: Kim sets a bad example, because losing seven kilos to fit into a dress is tantamount to praising anorexia.
Which is a disorder present since 1968 in Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, therefore, quoting Guia Soncini, “adults who have passed school cycles and obtained certifications of their being able-bodied and literate seriously say that a psychiatric illness is caused by the fact that a worker who puts on clothes at work tells of having been on a diet for three weeks to put on a dress ». Translated: if I go out tonight with a friend who is a bit sad, according to some she will most likely be the origin of my future major depressive disorder.
«Modifying your body to put on a dress is more than reckless, it’s toxic. Framing extreme weight loss as a rational decision sends the message to women and men that they should change their bodies and suffer for fashion if they expect to be worthy of admiration and praise. That the default state for anyone who wants to look their best is deprivation. That, if you want to be beautiful, you’d better “get your fucking ass up and work on it”, to quote Kardashian herself “, headlines an alarmist article on Elle UK. Echoes of Diletta Leotta and the infamous “beauty happens, it is not a merit”, yet no, dear Diletta and Emily Cronin author of the aforementioned piece: there is no woman (and man) in the world that to be beautiful – or attractive, either fit, or slim, put her on whatever you want – she doesn’t have to “get your fucking ass up and work on it,” especially if that woman (or man) is over thirty-five. And the best part (aridaje) is that that’s fine.
The paradox of body positivity, one of the worst scourges of our century, has served: according to those who postulate it, everyone should accept themselves as they are and be happy with the body they find themselves: we have to ignore the aesthetic canons as each of us it’s beautiful, understand? Well, here we are. But what if someone decides to change theirs with a diet or cosmetic surgery simply because they like it (and, I might add, because they are fucking his)? Become the enemy, the scum, the example to be muddied, the champion of body negativity: how dare you offend us who instead go babbling about living well with acne, cellulite, a hooked nose, excess pounds, flabby arms and the culotte de cheval? “But I’m not offending you, you can very well continue your existence along with acne, cellulite, aquiline nose, excess pounds, flabby arms and culotte de chevalwhoever tells you anything », the poor wretch guilty of high treason would reply.
Aesthetic canons have existed since the dawn of time, let’s face it: in the mill that I would like, those who decide to indulge them should not break the soul of those who reject them, and vice versa. In reality, unfortunately, things work differently, because those who reject the aesthetic standards born of society, culture, fashion, pretend to feel represented. “Since when did wanting to be fit become a mortal sin?” Since when do we have to be ashamed? », I asked a friend a couple of days ago, commenting on the general indignation in front of the Kardashian-diet. “Since it became cool to see overweight models, to allow brands to be inclusive and dispel the myth of fat phobic designers”, she replied, “as if it wasn’t a common thought that a slim body on the catwalk is better than a “fat” one “(yes, he has quoted it, confirming my suspicion: it is now a forbidden adjective).
Moral: it is really naïve not to see behind certain operations the mischief of a marketing department that orders you to insert the quota that can take off the awareness and sales of a brand; and it is equally naïve to point the finger at those who lift their fucking asses and work (golden rule applicable to many areas of life), with the conviction not to pass for a handful of rosettes. (Wanting) to be cool for oneself – but also for others – is (yet) neither a perversion punishable by life imprisonment, nor a celebration of unhealthy practices (I was a teenager in the 1990s: Kate Moss was parading at the time, and it’s incredible that it didn’t traumatize me). While writing what you are reading and what will cost me my head, I overheard a designer friend asking her to borrow an incredible dress for a party: “If I like: you are smaller than me,” I tell her. “But no, I’m a fake skinny!” She tries to reassure me. All in all I’m pretty calm: badly, I’ll do the Kim Kardashian diet.