IN SEARCH OF
ABS-OLUTE PERFECTION
by
Phyllis Palmer

    It’s not fair!  How’s a body ever supposed to achieve the ideal of female physical fitness when they keep changing the definition on us?  For a while the fitness fad was Buns of Steel, and the focus was all on the rear view.  Now it’s Washboard Abs.  “Sculpt the Abs of your dreams,” croons one commercial for the latest pricey abdominal-reshaping equipment.  Our national obsession with the Body Perfect has shifted focus from derriere to der middle, and the self-image of the average American woman has hit bottom.  
    In their latest “frontal assault” on women’s self-esteem, America’s self-appointed fashion commanders have launched a nationwide war against flabby abs.  Now torsos are “in,” they tell us,  but they must be hard and tightly muscled, with not an iota of fat anywhere -- except, of course, above the Magic Bra.  (Only in the wonderland of silicone could women like today’s models be so emaciated, and yet so well-endowed where it counts.)
    For only a few hundred hours of work on the right machine and a small fortune, you can look like an Amazon.  Or for those who are financially challenged or energy-deficient, we have The Complete Book of Abs by Kurt Brungardt, a comprehensive guide to firming your tummy with 300 helpful photographs, guaranteed to raise you to a 10 on the guilt scale.
    Seniors among us may remember the good old days when only men were harassed about working out.  Remember the old Charles Atlas ads about the 98-pound weakling?  In those days women were just supposed to lounge around looking voluptuous.  Then the fashion czars brought out a new model, Twiggy, the original Waif, and American women went into a frenzy of anorexia which continues to this day.  But even Twiggy-mania was a picnic compared to what the image-conscious woman of today has to go through to be Physically Correct.  Then she only had to starve herself; now she has to starve AND work out for hours every week to get in shape -- or rather the proper shape.
    By the millions, women are enlisting, or being drafted, in this patriotic war against fat, against softness.  Like grunts in a female boot camp system designed to shape them up, they fill the health clubs, slaving on the machines and treadmills, pumping iron, and bouncing red-faced to the barked commands of the aerobics drill sergeant.
    Watching this fitness frenzy from a safe distance are the rest of us draft-dodgers and drop-outs who figure our figures are beyond redemption.  Why should we waste hundreds of hours and dollars in a futile struggle to pound Thunder Thighs into Barbie Doll legs, or turn a pear-shaped body into a carrot, when we have more important battles to fight?  Instead of exhausting ourselves trying to change our shape, we could be out changing the world!  Muscle-power has become a substitute for the kind of woman-power that could be a potent force for change in a society which so desperately needs it.
    Now don’t get me wrong.  Physical fitness is great.  We all need it.  But fitness as defined by commercial interests really means fitting in, conforming to the current, rather masculine image of perfection, which goes way beyond health or fitness.  It’s getting out of hand when they try to remake us into bionic women — and without benefit of anesthesia.  If the goal were really health more than appearance, exercise could be a more natural part of our lives, working and playing with family and friends, instead of the isolating, time-devouring obsession it has become.
    In the body-shaping business, as in the cosmetics industry, manufactured low self-esteem produces high profits for the merchants of glamour.  The only figures they really care about are those on the bottom line.  How can we ever feel good about ourselves as women — unless we refuse to toe the line, and stop buying into these absurd, commercially-driven images of how a woman should look and be?  And that means breaking ranks and swimming upstream against powerful cultural currents reinforced constantly by media messages all around us.  It’s hard to do alone, but if women joined together in a collective mutiny, we could do it.  Liberation anyone?