ameela Jamil: "I Implore You To Make Memories That Extend Beyond What You Have Eaten Today"

 
General global physical requirements for women in 2019:
Be thinner, have longer legs, have a small waist, but have a big, pert bottom, with absolutely no stretch marks on it. Have a thigh gap while supporting this big bottom. Have big but eternally pert breasts, thin upper arms, and a defined collarbone. Have no lines on your face, but do not have a fat face. You must be very angular, but eternally youthful. You must have large eyes, a small nose, and big pouty lips, whatever your heritage.

Whatever skin colour you naturally are, it’s the wrong one, and must be immediately remedied with a tanning or bleaching cream. Have no hair anywhere other than on your head. Maintain immaculate nails, you dirty tramp. Please do not have saggy knees, they are so disgusting on women. Do not be weak and allow your body to give in to gravity. Be lithe, but never muscular. Have no imperfections anywhere on your person. Cellulite is foul and, although all women on earth have it, you personally shouldn’t. Pull out all your grey hairs as soon as you see them, and then dye your hair immediately, so that nobody knows you have ever dared to grow older than 30. 

General global physical requirements for (straight) men in 2019: Have beard, or don’t have beard. Up to you. 

Ugh! I am exhausted, utterly fed up with all of the extra homework society has assigned me to do on my body. The physical requirements demanded of women in 2019 are, frankly, ludicrous. Yet women are expected to work as hard as men, to achieve as much as men, be as powerful as men (for less money than a man would make), and on top of that, appear conventionally beautiful at all times, be very thin, and never age? Ever? Surely this is a joke; a cruel prank?

Sadly, we know it is not. Every woman is aware of the profound double standard that is imposed upon her, as it has been since time immemorial. Everything – and I mean everything – bothers me about this state of affairs, but I am also confused. If we truly understand the depths of the imbalance, then why do we allow it to persist? Why should we be doomed to waste our fine minds counting calories, pounds, stones and inches when we could be counting meaningful experiences, money and orgasms? Is it possible that, because we are regularly doused with shame, this absurdity has become so hyper-normalised that we’ve secretly digested it as an acceptable situation?

As a recovered anorexic – someone who has spent the better part of two decades terrified of food, unable to wear a swimsuit in public, or have sex with the light on – please know, I judge no one who believes their worth is defined by their aesthetic. For me, it took therapy and a daily practice of body neutrality/ambivalence to gradually let go of the misguided notion that I owed anyone anything regarding my appearance. And yet I still find myself incapable of “body positivity”. I’m too scarred by how long I have spent hating and punishing myself. I can’t just stare at my thighs and shower them with love and praise. Besides, that would just be a new way for my mind to fixate upon my flesh again, which is still taking up space better used for other thoughts and plans.

Instead, I don’t think about my body at all: I spend minimal time in front of the mirror; I don’t weigh myself; and I catch every thought I’m having about my body and instantly drop-kick it right out of my brain. I have more important things to do. As a result, I am the happiest, sanest, most successful and well-sexed version of myself that I have ever known. I have so many more hours in the day, so much more headspace. I can’t believe how much energy I was giving to self-destruction.

 

It’s hard for us to create real change when our gender is so exhausted, malnourished, over-exercised, primped, corseted and depressed. Imagine what we could do with all the money and time we spend on trying to “fix” ourselves; the holidays we could take; the therapy we could have. The irony that I am writing this in Vogue is not lost on me. I acknowledge that some women’s magazines haven’t always served the best interests of all women.

 But I believe in the power of Vogue, as an epicentre of culture, to recognise and remedy the pain of erasure and impossible expectations. I believe in its power to kick the door open and extend an invitation to the previously forgotten to be included in fashion’s idea of “the fantasy”. I am already seeing it happen. I want you to know, I love fashion; I love make-up; I love shoes. I’m in no way demonising an interest in these things. I’m not suggesting they shouldn’t be a part of our lives. 

They are works of art to me; I see value in them. Men are allowed to enjoy and indulge in these things, and so should we. The difference is, men are not so attacked in the process. Men are afforded more variety, more time, more dignity. Their entire value isn’t hinged on their appearance. Their exterior is a bonus and not a basic foundation of their worth.

 I want that for us. We are too special and too interesting to be judged solely on our appearance; too powerful to be caught in such a constricting harness. Our variety is beautiful, interesting and important.

So I implore you to make memories that extend beyond what you have eaten today. Ask questions like, who would I be if I weren’t so busy being perpetually disappointed in myself? Block out the negative voices. Defend yourself against them, as you would if you heard someone say these things to a beloved friend. If you don’t think your friends have to be thinner, younger and more beautiful to deserve happiness, then why should you?