By Madeleine Kunin
FAT BACKS
I notice other women’s backs in the swimming pool, some mottled with bean-size freckles that merge into each other, others rising like soft dough. After my shower, holding my thick yellow towel, I turn in front of the mirror and look at my own. I discover a small ridge that sags out from under my bathing suit, just under my arms. I tuck it in on both sides. I face the mirror and detect a new hint of cracked glass patterned on my chest. I apply more body lotion. My skin could be the subject of endless examination. Silky, crepey skin suddenly appears on my upper arms when I hold them close to my body. Little red spots dot my torso, light brown patches mark my cheeks, and the lines on my face deepen like parched earth.
A half-moon starts from under my breasts, curves over my navel, and ends a few inches above my pubic bone. I suck it in whenever I think about it, which is not often enough. I can accept my changed body when I stand squarely in front of the mirror; I still have a waistline, after all. But in profile, I am oval. This does not completely surprise me except that my new profile is so solid.
Do I scrutinize my body more carefully now that I am growing out of it than when I was in adolescence and growing into it? I still like to look attractive, so I put myself together more carefully now than I did before. I am aware that morsels of food can slip off my fork and land in my lap. I check for stains surreptitiously, not wanting anyone to notice when I dip the corner of my linen napkin into my water glass to scrub away a spot. An older woman who is slovenly is either oblivious to how she looks, or she is no longer able to take care of herself. Not me. Never mind the wrinkles, the blue-veined hands, the sagging chin—I remain a proud, even a vain, woman.
When I was young and pregnant we wore smocks and enormous flowing dresses. I made some myself with yards and yards of material to hide my swollen body; the connection between intercourse and pregnancy was one we did not want to advertise. The words “baby bump” or “having sex” were not in our vocabulary. Today the sight of a decidedly pregnant woman in the locker room, wearing a red bikini that covers only five percent of her body, makes me look twice.
When we were young, those who developed breasts early, like my friend Nina, tried to hide them. Her mother made her special outfits, something like maternity dresses, to hide her embarrassing bumps. I was not eager to be like Nina and made to suffer from the crude remarks hurled by our classmate Burton Strumpf. “Can I milk you?” Ugh.
I was most conscious of my height in elementary school. Whenever we marched out of our classroom we were lined up according to size. I was grateful to Myra Wigdor for saving me from being last. She had the further distinction of having one blue eye and one brown eye. My height became even more burdensome in high school and college. “How tall is he?” was the first question I would ask before agreeing to go out on a blind date. I fully accepted the stereotypical model of the perfect couple: taller man, shorter woman. That image is imprinted everywhere, even the yellow and black street-crossing signs. The photograph I wanted to create was that of a wedding cake pair.
My first husband was my height when we got married. But then he shrank, and I worried that next to him I might look bossy or domineering, a battle axe. I liked the idea of having a tall, strong protector (a father, at last), but I didn’t want to be bound by him. I wanted to keep my independence within the folds of security. There is safety in stereotypes.
When I was campaigning for governor, I worked diligently to craft an economic development speech that I was going to present to a largely male, navy-blue-suited audience. I anxiously wondered how they would react. I was thrilled when I heard the applause at the end. Still basking in my victory, I saw an acquaintance coming towards me with a big smile on his face. Great, I thought, he liked it. He shook my hand.
“Madeleine, I just love your hair.”
I have heard that audiences are more affected by how a speaker looks than by what is being said. When I entered politics, my staff received a call in the middle of a gubernatorial campaign—“Tell her not to wear gray stockings”—and I knew I had to stick to my uniform: neutral stockings, small-heeled shoes, a dark suit, a sensible blouse with no cleavage, and for variety, I could add a bright scarf. The message was, don’t stand out. I was on a teeter-totter: not too feminine and not too masculine, just enough of each gender to look like a real governor (male) and still be true to myself(female). The test is authenticity. The parameters of success are narrow. Too masculine, and I would be aloof, or cold. Too feminine, and I would be too soft and weak. We must appear tough yet soft, distant yet approachable, beautiful, but not too beautiful. Women leaders have to carefully calibrate what they wear, as Hillary Clinton, trapped in a black pantsuit most days, knows. Because the public is not familiar with a woman assuming a traditionally male role, a silent question is often asked: Is she real, or is she faking it?
Age, and no longer running for office, has liberated me from some of these burdens. Now that I am in my eighties, I am delighted to be tall. In my aerobics class I welcome compliments about my posture, and I admit to purposely straightening up and stretching my stride when I pass a row of men and women pushing their walkers. And I can wear patterned stockings, short or long skirts, red shoes, and change my hairstyle whenever I wish. When I recently spoke to a group of former women governors, a question came from the audience about proper clothes. I shared my experience and then blurted out,“Now that I’m no longer in office, I don’t have to give a damn.”
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Governor Kunin has written three previous books: Living a Political Life (Knopf), and The New Feminist Agenda: Defining the Next Revolution for Women, Work, and Family (New York Times Editor’s Choice) and Pearls Politics and Power. She has more energy than two 40-year-olds. She is currently James Marsh Professor-at-Large at the University of Vermont, where she gives guest lectures on feminism and women and politics. She also serves on the board of the Institute for Sustainable Communities (ISC), a nongovernmental organization that she founded in 1991, and she recently launched Emerge Vermont to encourage and support women in politics. She lives in Shelburne, Vermont. View Coming of Age: My Journey to the Eighties HERE.
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