“When our stretch marks look like the New Jersey Turnpike
mapped from navel to knees,
when the bottom’s best feature is its interesting texture
(the sign of a fine cottage cheese),
when we search for the perfect bathing suit
that will cover our assets
and still look cute
is this an impossible, hopeless pursuit?
Or are we just hard to please?
When will we finally find the designer we need
who will heed our demand?
Or a style at the shore (where less is not more)
to guard the parts that are best left untanned?
We need more protection than spandex rags;
something cut larger than luggage tags
tied with dental floss onto our saddle bags.
Don’t hide your heads in the sand.
Swimsuits abound for the 98-pounder
whose legs alone measure five feet.
Here’s a fine idea: try a line this year
for women who actually eat.
Not for half-naked nymphs found posing between
the pages—- of course!—- of a sports magazine,
but swimsuits for those of us more likely seen
between pages of Bon Appetit.
Our legs do not end where our armpits begin;
we want a realistic design,
a little more coverage, a little less skin
(some vertical stripes would be simply divine.)
Swimwear that won’t self-destruct with a wave,
fashion to flatter the not-so-brave,
at least let us know where to stop when we shave.
Where do we draw the line?
One day we may see our feminist family
rise from the underground,
despite Father Time and weird Uncle Gravity
constantly pulling us down.
This dysfunctional system will finally heal,
even our sisters with abs of steel
will all too suddenly know how we feel
ten years and two babies from now.
And when we connect and command your respect,
effectively paying our dues,
your very language shall be more correct.
Fat is a word you will no longer use.
Those negative terms only grate on our nerves.
Give adipose tissue the name it deserves.
Call it … “personal strategic energy reserves”
and call stretch marks “organic tattoos”“
Camille West, “Ladies Against Fanny Floss”. Performed by the fabulous “Four Bitchin Babes”, who gave to us, amongst others, the gems “Prisoners of their Hairdos”, “What was I Thinking”, “Good Thing he can’t read my mind”, “Getting In Touch With My Inner Bitch”, “Piranha Women of the Avocado Jungle of Death”, and so on, and so on. As most of their songs rely heavily on the comedian talent of their performers, the lyrics might not come across as that great. But one has to start somewhere, doesn’t one.