Your arms are looking a little chunky,” my CFO said, eyeing me suspiciously from her corner of the elevator.
I glanced down at the offending appendages. My boyfriend, a boxer and personal trainer, had been putting me through a new, rigorous workout routine, and I was proud of the curves and indentations I’d earned. Ripped, defined, muscular—those are the words that came to my mind, not chunky.
But as I got ready for work the next morning, I found myself questioning the sleeveless Ann Taylor jacket I’d laid out. Were my arms really looking as toned as I thought they were? Or were they getting too big? Then I found myself questioning my questioning—why did I care? And more importantly, why did she?
The way we look at women’s bodies is the perfect metaphor for the complicated way we view female strength. Modern women are encouraged to break stereotypes, barriers and glass ceilings. The conventional beliefs that females are the weaker sex, prone to hysteria and fainting fits, have been disdainfully tossed out the window. In fact, it’s now expected for women to effortlessly juggle careers, families and appearance, just to prove how much “inner strength” they possess. It would take a true superhero to balance all the roles we occupy today.
But when a woman is perceived as being too strong, it becomes a problem. We all watched Hillary Clinton’s eyes tear up on the campaign trail, appearing “softer.” Janet Reno was criticized for not being feminine enough, while Nancy Pelosi is judged for her elegant, high-end wardrobe. And we can’t forget Angelina Jolie, whose humanitarian efforts can’t be mentioned without a nod to her other half or her wild-child days. A powerful man’s indiscretions or so-called flaws will be over- looked; an influential woman’s will be sought out and exposed for all the world to see. Female strength is completely acceptable—as long as it stays hidden.
The same is true for women’s bodies. We all know it’s not enough for a woman to be stick-thin anymore. As if that societal standard isn’t lofty (read: unattainable and ridiculous) enough, our bodies are expected to be toned, taut and tight. Celebrities like Jennifer Aniston, Courteney Cox and Madonna are praised not only for having tiny waists, but because their arms look like they’ve been scooping ice cream at Baskin Robbins all summer.
But then, a woman can’t be too muscular either. Society makes fun of the ladies who sport bulging biceps: Female gladiators, female weightlifters, female shot-putters. I’ll never forget the time I heard a TV commentator mention that Bonnie Blair, with her muscular, speed skater’s body, “wasn’t the prettiest thing to look at.”
What juxtaposition—even as women take on more, the image of the superheroine is on the decline. Look at the movies that came out in 2008 alone. Batman. Ironman. The Hulk. We even had a movie about an ugly, demonic superhero— Hellboy—but I can barely remember the last good superheroine flick to grace the big screen. The only two that come to mind are Catwoman, who was certifiable, and Charlie’s Angels, which features Drew Barrymore, Cameron Diaz and Lucy Liu washing a car with their ta-tas hanging out. Whatever happened to Wonder Woman, Rosie the Riveter and She-Ra?
Instead, we have Paris, Lindsay and Britney. In a time when women have more options, more education, and more accolades than ever before, the ladies who get the most attention are the unsuperwomen, the women whose actual professions and talents are a mystery. (To me, they seem more like damsels in distress tied to the railroad tracks, awaiting rescue.) Meanwhile, the rest of us try to be, as my boyfriend says, “equal parts of everything,” career woman, mother figure, shoulder-to-cry-on, sex kitten, PTA volunteer. I have to wonder if, by performing in all the ways we’re expected to, we let ourselves be strong-armed by peers who snicker at cellulite and CFOs from a generation when women didn’t lift weights.
That’s why it’s up to each of us to revive the superheroine. Maybe it’s naïve on my part, but I like to think a little defiance, each and every day, can change the backlash against today’s wonder women. It’s why I speak up in office meetings where I’m the only woman. It’s why I box on the beach with my boyfriend on busy Saturday afternoons. And it’s why, one week after the “chunky arms” comment, I pulled out my favorite black tank top as I prepped for a bachelorette party, the one that’s cut so it highlights my arms. With the words “Buddhaful” emblazoned across my chest, I headed to the bar, prepared for any funny looks or rude comments that might come my way. Sure enough, about an hour into the night, I could feel one of my fellow bridesmaids eyeing me from across the table.
“Damn, girl,” she said, tipping her beer towards me in acknowledgment. “Let me see you flex!”
Noël Rozny is a communications director who lives, works and writes in Chicago.