The biker bar in question is not far from our house. The kids and I drive past it at least twice a day. It has garage doors left open to reveal a bunch of old geezers drinking beer.
“There’s a naked lady!” my daughter shouted one afternoon. The lady was not, strictly speaking, naked. She was wearing a black Frederick’s-of-Hollywood-type ensemble made entirely of straps and a very wide-gauge mesh, with stiletto heels. Her ass was clearly and completely visible. She was more naked than if she were just naked.
We now look for her when we pass. (You would, too.)
And when we see her, I ask both of my kids, a boy and a girl, if they can think of a sadder spectacle.
People often decry how women are portrayed in the media: the super-skinny models, the singers who dress like pole dancers, the video-game heroines, their busts bursting out of their spandex outfits.
But girls are also constantly bombarded by messages that have a far greater impact, from the real women around them.
I personally want to shake:
Women who won’t leave their houses until they cover their faces in make-up;
Women who think that how much they hate their bodies is a suitable topic for small talk, like the weather or sports;
Grown women who think they are worthless unless a man is paying attention to them;
Women who snipe at each other, call each other “bitches,” tear each other down;
Women who apologize constantly.
“Stop being fools!” I want to shout as I shake them. “Girls are watching you.”