Taps aff. As soon as the sun cracks the sky here in the frozen north (Glasgow), our citizens shed as many clothes as is legally possible to blast their wan, celtic bodies with warmth and vitamin D. And given that we had several days of splendid spring sunshine recently, acres of snowy white Scottish skin was on show. Said peely wally epidermis often turning a painful shade of cooked prawn pink – sunburn being an essential, if accidental, fashion accessory in the northern hemisphere.
At the risk of sounding like a right old perv, it’s fascinating, this annual Scottish semi-disrobing. I mean, who could blame us for being a nation of sun worshippers, especially after the particularly damp, dreich and dismal winter we’ve just endured? That we get our kit off at the first glimmer speaks volumes for our resilience AND for our seemingly new-found body confidence.
I marvel as I witness young people strutting their stuff in barely-there seasonal attire… In my youth, there was a snowball’s chance in summer sun that I or any of my female friends would parade around the Botanic Gardens in a bikini top and micro shorts. Occasionally an older girl might wear a splendid 70s halter neck to go with her flick, flares and denim platforms, but much as a I longed for those levels of sophistication, even then, I didn’t envy the amount of unwanted attention those gorgeous gals attracted. Some aspects of the 1970s are best left in the dark ages, eh fellas?
These days, many more people of the female variety seem to be at ease with their bodies, and for that I rejoice. I don’t wish to diminish the very real body anxiety and deeply rooted Scottish self-consciousness that has afflicted so many of us for so long, but it’s just brilliant to witness a burgeoning don’t give a fuck-ness. The old school feminist in me is even more delighted to see an ever-increasing number of women declining to shave, depilate, laser or, god help us, WAX. The recent spell of golden glow has provided ample opportunity to notice women’s unshaven legs and armpits, remarkable only because it’s been such a rare sight in my lifetime. Good on ya, girlfriends.
Personally, I have always preferred to have smooth pins and pits, which is a bit lame given my general annoyance with inadequacy-inducing marketing and, oh yeah, the profit-led patriarchy. And while I fully embrace body-positivity in theory, I’ve never been that comfortable with exposing acres of cleavage. Not yet anyway, but I’m sure that’s got a lot to do with growing up (and out) in the 70s, and being horribly embarrassed by so many men gawping at my tits, and sometimes even trying to cop a feel. But who knows? Maybe the get-your-your-baps-out-for-yourself days are almost upon me… I mean, why not? After all, I’m perfectly happy to sally forth with bare arms and lots of leg on display, and do so regularly despite the woman who told me recently, in a disapproving tone, that I was “brave” to show my arms at my age. Cue eye roll and snort of derision.
“Bravery” aside, questions about body image have rolled around in my head for my whole adult and nearly adult life, and I’m certainly not the only Scotswoman who has been generally displeased with the physical assets I was born with. But as I listened to a good friend recently talking about learning to accept and enjoy her 60-something physique, it was a salutary reminder to get over myself and enjoy the marvellous machine that is my very own, long lasting and (nearly) fully functioning auld bod.
Hairy Mary
Taps aff. As soon as the sun cracks the sky here in the frozen north (Glasgow), our citizens shed as many clothes as is legally possible to blast their wan, celtic bodies with warmth and vitamin D. And given that we had several days of splendid spring sunshine recently, acres of snowy white Scottish skin was on show. Said peely wally epidermis often turning a painful shade of cooked prawn pink – sunburn being an essential, if accidental, fashion accessory in the northern hemisphere.
At the risk of sounding like a right old perv, it’s fascinating, this annual Scottish semi-disrobing. I mean, who could blame us for being a nation of sun worshippers, especially after the particularly damp, dreich and dismal winter we’ve just endured? That we get our kit off at the first glimmer speaks volumes for our resilience AND for our seemingly new-found body confidence.
I marvel as I witness young people strutting their stuff in barely-there seasonal attire… In my youth, there was a snowball’s chance in summer sun that I or any of my female friends would parade around the Botanic Gardens in a bikini top and micro shorts. Occasionally an older girl might wear a splendid 70s halter neck to go with her flick, flares and denim platforms, but much as a I longed for those levels of sophistication, even then, I didn’t envy the amount of unwanted attention those gorgeous gals attracted. Some aspects of the 1970s are best left in the dark ages, eh fellas?
These days, many more people of the female variety seem to be at ease with their bodies, and for that I rejoice. I don’t wish to diminish the very real body anxiety and deeply rooted Scottish self-consciousness that has afflicted so many of us for so long, but it’s just brilliant to witness a burgeoning don’t give a fuck-ness. The old school feminist in me is even more delighted to see an ever-increasing number of women declining to shave, depilate, laser or, god help us, WAX. The recent spell of golden glow has provided ample opportunity to notice women’s unshaven legs and armpits, remarkable only because it’s been such a rare sight in my lifetime. Good on ya, girlfriends.
Personally, I have always preferred to have smooth pins and pits, which is a bit lame given my general annoyance with inadequacy-inducing marketing and, oh yeah, the profit-led patriarchy. And while I fully embrace body-positivity in theory, I’ve never been that comfortable with exposing acres of cleavage. Not yet anyway, but I’m sure that’s got a lot to do with growing up (and out) in the 70s, and being horribly embarrassed by so many men gawping at my tits, and sometimes even trying to cop a feel. But who knows? Maybe the get-your-your-baps-out-for-yourself days are almost upon me… I mean, why not? After all, I’m perfectly happy to sally forth with bare arms and lots of leg on display, and do so regularly despite the woman who told me recently, in a disapproving tone, that I was “brave” to show my arms at my age. Cue eye roll and snort of derision.
“Bravery” aside, questions about body image have rolled around in my head for my whole adult and nearly adult life, and I’m certainly not the only Scotswoman who has been generally displeased with the physical assets I was born with. But as I listened to a good friend recently talking about learning to accept and enjoy her 60-something physique, it was a salutary reminder to get over myself and enjoy the marvellous machine that is my very own, long lasting and (nearly) fully functioning auld bod.