My Facebook feed combusted yesterday, a feeding frenzy of cat-calls and judgment.
Over a photo. At a Hollywood event.
I had some time on the train, so I scrolled through article after article about Renee Zellweger’s face. People (mostly women) bemoaning changes they couldn’t quite define. Doctors (who haven’t treated her) speculating about possible ‘work.’ Pictures (side by side) of Zellweger ten-to-fifteen years ago and today, at age forty-five.
A few people even called her “the next Jennifer Grey.”
I read through the feeding frenzy and almost puked.
Because it doesn’t matter whether Zellweger’s had anything done to her face. If she’s happy, who cares? Why do we continue to propagate the sexist, demeaning notions that women aren’t supposed to age, only to shame them when they (possibly/maybe) do something about it?
I see what’s happened to my own forty-five-year-old face in the past decade. Without any assistance, I know what I’m going to look like.
A bulldog. I’m going to look like a bulldog.
And, without outside assistance, almost every woman in Hollywood would look like a bulldog variation eventually. If those women did nothing, a whole sector of the internet would erupt with glee over how badly they were aging. But if those women do something, that same sector (and again, can I say HOW MANY WOMEN PARTICIPATE??) shames them for doing anything.
Renee Zellweger’s face is nobody’s business but hers. For the record, I think she looks great, but it doesn’t really matter what I think. She’s happy. She’s said so.
Will we ever get to a place where a woman is beautiful simply because she’s a woman?