Cleavage isn't over, but Vogue for me is

Dear Vogue,

For most of my adult life, like millions of women around the world, I've spent more time than I feel comfortable admitting, staring wistfully at the unbelievably gorgeous women peering haughtily at me from your glossy pages.

I've adored, imitated and worshipped at the altar of their other-worldly beauty. I've twisted my limbs in the hope that they vaguely resemble their nature-defying contortions.

I've plucked, tweezed, epilated, depilated, scrubbed and soaked myself in inspired concoctions because I believed you when you said beauty nirvana could only be achieved once my pores had shrunk, and the skin could be mistaken for the Italian marble I totter on in the heels I squeeze my terrified toes into, looking for that elusive thing called confidence.

Even as I've schooled my thoughts to echo yours, I've ridiculed you, of course, to make myself feel better. You, on your part, regularly give me reason to. Every time you casually recommend that I "need" a bag that costs more than my car, my friends and I roll our eyes and wonder what your editorial team is smoking.

We call you superficial and silly in clusters, but privately scour your pages to find that one lipstick, brooch or sock we can afford if we skip lunch for a week.

As much as I've wanted to, I can't lay all the blame at your feet. I should've known better.

Should've loved my laughter more than I hate the fine lines and wrinkles you keep threatening me with; should've believed that a sparkling personality is more timeless than a piece of carbon. So yeah, we did collude in this attempt to make me feel like a diminished version of myself.

But then you did something that made me really, really mad.

A few days ago, you flippantly asked us, "Whatever happened to the cleavage", and promised to answer the question in your December issue. And it made me look down at the girls and mutter, "What happened to you guys? Did I do something wrong? Why have you taken it up with Vogue? Not cool, guys."

I obviously did none of this, I'm exaggerating, just like you supposedly intended to, when you proceeded to place cringe-worthy words and phrases such as "over" and "desperately seeking" next to cleavage.

The thing, dear Vogue, is that you don't go around asking people if certain parts of their body are "over", fashion-wise. Not when you're fu**ing Vogue. You're not one of the ditzy clueless fashion bloggers you so like to ridicule.

The author of that ill-thought-of piece then goes on to declare that "cleavage — those magnificent mounds pushed together to display sexual empowerment, to seduce, to inspire lust or even just to show off — is over, or at least, taking a well-earned break."

At which point I wondered if British Vogue's entire editorial team's common sense had lost track of time while window shopping on Sloane Street, and that's how that piece went to print.

Perfectly understandable explanation, of course, but not remotely acceptable to anyone who has even a rudimentary understanding of what not to say to women to offend them.

I know I have been a semi-willing cohort in my own objectification by you, but this particular turn of phrase made my blood boil. It's like you can't even be bothered to pretend to care that you're treating women less like people and more like a collection of disembodied parts, all of which are subject to your scrutiny.

Just how did you get to a place where not one person in the team piped up and said, "Guys, you know, this is kinda demeaning, derogatory and disgusting? Maybe lets rethink our words?"

Not one person? It beggars the question, how out of touch with reality, people and their feelings are you, Vogue.

Not even the social media shitstorm that followed was enough to make you shovel a desperately needed piece of humble pie in your lipsticked mouths. It doesn't come loaded with carbs, I promise.

You didn't apologise, choosing, instead, to double down on a silly explanation about how the article was only meant to explore a changing trend in the kind of necklines finding favour with designers.

I really did laugh at that one, I have to say.

So you're saying that you want us to not bother about the literal meaning of your words, but focus on the intent. You, a magazine dedicated to the lifelong pursuit of smirking at people who can't tell the difference between huaraches, espadrilles and Mary Janes.

As you've reminded us time and time again, Vogue, words matter. What they mean and the images they invoke matter. You don't get to switch sides when it starts getting a bit hot under high-necked, pussy-bowed collar.

The problem I think, darling Vogue, is that you think you've done such a good job of getting us women to accept and encourage your condescension, your elitism, even your our-word-brooks-no-argument attitude, that you think you're entitled to a free pass no matter what you do or say.

Nope. Time's up on that one.

There are some clear lines in the sand one must simply never cross, and even though yours may have been blurred due to years of being unchallenged, but you really need to stop believing your own PR, dear friend. You're not indispensable. No one is.

Sincerely,

Person with cleavage that ain't going anywhere.

Also read: Let's cleavage the "compliment"

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