The Metropolitan Museum of Art is under renovation, and sent a bunch of pieces by the French Masters out on tour. They’re in the Houston Museum of Fine Arts now through some time in May, and I highly recommend the exhibit. That is, if you can tolerate annoying old women who stand with their noses two inches from each painting, inspecting each brush stroke for authenticity.
Works of the French Masters from ~1800-1917. There were a not insignificant number of nudes. And while I was looking at these paintings, from classical births of Venus to naked chicks with parrots, I realized something…
All these painted women have the same body type as me. The chunky-ish thighs. The butt dimples. The high but reasonably pronounced waist. The flabby tummy. It’s all there. I wan’t alone in noticing – The Husband noticed it too.
I’m not really sure how I feel about that. The Husband thinks, and is very insistant that, I’m beautiful. And, well, I try not to argue with him about it. I just don’t think of myself as beautiful. And I don’t really care. All in all, I’m very comfortable in my skin. Comfortable with butt dimples, and tummy flab, and calfs that are too muscular to wear any of the really sexy knee high boots because they’re built for chicken legs. I’ve worn glasses for the last twenty years, and I refuse to get contacts, because I happen to like the way I look wearing them. Despite my residual discomfort over the 10 remaining pounds of baby fat and grief induced cookie fat, I’m comfortable as me.
But I’m oddly uncomfortable knowing that my shape was once the epitome of sex appeal.