(It should be noted that Graham herself said she was hesitant to participate in this show due to Victoria’s Secret’s history but was ultimately convinced by the brand’s leadership that it is committed to “embracing body diversity in a lasting, meaningful way.”)
Every single time a curve model walked down that runway, my hopes would perk up just a little bit, anticipating that the next model might be even bigger or have a non-hourglass figure or maybe even a double chin—but they were consistently followed by models that were so thin, so snatched, so airbrushed, and so increasingly naked that I had no choice but to laugh.
Because how did I ever watch something like this and think it was cool back in the day? How did I ever look at these glitter-coated women in their unstable strappy heels, scratchy synthetic lace, and back-breaking wings and think, “I need to be skinny so I can wear that for my man, Chad Michael Murray, when we’re married?”
Getty Images
Getty Images
And there’s the real kicker: men. No inclusion efforts on Victoria’s Secret’s part will ever mean anything because it is a company made by and for the male gaze—one that is clearly struggling to convince now grown-up viewers like me that it is “celebrating women” in any way. And as we’re all uncomfortably aware at this moment in political and social history, men haven’t been living in reality with the rest of us for quite some time. Why would I ever let them dictate for me what is beautiful? You’ve seen what their bedrooms look like when they decorate without supervision.
I can’t remember ever seeing something from the Fashion Show in an actual Victoria’s Secret store, and that’s because little if none of that lingerie was ever for sale in the first place; the show might have begun as a way to sell real lingerie to real women but quickly and predictably became a place for straight men’s fantasies about supermodels to run wild—with scissors. And hairspray. And body oil. Inclusivity “efforts” aside, that hasn’t changed a bit.
As a kid, I would have spent the days, weeks, and months following the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show policing my diet and exercise in a desperate attempt to fit into those adult male fantasies (yuck! Can you believe?). With the images of thigh gaps and six packs burned into my mind and stirring up shame in my little gut, I’d try to convince myself that one day I’d get there if I just worked hard enough. This time, I turned my TV off with a chuckle, cracked open a beer, and shoveled a few spoonfuls of ice cream into my mouth, feeling like I won.
