One day, the snow’s falling outside the frat quads. The next, it’s hotter than the summer sun in Cancun.
La Niña, perhaps? A typical Chicago weather spell? A freak occurrence?
How about (d), “none of the above”?
The origin of the warmth these days comes not from any unusual weather patterns, but from the annual testosterone-driven ritualistic publication often referred to as the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue.
Ah, the joys of the changing seasons: leaves blossoming on trees, Northwestern students exiting their residences to sunbathe and Heidi Klum making her way to Evanston.
Seeing Heidi’s face in every male dorm room lately has made me question the genre of the swimsuit mag. Note that SI is regularly considered a sports-related periodical, usually with more content regarding Don Shula’s most recent doings than about Donna Karan’s latest line.
And, based on what I had seen in recent years, I didn’t have many problems with the swimsuit issue. In an age of technology-infused pornography, where women’s bodies are continually exploited on the Web, the magazine’s stars seemed like Snow Whites in a land of Internet-driven Little Orphan Annies.
Until now.
Any glance at the 2000 edition reveals expert photography, designer wear and an overwhelming amount of skin. I’ve heard of the two-piece, the itsy-bitsy teeny-weeny whatevers, but this year’s magazine sinks to a new low. The girls look more like animals on the prowl for men — uh, I mean, meat — than bathing suit models.
So what happens when the swimsuit edition fails to feature any swimsuits?
Hopefully, change.
It’s almost cliché nowadays to use the phrase, “in the new millennium (fill in the blank with any type of world-stopping, social-changing goal)” and thus I hate to use such words. But is it too much to ask that 40 years after the founding of the women’s movement that ladies finally garner “just a little bit” of what Aretha Franklin so valiantly sang for?
We’ve all heard endlessly about objectification of women by the media, but have we not sunk to a new low when millions purchase SI each year to see more skin than suit? Or when nearly 23 million people tune into a television program where 50 women parade around in similarly scant outfits, competing to marry a multimillionaire?
The end result? Undoubted fiasco. Quasi-multimillionaire Rick Rockwell’s past is questioned, pseudo-wife Darva Conger has a tearful public breakdown and we must confront the notion that these productions claim to be driven by our “consumer” desires.
I don’t know what is worse — that a select core of magazine and television executives toy with our desires under the mask of reality, that hundreds of women readily volunteer to fit this mold or that millions are willing to consume it.
When a magazine about sports forgets about sports, and when reality-based television ignores the reality, who can we turn to for justifiable standards of beauty, let alone measures of our values and morals?
Unfortunately, “none of the above” cannot suffice in this instance.
And that’s my final answer.
