Is Reality Sexy?

This is a paper I wrote for my Media Institutions class. I am also in a sociology class called, Feminism, Gender, and the Body in which we talk about body image and the media's influence. Thus, it was enjoyable for me to write. Enjoy.


What is sexy? The Victoria’s Secret (VS) stores and commercials beg us to answer this question. However, when one takes a closer look at the products VS sells, the way it commodifies its models or “angels,” and content of its commercials, one can suppose they very well know the answer to this question.
VS’s advertising methods are just one way to disprove Robert McChesney’s media myths. In his book, The Problem of the Media, McChesney discusses 8 different ways, or myths, in which we, as Americans, assume the media to be a harmless by-product of our consumer culture. His first myth states that the media “merely reflect[s] reality—rather than shape[s] it” (7). Our belief in this myth presents a serious social problem when we assume that the 5’10”, D-cupped, 115-pound models of Victoria’s Secret are merely a reflection of reality. This gross exaggeration and commodification, not to mention, objectification, of women’s bodies clearly does not paint a picture of reality. Thus, VS’s commercial endeavors not only shape reality, but also attempt to squeeze it into a 34-24-34 frame.
According to the National Center for Health Statistics, the average height for women of all ethnicities in the United States is 5 feet, 3.8 inches. The average weight is 163 pounds. The average waist circumference is 39 inches (NCHS). These statistics speak to the grave discrepancy between the women we see on TV, in magazines, in advertisements, and the real woman we see on a daily basis. Based on these facts alone, how can we assume that the media simply mirrors real life?
Go on YouTube.com, and type in “Victoria’s Secret commercial.” This search rakes in at least 40 pages of results. Admittedly, they are not all commercials which have been aired on TV, but the majority of the yielded results contain a Victoria’s Secret “Angel.” These “angels,” or the “spokeswomen” of the brand, who also walk the VS Fashion Show every winter, are some of the world’s highest paid models (Victoria’s). They are paid to use their bodies to sell VS’s newest lines of bras and panties. They are paid to tell us, the consumer, what is sexy, except that the angels never actually speak in the TV commercials.
The VS commercial posted on YouTube, entitled, “Victoria's Secret-Sexy Push Up Bra Commercial Video,” is just one example in which the angels’ arched backs, high heels, bursting cleavage, and flowing locks do all of the talking. It throws the question, “WHAT IS SEXY?” at the viewer, followed by split-second flashes of the angels’ close-to-naked bodies. In sexually explicit positions, we see shots of them beginning to undress themselves, seemingly reacting to Jimi Hendrix’s “Voodoo Child” playing in the background. We see the long-standing connection between rock-and-roll and sex being played up in this ad. With this preordained combination in place, how can the viewer not get excited? How can the viewer not think this is what is sexy?
The average American model is 5’11” and 117 pounds (NEDA 3). These are the type of women we see in the media who are considered “beautiful,” “sexy,” and even, “perfect.” These women, who are 98% thinner than the average American woman, do not reflect reality. Instead, companies like Victoria’s Secret, which happens to be the largest American lingerie retailer, tell us what is sexually appealing. And, grossing five billion dollars in sales each year, one can assume that many Americans find Victoria’s Secret sexy as well (Victoria’s).
When one looks deeper into the successful ad campaigns put on by companies advertising scantily-clad women and other provocative scenarios, we can see sex as a direct means of achieving profit. The phrase “sex sells” is not a new or a rare commodity. However, as time progresses, and the models wear less clothing, and it becomes easier to display these racy commercials on broadcast television, so does our departure from reality. Looking at these commercials, we can clearly see that the media does not reflect reality, but perhaps it reflects the reality in which we wished we belonged. Because if there is one thing Victoria’s Secret is telling us, it’s: “Buy our reality, because yours is definitely not sexy enough.”


P.S.- I am pretty proud of it because I got an A :)

domestic confusion

Living in a dorm, or excuse me, residence hall, for some time now has caused me to reflect on the perks of living in a house as opposed to a place that can feel like an infirmary.
Ooh, lets go with this analogy for a minute. The dorm is like an infirmary because there are always a bunch of people sick, except mostly from self-induced scenarios including (but not limited to) alcohol and/or drug excess, and the others who have communicable diseases. And I, as the RA, act as the nurse: staying up all night to make sure my residents don't die from alcohol poisoning, checking up on them, and coming when they call. Unfortunately, unlike nurses, I actually live in the infirmary. And I live right next door to all the sick and sometimes irritating patients.
But I digress, this post is not about how horrible my RA job is, because the fact is that it's not half bad, and the perks are quite nice. I am writing today about houses. So, your standard house is equipped with a family room, kitchen, at least one bedroom and one bathroom, perhaps a dining room, and, if you're lucky, a living room. Gasp! What exactly is a living room? What is a family room? That is an easy one, you say. A family room is where the people in the house all gather to hang out, watch TV, read, bond, etc. Then what, by golly, (I always wanted to put that phrase to good use) is a living room?
I can tell you one thing: in my experience, it certainly isn't a place where most people do their "living." Of all the houses I grew up around, the living has always been the most anti-child, most inaccessible place in the entire home. My friends' moms would have preferred that we were scouring her nightstand drawer than enter the living room. Why is it that we confine all of our most expensive, antique, and rare valuables to one room? And more importantly, why the hell do we call it, "a living room?" (Don't even get me started on the dining room, an almost equally inaccessible waste of space).
I thoroughly searched Google to find someone else, anyone (please!) out there who felt the same way as I did, but all that turned up in my search result were thousands of complaints about poor quality living room furniture and a boring venue. The music venue is called, creatively, "The Living Room," in NYC. That sounds like the most boring venue I have ever heard! (And I don't even like exclamation points, but I do like to italicize). It must be filled with a bunch of over-priced furniture, family heirlooms, impressionist paintings and no where to sit. I hope for the opposite. Perhaps those quick people in New York, who know they're always ahead of the curve and are at the center of the universe, thought the name would be ironic. And for their sake, I sure hope it is.
I pondered for quite of a new approach for this misnomer. I concluded that my initial names just didn't have the same ring to it. "Unapproachable room," "Cold hard bitch room," "Don't Touch! Space," "Fuck off this shit's expensive! room." None of these quite fulfilled the void in my imaginary house. Thus, my only other conclusion is to only live in house without the presence of this condemned room. That is my quest. And that is all for today.

still pondering

So I've had all this spare time over my Christmas break where I promised myself I would do nothing but blog, blog, blog (well maybe not nothing else, eating and sleeping should fit in there somewhere), but of course, I am entering my second to last week of break and this is my first post. I don't know what the deal is. Again, I was laying restless in my bed last night (I guess I do my best thinking during my insomniatic bursts) and I thought, not only am I apprehensive about putting stuff on the internet that is personal, I am also anxious about publishing stuff online because I feel like I am not worthy. This inadequacy comes from the fact that when I read someone's column from a newspaper, I feel like this person was carefully selected because of their persona and humor and writing in general. So, who am I to write this blog, or column? No one selected me. No one chose me to because they thought I was witty enough to be in their newspaper. No one pays 50 cents to hear what I have to say.

I feel that blogging is like forfeiting a sense of self. You are no longer who you think you are (or who you've been trying to be ever since you got out of high school). Rather, you are subject to whoever happens to "next blog" onto your page and what they think of you. Are you worthy of being followed? I disdain this idea of being "followed" because it sounds like a popularity contest. Is Blogger just another route through which people attempt to fill the voids of their meaningless lives? Under this notion, "followers" on one's blog hold no greater status than one's friends on Facebook. In the same way that we have those friends on Facebook whom we admire from afar, I feel that people who's blogs you follow are people whom you admire from even farther. Perhaps I am looking too far into this, but it is a very strange feeling that this idea of blogging gives me. I simultaneously resent and obsess over the idea of having followers. I think, how ridiculous is it that I feel I must have followers to validate what I have to say? Then, at the same time, I think, Wow, how cool is it that these people want to read my stuff. It's pretty cool.

So, it seems that I concede to wanting popularity. Oh well, it just makes me more human.

what I want

Restless in bed last night, I tossed and turned while thinking of what I wanted to write for my first blog post. However, I am very apprehensive for even having a blog in the first place because of Emily Gould's article, "Exposed." An article I read for my Media Studies class, she details her life as a blogger and as an editor at the old Gawker. Though I don't think I have a good comprehension of what exactly Gawker is, the article told me way more than I needed to know. And that's what she said her blog did: revealed way more about her personal life than her boyfriend, mister (male version of mistress?), and best friend were comfortable with. Listening to, or, well, reading how her life crumbled through her compulsively typing fingertips sounds something like cyber-destruction of the self. And that is the last thing I want to do.

And yet this urgency, which she described oh so well, to blog, to document a thought, a feeling, anything, as soon as it reveals itself in our conscious minds, scares me. Even more frightening is her explanation of how this urgency is exacerbated by the need for other people to not only read it, but also to respond to it. Is the point of blogging to get other people to see it? I suppose so (at least a little bit) because otherwise people would simply journal their thoughts in private. I guess I will have to learn this feeling of empowerment first hand.