In praise of a Lady Dad-Bod
It irks me that there is no female equivalent of the “Dad Bod”. Sure, technically there is – we have “Mum Bod” which refers to what we look like postpartum, but it’s judged (by the people who judge) to be a transitory state, a temporary softness and roundness till we get back to Pilates and ease off on the breastfeeding snacks. Mum Bod is a “Before” image and society is waiting to see our “After”.
Whereas Dad Bod is a destination – no one is expecting him to work that off. It is apparently a sign a man is spending more time with his family, less time at the gym. Relaxing into the role of provider and protector, if you will. Aspirational.
It’s ironic that, in a world where women are expected to be mothers (there will be questions if you’re not) we are rewarded for not looking like we are. “She doesn’t even look like she’s had a baby” is meant as a compliment. There is no equivalent flattery for men.
And yet at Whitianga’s Lost Spring again this summer – a new hot pool tradition for my daughter and me – I am again struck by how delicious and delightful it is to see women of many ages and shapes frolicking in bathing suits. No tummies sucked in, no anxiety about anything that wobbles.
Holly and I have taken to spending a whole day at the Lost Spring once a year. Hot pools of varying temperatures in lush bush surroundings replete with piwakawaka and tui, and a poolside cocktail service. What more could you want? Maybe a massage and facial? They have that, too.
We arrive early but are beaten to the splash by a group of cheerful seniors (roughly my age) for what is clearly their regular gathering. I am initially non-plussed that one of the men is wearing swim-goggles (just what is he planning to look at underwater?) but it becomes apparent he is swimming lengths as best you can in a kidney-shaped pool, and his mini flutter-board and goggles keep him on course. Less chance of bumping into Holly and me as we bob about with our morning tea margaritas.
And then a dozen or so women tumble into the pools, all giggles and movie-star sunglasses, ordering up cocktails and posing for selfies with hibiscus blossoms tucked behind ears. Holly and I are mesmerised – they’re so comfortable in themselves and with each other, bossing each other into group shots, asking Holly to take pictures on their phones as it descends into joyful chaos.
They have Mum Bods. Curves and softness. There is unselfconscious hitching and hoisting of swimsuits, and no one hides from the camera. There are enough of them to make their own world, away from the male gaze, away from judgement. I don’t know what they feel like when they’re fully dressed at work or at parties, but here at the pools with their people, they are fluid, loose limbed.
This is how it is when our body is about how it feels and what it can do, and when it is not being measured by size or weight or convention. It’s how mine feels when it’s on a yoga mat, or in a hot pool after a cocktail for morning tea.
I would love a Mum Bod to be aspirational – we should make that happen. And we could, right? We could stop praising women for “not looking like mums” or “not looking their age” and find other words like “joyful” and “strong”.