Challenge Accepted!

by Celeste Barber

  My pants had other things in mind. They had stuck themselves to me in the way a toddler sticks itself to an emptying breast, and they didn’t let me move.

  I managed to lean forward slightly, then in a moment of mercy my pants seemed to slingshot me into Harry’s arms, and my teeth landed aggressively on his shoulder. There were about six cameras on us the whole interview, but the only photo I have of us is the one where I’m not quite standing and not quite sitting, rather half clutching Harry for dear life.

  And that, my friends, is why my husband was a basket case leading up to the show.

  The One Where I Become an #accidental(role)model

  I have a really full-on love affair with women. I think women as a species are fucking incredible. We are excellent, we really are. Serena Williams winning a grand slam at twenty weeks pregnant? Give me a break. Oprah’s Golden Globes speech? Sheesh. Malala Yousafzai and her humanitarian work, especially in women’s and girls’ education? Shut up already! The divine Rosie Batty showing incredible strength through such grief at losing her boy at the hands of his father and educating us on the meaning of love and resilience? POWERFUL. And of course the great Tina Fey calling the Nazis at the Charlottesville riots “chinless turds.” I’M DONE!

  Women are the tits.

  I’m a girl’s girl. If I’m in a group of women, I’ll talk about everything from the pay gap to the possibility of a third Sex and the City movie, and before I leave I’ll inevitably find out everyone’s #metoo story (sad face emoji). This obviously doesn’t happen when I’m in a group of gay men, because why would I ever leave a group of gay men for anything ever? Except, maybe, for a group of drag queens, with ice cream and a hat.

  I’m all about the sisterhood, the Girl Code. “Colors of the world! Spice up your life! Every boy and every girl! Spice up your life! People of the world! Spice up your life! AHHHHHH!” Sing it, queens! (Or just let us remember you singing it, because the thought of the Spice Girls reforming scares me no end.)

  We ladies need to focus on equal pay, equal rights, equal opportunity, equal equality. This, as a feminist, is what I focus on. It’s not only important—it’s vital.

  But I take issue with being told all women should support each other. I don’t buy into the idea that we women aren’t allowed to not like one another just because we are women.

  Before you unfollow me and go and burn my overpriced merch, let me explain.

  If I don’t like what you are doing, if you are making a living off belittling other people, other women, and making them feel like shit about how they look, or pushing a shitty agenda about mothering standards, then I’m not going to support you just because we both have a vagina.

  If you are a bit shit to me or my mates and you happen to be a female, I’m probs not going to be your biggest fan just because we share the “luxury” of buying tampons.

  Because sometimes, some people who happen to be women can be shit. They can body shame us and make us believe it is empowering, and if we don’t agree with them, then we are antifeminist and are accused of not being supportive of our fellow sisters.

  I agree that women need to support each other, and there is room for us all, but I think it’s really important to remember that not all women have to love all women just because we are, in fact, all women. And to me, that is feminism.

  I’m a feminist in every sense of the word. I support women, I fantasize about dyeing my hair pink (but due to lack of jaw definition I just don’t think it would work), I march, I watch all-women comedy specials, and I think we deserve the same as men. I support women I want to support, and I call bullshit on women I think need to be called bullshit on, and that to me is feminism.

  Judging someone on their worth, their character, their merit, not on the fact that they also struggle with underwire, that’s feminism. If a lady is being a bit shit, then I’m not going to love that lady just because we have the same genitals; I’m going to give her and myself enough respect to look past the similar bustline and read the message for what it is. I don’t want “charity support” from no woman just because I’m a woman, and in turn no woman is going to get “charity support” from me.

  Banding together because we have been told that is what we need to be doing as women is putting feminism back decades and is completely missing the point. In my experience, most women as individuals are incredible, and there are also some women who are a bit rubbish, and that’s OK too.

  This is part of the problem. If women were equal in society, we would then not be judged if we decided not to love a fellow sister because they were a bit of a dick.

  The sentiment that all women need to support each other no matter what is evidence that we are not equal—yet.

  Body Shaming Is Big Business

  And It’s Everywhere!

  I’ve never really put my back into dieting; it’s never really been my thing. I’m not interested in any interaction, attention, or success built on how I look, but mainly because I like food too much. In my younger years I would sometimes set up camp, boil the kettle, log on to Netflix, and take up residence in hating my body, but I don’t ever remember a time when I committed to only eating a certain way to look a certain way.

  I’m the kind of lady who couldn’t hide my love of food even if I wanted or was paid to. If I’ve been shame-eating too many Tim Tams, my double chins double in size and rat me out, though luckily I’m tall (think Victoria’s Secret model), so the pint of cookies-and-cream ice cream I demolish in one sitting spreads itself out evenly over my lumps and bumps. #blessed.

  I have the palate of a racist seven-year-old: if it’s white and has sugar in it, it’s mine, all mine, don’t think I’ll be sharing any with you, fool. I was that kid at school who would finish my kick-arse lunch, then sit next to someone else who had a kick-arse lunch and be their instant yet temporary BFF.

  “I really like your lunchbox. Where did you get it from?” I would ask as my unsuspecting sugar daddy would get out his homemade choc chip muffin.

  “I know what you’re doing, Celeste,” he would respond while rolling his eyes.

  I would feign shock. “What?! I’m honestly wondering where your mum shops and where she buys such great compartmentalized plastic food containers that store your delicious food so efficiently.”

  “You can’t have any of my muffin.”

  “Wha—why would you think I was just here to have a taste of your amazing, freshly baked muffin?”

  “Because I heard you say to Stacy that you’re going to come over here and try to steal some of my muffin.”

  Fuck Stacy!

  I don’t think I’m great at diets because I don’t care enough. I tried quitting sugar once. I dropped a heap of weight, a heap of purpose, and a heap of friends and wanted to punch a vegan.

  I successfully yet unintentionally messed up intermittent fasting for a solid eight months. You know the diet where you stop eating at 7:00 p.m. and don’t eat again until 10:00 a.m.? I got this mixed up and stopped eating at 10:00 p.m. and started eating again after 7:00 a.m., believing it was the easiest diet in the world! I would set an alarm at 6:45 a.m. to wake up and eat. That’s how committed I was to it.

  And I thought that the shake diet was fantastic. I would add a shake to my meals, as opposed to replacing the meal with the shake.

  People think that looking the way I do is easy, or lazy, but I’m here to dispel those myths. Maintaining my look is a full-time job. I’m flat out remaining full; it’s something that I work on all day, every day, and I really beat myself up if I go somewhere and am hungry and haven’t come prepared with an apple and three peanut butter crumpets in a baggie. And maybe a Kit Kat, and a smoothie, maybe a hard-boiled egg.

  After my heart surgery I was on crazy drugs for eight weeks that completely messed up my body and was advised to do a no-dairy, no-gluten, no-taste cleanse, coupled with a few enemas, to try to rid myself of the constipating drugs that had taken residence within me—nice.

  At the time I fel
t like crap. Not only did I quit these food groups, but I also nearly quit #hothusband, my job, my dog, and my life. I knew, however, it was what was needed, and after what felt like a three-MILLION-week cleanse, I felt better. I don’t think I looked much different, but I felt different. I felt healthy.

  And herein lies the problem.

  Feeling healthy and looking a certain way seem to be getting confused with each other.

  Body shaming and healthy living aren’t the same thing. They aren’t Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen. They aren’t identical twins with a few cute and quirky differences, like they both enjoy wearing oversize clothes and marrying older men but as if one has a secret crack addiction that no one really cares about. No, they are different things, completely different ideals, and should be looked at as completely different industries.

  Body Shaming is the mean football guy who drives around in his parents’ Maserati, showing how important it is to make others feel inferior and making a fortune off it. It’s the guy who gets all the ladies by showing them what he has and not risking any sort of genuine connection. The guy who bullies people into liking him, even though he’s a douche, a mean guy who looks nice in an expensive three-piece suit.

  I hate this guy. And this guy is EVERYWHERE. Popping up in the checkout line at the supermarket, pretending to be a supermodel who is hitting back at people who don’t agree with everything he says. He’s at the beach, in the toilet at the fancy restaurant, and blinding my eyes at 3:00 a.m. when I can’t sleep and want to scroll through cute photos of dogs dancing. He’s fucking everywhere.

  Then there’s the Healthy Living Guy. He’s the quiet guy, the fair guy, the guy who hangs out in the drama room devising different ways to make people laugh. The guy who does Body Shaming Guy’s homework and is fine with him getting all the credit. He’s the guy who works two jobs after school to help out his parents. The one who has ideas about what might make you feel better about yourself but won’t cut you off and bitch about you to Body Shaming Guy if you don’t take his advice.

  #istandwithhealthylivingguy.

  Body Shaming Guy needs to stop going around to Healthy Living Guy’s place, breaking in at night, going through his wardrobe, dressing up in his clothes, and pretending to be there for you. You’re not welcome, Body Shaming Guy!

  I’m not against looking good, fit, amazing, tight, small, muscly, great, whatever throws your hair back. But there is a multibillion-dollar machine supporting this at-times dangerous way of life, and that is a machine that is getting out of control. People—gorgeous people, genetically blessed people, privileged people, and at times unhealthy people—have all of a sudden become “experts” and the moral guardians of how we should be treating ourselves and our bodies.

  Now, one might be forgiven for thinking that they are experts on healthy living and body image because they know how to tackle a catwalk or what angle one should hold one’s head at for the perfect photo, but, my faithful, optimistic friends, they aren’t. Instead they are giving us made-up advice on our health and how we should or, more to the point, shouldn’t look.

  Magazines get all excited when a supermodel is going to be a guest editor, weighing in (pardon the pun) on what we should be eating to get our body beach ready and giving us five quick tips on getting a box gap.

  When Ashley Graham is interviewed she is introduced as a plus-size model, and a lot of the time her weight is a talking point, because we are conditioned to think that a woman who doesn’t fit the beauty standards is not normal. She’s not healthy—she’s an exception. You very rarely see a regular model being interviewed and asked about her weight, because the modeling industry is what people are now expected to believe is normal, healthy, everyday, and attainable.

  Body Shaming Is Taking Over the World

  Holy shit, I love some bloody Super Bowl halftime entertainment. I love it. I love the buildup, I love how full-on people are about it, I love how much money is wasted, ahem, spent on it. I love it. It’s always a weird mash-up of past musicians trying to stay relevant and current entertainers trying to prove they know what integrity is. In 2014 Bruno Mars and the Red Hot Chili Peppers rocked out, and the fact that Flea hasn’t gotten whiplash after all these years still astounds me. In 2013 Beyoncé reunited with her Destiny’s Child bandmates Kelly Rowland and “the Other One” to deliver a stellar performance; a bit of bloody Madge hit the stage in 2012; Katy Perry’s nana dancing with Missy Elliott and a shark in 2015 was equal parts entertaining and awkward; and no one can forget Janet Jackson’s nipple in 2004—I’ve been told that Justin Timberlake performed with her, yet I can’t be sure.

  And in 2017 at the fifty-first Super Bowl, it was Lady Gaga’s turn, and didn’t she smash it?!

  If you’re not a fan of sport and like me whinge and bitch every time your #hothusband wants to watch some “epic battle” instead of a recap of The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills, you may have looked online for the halftime show, sorry, PEPSI ZERO SUGAR SUPER BOWL HALFTIME SHOW, and you would be forgiven if you couldn’t find the Gaga extravaganza straightaway.

  Instead, the internet was full of comments, blogs, and columns telling us that Lady Gaga has a belly.

  That’s right, my friends, Lady Gaga—born Stefani Joanne Angelina Germanotta—has, in fact, got a stomach. I’m sorry, you guys. I should have put a warning at the beginning of this chapter advising y’all to sit down before reading that. It’s a shock, I know, and I’m sorry for any offense caused. Jeez!

  Also, THAT’S NOT A STOMACH.

  I’m currently wearing my stepdaughter’s activewear and not sure if I should choose a camel toe over a muffin top, as my belly situation is doing its best to fight back.

  I like to pride myself on honesty, I really do. Very rarely are people unsure of where they stand with me. I don’t think I’m rude; I’m honest. If I don’t like something, I’ll tell you. If I’m nervous, I’ll fart. If I’m bored, I’ll yawn (OK, maybe the yawning is a bit rude), but I do honesty, and I do it well.

  See, I’m an actor by trade, so taking notes from people is part of the job—that and demanding that no one look me directly in the eyes after 4:00 p.m., and that my pants are always hand-washed in organic snail mucus.

  Gaga looked banging at the Super Bowl, but I’m a little crazy and am from the school of thought that says resembling a malnourished praying mantis isn’t a necessity to look good.

  Her performance was super-duper. She sounded amazing, she jumped off a building, looking like a spider falling from the roof, she got weird with props, threw the microphone, caught a football, and did magic tricks in the form of costume changes that were not visible to the naked eye.

  Yet all we were allowed to focus on was how she looked. Enough with the focus on the waistline of the tiny, fit, talented, kind of weird, super-quirky, trailblazing talent who was on a stage in front of more than 110 million people slaying her performance while still managing to say hi to her mum and dad!

  And now the beach isn’t off-limits either. Oh God, Mother Nature is being dragged into the body-shaming world kicking and screaming much like when Charlie Sheen was dragged into rehab.

  Last time I checked, the beach was a place where the ocean meets the land. Where children frolic at the water’s edge and manage to get sand in places only major organs belong. But not anymore; now it has become a fearful playground of insecurities, a melting pot of tight, brown (but not too brown), shaved, shiny, bendy bodies that look at dimply, saggy bodies as though the owners of those saggy bodies are one-legged dogs trying to climb a cactus.

  Aren’t we bored with this yet? I know I am. If looks were the main focus for men, then Trump would have been impeached the day after conception.11

  11 Sorry.

  The One about Loving Our Bodies #bopo

  I have been told that I’m a contributor to the #bopo movement (for those of us over the age of six, #bopo is short for “body positive”). I’ve also been told that I should think before I speak and if I don’t stop eating Tim Ta
ms, I will develop type 2 diabetes, so I TAKE ALL THESE THINGS WITH A GRAIN OF SALT.

  Much like Kim and Kayne get #kimye or Brad and Angelina got #brangelina or Celeste Barber and Beyoncé get #celyoncé (still trying to get this one off the ground), body positive got its own mash-up: #bopo. I’m totally into this and super excited to be a part of the #bopo movement. Well, I was until I googled it and found out the Urban Dictionary describes “bopo” as:

  Beat Off, Pass Out: to masturbate aggressively to the point of exhaustive ejaculation and enjoying a heavy nap immediately after said self-pleasure.

  Example 1:

  Me: Looks like I have the afternoon off; think I might BOPO.

  Example 2:

  Student 1: This class blows. I stayed up all night doing that paper!

  Student 2: Sounds like you could use some nice BOPO.

  Student 1: No doubt, bro.

  Example 3:

  Taylor was upset to find her boyfriend, Austin, had already BOPO’d on the couch when she got home from work, because for once she didn’t “have a headache.”

  I have been throwing around the hashie #bopo for ages now seeing as it has been thrown at me from so many directions, and because I played softball as a kid I’m good with throwing and catching. I never started the Instagram hashie #celestechallengeaccepted as a body positive thing. I just did it because I thought it was funny and I like making fun of myself; turns out most of you are happy with it too (grateful emoji).

  I’ve been asked in a number of interviews how I’m going to get my body into shape for summer. To which I respond: “What shape are you referring to? I’m working on the wobbly pear shape at the moment and am quite happy with my progress.” Crickets.

  I strongly believe that how we look makes up a very small percentage of who we are. It’s something that we as women, and I’m sure some men (though I can only talk for the ladies), have to remind ourselves of on a daily basis.