I live with a news junkie who insists on watching more than one weather forecast a day. The female meteorologists, all, except for one new, young, lean one, seem destined to wear brightly colored faux wrap dresses that tie at the waist. While watching one of these women dance back and forth across a weather map, flapping their arms and jaws in the celebration of nature, I was reminded of my second full time nursing job, where, for the first time, I didn’t have to wear a white dress. The hospital provided scrubs.
This segued into the discussion I later had with my uncle, a physician. He confessed that he and his MD colleagues, when asked if nurses should be allowed to wear pants, voted “no.” eHH
He admitted they appreciated the occasional shots of thigh and more when nurses, a predominantly female career path at the time, lifted patients, did CPR, retrieved things accidentally dropped on the floor. I cringed at the thought of doctors with whom I worked looking up my skirt.
Today I wonder if the female meteorologists, some I’m sure call them “weather girls,” are subject to a similar directive. Why think that?
As mentioned earlier, many wear dresses that wrap around their bodies producing fabric folds from the snugness of fit. Many of the dresses are styled with tie belts. Sleeves range from absent, to elbow, to three quarter length. What disturbs me is the size/fit mismatch. Two days ago, I could pinpoint one woman’s belly button. Would she ever wear a dress that tight out in public? Panty and bra lines reveal themselves on a regular basis.
Surgical scrubs provided a comfortable, loose-fitting tent of androgyny. Job performance depended not on looks or build, but competence and attention to detail.
Back to sleeves. As my colleagues and I aged, we laughed at what happened to our arms. When did those little flaps begin to show when I pointed to a crash cart or summoned help with a patient gone crazy? We named them “flags,” “Hi-janes,” or “wings.” I lift weights three days a week but still have a droop of telltale flesh that gives my age away.
When I watch the weather girls share their insights into the day, the week, the ten-day forecasts, I decide who needs to lift, who needs to start covering up, who needs to watch their reruns when they choose their attire.
Back to surgical scrubs. They were a refuge for physical imperfections. Flabby arms? Covered. Muffin waist? Covered unless the top got tucked in and tied by belt made of fabric like an oversized shoelace.
Then, ladies of the weather patterns, there are the boobs. My partner and I ponder whether breast endowment is part of the job requirement. Tight clothing accentuates this feature which seems to be a common denominator in the realm of female meteorologists. If there are enough curves in the presenter, does the accuracy of the forecast matter to a certain demographic that might be watching?
Maybe I’m just jealous.I didn’t have too much to hide in the ultimate uniform, a shapeless, loose top with equally non-descript bottoms and the most comfortable, affordable shoes I could buy. Maybe I want to see a weatherman deliver the report in an equally revealing outfit. Maybe a Speedo.
Maybe I want to know that these women, professionals who deliver a science-based sharing of information, are free to choose what they wear and how they wear it. I want to know they understand the value of culture wars other women have fought. I want them to know, they don’t just predict the weather, they presage future battles young women may have to fight merely by how they present themselves during the weather report.
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