The XX Factor: What women really think.

Guns and Roses

Just wanted to flag this great piece in The Root about Venus and Serena Williams—not simply because my sister and I played competitive tennis as youngsters, and were constantly being compared to the Compton-born phenoms—but because author Jewel Edwards is preaching hard truths about standards of beauty when it comes to athletics. Extra points to this piece for subtlety; it took me a while to realize that Edwards is male! His awesome point:

Black female athletes, on the other hand, are put in the unique position where developing their bodies makes them the object of spectacle. For female athletes, the perennial insult is, "You look like a man." As a result, any girl—black or white—involved in sports has to make choices that a boy never has to make.

That’s a very important insight; and the tough calls faced by female athletes extend not just to physical appearance but to lifestyle choices, such as when to have a baby, get hitched, or embark upon puberty.

Samantha brought up Michelle Obama’s guns getting lots of attention on Tuesday evening. (I thought that going sleeveless in February was a bit gauche—but that’s another tale.) Obama looks great, but that kind of positive reinforcement is a stark counterpoint to the ogling and snark that attends the biceps of the decorated Williams sisters. It’s clearly hurtful:

Serena, when asked about her body yet again, said, "Just because I have large bosoms, and I have a big ass [laughter], I swear, my waist is 30 inches, 29 to 30 inches, it’s really small! I have the smallest waist, but just because I have those two assets, it looks like I’m not fit."

Imagine that! You are the most dominant person in your sport in the world, but you consistently have to defend having your curves. Listening to commentators persistently speculate and scrutinize Serena about her weight and fitness—which are metaphors for her body—is like having the buttocks and breasts of Hottentot Venus debated for public consumption.

Yes, imagine that. More extra points for bringing up Saartje Bartman—made famous once more by inaugural poet Elizabeth Alexander in this phenomenal work. But in terms of beauty norms: Really, what’s the difference between upscale yoga arms and those that can bench 200?

Ciao for Now

So does that gal attempting to auction off her virginity to the highest bidder remind anyone else of the young woman at Yale who was supposedly documenting her multiple self-induced miscarriages as a senior art project a while back? Not that I have any trouble believing that lots of people would cash that check. Yet something about the whole enterprise seems fishy to me. And I dunno about those "housewives'' either; are they for real or just hideously conforming to expectations? (I wouldn't know, of course. Not because my tastes are so refined but on the contrary because I have to either limit my intake of trash TV or else become one of those people whose life revolves around it. Which I realized years ago when while crossing the street on the Upper East Side, I ran into actress Ruth Warrick, who for years played Phoebe Wallingford on All My Children, and absent-mindedly greeted her—"Hey, Phoebs''—like I thought I was in Pine Valley. Halooo, she called back.) So there it was, my last digression on this blog—but only, of course, because it's also my last post. Honestly, if I have ever had more fun in print than here on XX Factor, it was so long ago that I don't remember. So I'm going to be your biggest fan over at AOL News, where as of next week I'll be writing a column and helping to launch their forthcoming political Web site, PoliticsDaily.com. (My first story—on Hillary's confirmation hearing, as if you had to ask—went up yesterday, and oh, those commenters are way scarier than you guys. My favorite outraged observation: "Hey, this is nothing but your opinion!" Tuh-rue.) So knock 'em dead with Double X, as I'm sure you will, and thanks so much for the great conversations, XX!