'Twas the Season to be Catty

We're in the era of post-modern feminism, now, right?

We women can wear stilettos, lipstick, pushup bras and short skirts - and still be equal. Even better, we support each other, Sex in the City-style, bonding over Blahniks and chick-flicks. Partners may come and go, but our gal pals are there forever, ready (tub of Häagen-Dazs in hand) to help plan a career, a relationship exit strategy or world takeover. And if you prefer combat boots or Tofulicious, that's grand too. Everyone's welcome on the post-modern feminism ark: "You go girl!" is our unifying mantra.

Yeah, right. Check this out.

The setting: a holiday bash for the "progressive" crowd; a rare opportunity for local lefties to get gussied up and strut their stuff. Me: single, virtual nobody, little dress, daring neckline. Her: very accomplished, happily-partnered, stylishly attired. The act: She takes a look at my party frock, greets me with a contemptuous "Uh, nice cleavage!" - and turns away in a swish of satin and disdain.

Ah, sisterhood in the new millennium.

Big deal, right? I'm a big girl, and I know not to take that kind of thing to heart. But progressive pretensions aside, that woman's not the only one taking unnecessary pot shots. Whether sniping at Angelina for her alleged man-thieving, sniffing at Kate's coke habit or trashing Belinda's hair, there were a lot of women in 2005 sharpening their claws on their sisters and the trend only seems to be gathering steam.

Over-Oprah-ed

Don't get me wrong; I certainly understand why we do it. Nice is boring, catty can be fun and there's only so much Oprah feel-good stuff anyone can take.

But there's always the other side of the story. Case in point: while my dress may have seemed vampy to Ms. Swish, it was actually a feminist victory for me.

For decades, I hid my body. From pubescence, unable to handle the attention that a developing woman's body attracts, I swathed myself in extra pounds and extra-large, androgynous clothes, later topping the look off with a butchy haircut for good measure, and I avoided parties like the plague.

It's taken over twenty years - and an awful lot of therapy - to become comfortable with my own body and especially with other people seeing it. Sporting my first form-fitting t-shirt nearly gave me a panic attack and it took me over a decade to work up (or down) to spaghetti straps. I've spent most of my youth under wraps, literally and metaphorically. I'm 35 now and I don't know how many more years I have to wear fabulous little dresses. So even though I still find it challenging to be seen, I'm determined not to waste any more opportunities.

Easy on the body!

It's not that I think I'm alone in my complicated relationship to my physical form; I don't know any woman who doesn't have issues with how she looks. So can't we cut each other some slack and lay off on the judgment on what other women wear, or how they look in it? In the same vein, I don't know any woman who doesn't have relationship issues, or self-destructive tendencies or bad hair days. So maybe we can cut Angelina, Kate, Belinda and the rest of them some slack too.

Bottom line: I'm all for the post-modern feminism, where we get to look good - as long as I get to define what looking good means to me, thanks. And although my fragile ego loves to hear about other women's failings, I'm going to try and be generous about their imperfections; Ms. Swish's included.

What that all boils down to is: sisters, unite. In 2006, my resolution is to be on Team Aniston and Jolie - and Team Me. Possible?

We'll see.

Vancouver writer Dorothy Bartoszewski is a regular contributor to The Tyee.