The Corrugated Effect
Grab a hand mirror and contort yourself into a position that affords you a view of the backs of your thighs and buttocks. Does is look as though you’ve swallowed a large sack of grapefruits? Then congratulations, you are amongst the 95% of women who suffer from cellulite; those irregular fatty deposits that appear as lumpy, dimpled skin around the hips, buttocks and thighs, giving the attractive knobbly effect.
I remember returning from our Majorcan holiday last year feeling almost euphoric. This was less to do with a wonderful, restful break in 90 degree sunshine, gorgeous food and fabulous scenery and more to do with the realisation that every woman I saw, even those whose skin was shrink-wrapped to their bones, had been blessed with cellulite.
Sunny Skies and Lumpy Thighs
Sunshine on naked flesh can be cruel. It homes in on lumpy areas, however small the irregularity, by casting shadows beneath any portion of flesh that isn’t as smooth and even as a polished glass tabletop. Even the thinnest and most toned of women, who were unashamedly flaunting their bodies in a few threads of cotton tied together, had those indentations on their thighs, ruthlessly highlighted by the sun’s mocking rays.
Cellulite is not ageist. It can mercilessly strike any woman past puberty, except perhaps professional athletes, who probably have more testosterone racing around their bodies than the average male, but would you really want a six-pack torso and thighs you could crack nuts between? Athletes are actually more likely to suffer from “hard” cellulite that attaches itself to muscles and is less visible, but harder to shift than “soft” cellulite that can be recognised as those cute dimples in your cheeks. Your butt cheeks.
It’s a Woman Thing
Women can blame all that Oestrogen racing around their bodies for one of the reasons behind the formation of cellulite, which is often more prevalent in women taking the birth control pill and postnatal women. Of course, when you are still pleading post-natal cellulite disorder as you cram your face with yet another fresh cream cake and your children are all in their twenties, don’t be surprised if people start to doubt your excuse.
Men rarely develop cellulite because their fat cells are shaped differently and reside deeper in the skin. Female fat cells are smooth in shape and are close to the surface of the skin, causing that endearing rutted effect.
Oddly enough, the same phenomenon occurs with the truth and our emotions. Women will more readily reveal their innermost thoughts and feelings with forthright honesty, whilst men’s true emotions and the truth in general is less discernible, shielded by little white lies (and sometimes huge black ones). A woman will say, “I’ve got so much cellulite that if I stood naked on top of a high building at night, you wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between my bum and the moon. Guffaw! Guffaw! Snort!” A man will say, “It’s not a beer gut mate. I’ve got irritable bowel syndrome and it tends to make me a bit bloated. The old six-pack is still there – solid as a rock”.
Embrace your cellulite
You can allegedly reduce the appearance of cellulite by drinking a bath-load of water on a daily basis, exercising through the pain barrier and eliminating all those lovely, fat-laden foods from your diet. You could also combine the above torturous routine with taking out a second mortgage to equip your bathroom cabinet with a plethora of overpriced creams, potions and gels that claim to eliminate cellulite. Alternatively, you could spend your monthly grocery budget on a trip to an exclusive spa to have your knobbly bits masochistically battered by a French massage machine, or even an attractive French masseur if you are lucky, allegedly effective at releasing cellulite-forming toxins and improving circulation.
I don’t know whether any of these treatments work, because I profess not to have tried any of them. Personally, I would feel pretty peeved if I had expended a small fortune to embark on the anti-cellulite trail, only to discover when the holiday snaps returned, that my bottom still resembled two prize-winning grapefruit’s in a hammock…
Written by Sonia Evans