I have the body of a goddess.
Unfortunately, that goddess is the voluptuous Venus of Willendorf.
The goddess figurine, which dates between 28,000 and 25,000 BCE, is most certainly not the Venus of Roman Myth.
What is the western woman’s obsession with claiming her own deification? It’s what commercials tell us when they are trying to sell us yogurt, chocolate, makeup, deodorant, and feminine hygiene wash all packaged in various shades of pink. When deodorant maker Venus came up with their name, they probably didn’t have the misnamed Venus of Willendorf in mind, despite the persistent fact that most of their clientele resemble her more far more closely than the Venus of Roman mythology.
The goddess trope is marketed as empowerment. It’s what we tell our girlfriends over a few glasses of wine:
“Like, oh my gawd, girl, you’re a beautiful, powerful goddess. You’re a fucking queen. YOU ARE PERFECT!!!”
Goddess of wine and love handles, perhaps.
I have a sneaking suspicion that I’m not actually a goddess, princess, queen, shero, spirit lady, or whatever. I think I’m okay with being mortal.