Phoebe Luckhurst I was backstage at the Victoria’s Secret show — it was eye-opening

later on I squinted into the mirror, ignoring the russet trees in Central Park outside, bemoaning my very present pores.

But navel-gazing aside, my real impression was that a theatrical cavalcade of women in their pants, tied up with bows, felt wildly inconsistent with a current mood championing realism and body diversity, and that while the Amazonians might be women, this wasn’t a performance for women at all.