One more year, Pedroche's (non) dress

In recent times we've sent a robot to Mars, sequenced the human genome, developed RNA vaccines in record time, detected gravitational waves from deep within the Universe, and artificial intelligence is radically transforming life as we knew it. But despite all this, we're still ringing in the New Year with the same damn bells from the last century. We live trapped in a déjà-vu The bell, a sexist hamster wheel that spins endlessly and from which rather obvious conclusions can be drawn.

It seems that women, unlike men, lack the biological capacity to feel the cold. While men appear in shirts, blazers, and coats, women, whether literally or through strategically calculated transparencies, leave a good portion of their bodies exposed. I'm not revealing anything new. This pattern has been denounced for years, and yet nothing changes, because a woman's value as a New Year's Eve presenter lies not in her communication skills or professionalism, but in her willingness to display her body.

A perfectly timed "tatxaaaaan" a few minutes before the end of the year to show breasts, thighs, and little else. An improved but equally vulgar version of The bingo players From Pajares and Esteso. As if nothing had changed since the whole country was waiting for Sabrina Salerno's nipple to make an appearance between jumps. In fact, breasts have appeared—more or less explicitly—in almost every broadcast, even in post-New Year's Eve programs, as in the case of Eva Soriano. But let's not kid ourselves: not just any body will do. To occupy this position, you have to be young, thin, white, and not have a visible disability, with a few exceptions like Nia on RTVE Canarias, a flower that, unfortunately, doesn't make a summer.

A body that, before being revealed, must be wrapped in pieces closer to candy wrapper than a real coat, as seen with Laura Escanes or Sandra Barneda. And that's where Cristina Pedroche offers the most blatant contrast. Trapped in an impossible dress of zero creative value, cobbled together from scraps of dresses worn during all the New Year's Eve broadcasts she's hosted, she struggled to perform even basic actions, like walking a meter, due to her obvious excess weight and volume, a superstructured hairstyle, and heels that looked like vegetables. After twelve years of maintaining the same image, Pedroche's body has undergone a remarkably difficult climb, though it has led to absurd results devoid of any rational sense.

And, as the New Year's Eve ritual dictates, we season it all with grandiose and empty wishes, flung into the air with no real intention of them coming true. A farce that should have ended long ago, because it only reinforces this image of the pretty, naive girl making pronouncements against climate change and in favor of love, peace, and universal brotherhood while simultaneously and shamelessly advertising nougat for Vicenç or Santiago's latest film. Torrente, presidentAll this amidst a barrage of Iberdrola and Netflix ads that barely allow you to see the screen. Cardboard-thin wishes, poorly read from the teleprompter, on par with the Miss Universe contestants who called for world peace while claiming that Russia was a very beautiful country full of Russians.

In Pedroche's case, the final message takes on a special significance because it acts as a smokescreen: solemn pronouncements that envelop everything to avoid any accusation of superficiality. The nudity, yes, but for a good cause. As if the end had to justify the means. As if world peace necessarily had to involve the degradation of women's bodies. This year she has championed the need to rebuild the lives of people with cancer through a patched-up suit. So: rest assured, cancer patients, because thanks to Pedroche's (non) dress, all your problems will surely be solved. Happy 2026!