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 space, 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 chimes from the last century. We're trapped in a bell-ringing déjà vu, a sexist hamster wheel that spins endlessly and from which some pretty obvious conclusions emerge.

Women, unlike men, seem to 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 saying 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" just minutes before the end of the year to show off chest, thigh, 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 need to be young, thin, white, and without a visible disability, with a few exceptions like Nia on TVE 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 moving a meter, due to the obvious excess weight, volume, an overly elaborate hairstyle, and high heels. After twelve years of having to maintain the same facade, Pedroche's body has taken an escalating leap of "the more difficult the better," leading 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, launched into the air without any real intention of them coming true. A charade that should have ended long ago, because it further reinforces this idea of the pretty, naive girl who proclaims climate change, love, peace, and universal brotherhood while simultaneously advertising, without any shame, Vicenç nougat or the latest Santiago Segura Torre film. All this amidst a barrage of Iberdrola and Netflix ads that barely allow you to see the screen. Cardboard wishes, poorly understood from school, on the same level as 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 required the degradation of women's bodies. This year, she championed the need to rebuild the lives of cancer patients with a patched-up suit. So, cancer patients, rest easy: thanks to Pedroche's (non-)dress, all your problems are sure to be solved. Happy 2026!