A body isn't just a body, it's a bonfire of embarrassment. It's a carefully stacked pile of kindling – of cellulite, saggy skin, veiny hands, back fat, cankles and knee wrinkles. But you knew this. You know this. You know, particularly as party season rolls on and your dress will be tight and red and you'll be standing in the light; particularly now, now that the edges of your body need containing. Winching. Need control tights for the thighs, Spanx for the arse and hips; need a long-line girdle for the belly and a seamless Wonderbra to keep your breasts buoyant. When used correctly, a combination of all four will work hard to neutralise your flesh and give you the appearance of a sexy, titted ferret, one who requires a good friend's help to get their pants off for a wee.

Until 1972, when Nicole Ronsard published her bestselling book Cellulite: Those Lumps, Bumps and Bulges you Couldn't Lose Before, cellulite was known simply as "the back of women's legs". All it took was the invention of a name to create an industry that is now worth billions. All it took was a quiet word from a well-meaning ad campaign, and half the population began believing another area of their bodies was faulty. And it's happening again. A picture of Madonna in the paper, waving, a half-moon of flesh below her bicep, is captioned: "Celebrity victim: Even super-fit Madonna has a hint of bingo wings."

So this Christmas, having worked through thighs and bellies, shops are concentrating on the upper arms. Marks & Spencer is the latest retailer to push its range of arm corsets, snug fabric tubes designed to be worn under sleeveless tops to hold your skin in tighter – they immediately sold out online. It joins Asda, Charnos, specialised sleeve company Ch'Arms and Spanx, whose £109 control T-shirt also smooths your "muffin top". I'm wearing one today. The effect as afternoon darkens is stroke-like, but my arms do look narrow. They do look narrow. All day I've felt as though I'm about to give blood – these Lycra tourniquets are making my fingers go cold – but nothing wobbles when I wave. Not that I wave much – most of my day-friends are in the internet – but still.

I don't tend to anthropomorphise underwear, but these are the saddest sleeves I've ever seen. In their stretch lace and polite colours, their sudden availability on the high street makes us aware of things we didn't realise we needed to worry about. Aware that yet another area of our bodies has been marked unfit for use. Condemned. And not just that, but sliced from the whole, like our breasts, and our hair, in order to be scrutinised further and sold back to us in plastic.

I wish I didn't know that my arms weren't mean to wobble. I'd be happier. I'd have more time to do the important things that might help improve my life, like learning Chinese or cleaning my bathroom. And if as a team (I'm picturing all women everywhere in a hard-hatted huddle) we felt more confident about our appearance, if being female stopped requiring us to hate the way we look, to separate our body parts from ourselves, we would, certainly, be more powerful.

Women who feel their value lies only in their bodies feel disempowered when their bodies are revealed to be imperfect – they believe they are worthless without a flat belly or wobbleless arm, and they are less likely to speak up. Less likely to ask for a raise, less likely to vote, and less likely to run in politics. Less likely to affect any change except upon their bodies.

Responding to the women whose body-image anxiety means that, even though they hate their bodies they are too self-conscious to exercise and risk revealing untoned flesh, there is a market for gym shapewear – tummy control vests and push-up bras for exercising in "so you can look great while you work out!"

Arms are the latest insecurity to be sold back to us, and having seen this one evolve, I feel we have some chance of fighting it. Let's decide not to buy control sleeves. Let's leave this one. I want my arms back. I want my body to just be me.

Email Eva at e.wiseman@observer.co.uk or visit theguardian.com/profile/evawiseman for all her articles in one place. Follow Eva on Twitter @EvaWiseman