My body is unacceptable. Your body is unacceptable. Our bodies are all unacceptable, and that’s unacceptable. Why can’t the size of our smiles be a better measure of our selves than the size of our hips?
Every once in a while a woman comes into the office and she often tells me she hates me for being so skinny. Just once I’d like to tell her I hate her for being so fat. How lucky is she to be a size 20?! But no, that’s mean, that’s fat-shaming, that’s disrespectful. Yet I can be skinny-shamed all day long and no one notices, people agree, it becomes a topic of momentary conversation as if I’m not standing there, a human being, with feelings and body image issues like so many other women.
Fuck that shit. I have wrinkles and scars and cellulite. My 20-year-old body is not going to make a sudden come-back into my 35-year-old self no matter how many cliffs I climb, no matter how many softball games I play, no matter how many miles I cycle.
Let’s get this straight right fucking here right fucking now – I goddamn hate being a size four. It makes me a target – a target for what is wrong with magazine covers and a target for oversexualized men. And fuck you for thinking it somehow makes me lucky that I’m thin. It doesn’t. There’s no luck in it. None at all. Do I sound pissed? I am.
There’s a guy in the office who thinks it’s ok to tell me I’m lucky I can get away with eating candy. Get away? Really? Because my body doesn’t need the same nutrition from fruits, vegetables, grains, and proteins, like candy somehow magically become a vitamin simply because my bony ass fingers are carting it from the bag to my mouth.
Fuck that shit. Sugary crap is as bad for me as it is for anyone. Filling my stomach with candy wastes valuable space for, oh I don’t know, apples. I’m not getting away with anything. Nothing at all.
While we’re at it, let’s get this straight too – I’ve been as conditioned to hate my size four as much as you have been for your size 20, and you for your size eight, and you for your size 16. You and your double-digit size don’t get to look down on me for my single-digit size any more than I get to look down on you for your size.
Do I sound pissed? I am. Because I am as shamed for my body size as anyone else. So I’m skinny. Big fucking deal. It’s genetics, and last time I checked I didn’t get to choose which genes were passed down to me from my parents. So you’re fat. Big fucking deal. It’s genetics, and last time I checked you didn’t get to choose yours.
I can eat a bag of M&Ms and not gain a pound. I don’t choose that. You can eat a bag of M&Ms and gain three pounds. You don’t choose that. Eating M&Ms is a choice, but the result of eating them isn’t. So fuck off. Do I sound pissed? I am.
This body-shaming bullshit has got to stop. Stop it. Stop it now. We are all so gloriously imperfect. Every one of us. Our imperfections are what make us unique. Age old argument there. If we were all perfect, what fun would that be? It wouldn’t.
I read something today that struck me. Eight little words: my smile is the same size as always. Then I got a snide comment on a portion of my lunch, which included a heavily loaded, couldn’t even see the baked potato, potato – and my body-image-rage flared again.
I commented on Rarasaur’s post. Most others were talking about their own history with the actual topic of the blog post, emotional eating, but I picked up on those eight words: my smile is the same size as always.
“My smile is the same size as always…” That right there, the size of our smile, that’s what matters. I want to have the biggest, fattest, most obese smile on the planet. And the size of my hips, meh, it’s just a number (although getting to the point of believing “it’s just a number” is something I’m still working on because the comments on my body-size still get to me – perhaps I should counter them with the statement “but my smile is a size 20″).
Isn’t it a more accurate measure of our selves? The size of our smile and not the size of our hips? Shouldn’t we be more concerned with smile size than we are with dress size? Wouldn’t we do the world a much better deed for offering a giggle to greater the girth of a smile rather than cutting a person into bust, waist, and hip numbers?
I want to have the biggest, fattest, most obese smile on the planet. My hips? Fuck’em. They’re just the right size for my hands.