To Those Who Mean Well and Those Who Don’t:
Either way you mean it, pointing out how skinny I am will never make me feel good.
I might blush—not because I am flattered, but because I am embarrassed. I may laugh—not because I enjoy the comment you just made about how “teeny-tiny my wrists are,” but because I am uncomfortable. I’ll probably even say thank you—not because I mean it, but because what else is there to say, really?
To you, these words may sound unappreciative, overly-sensitive, or just straight out rude. How dare I not accept such an obviously heart-warming compliment? How dare I not react positively to groping hands around my forearms and a gasp: “You’ve got no meat on these bones!”
To me, you pointing out how much—or how little—I weigh is no different than telling me that I am not good enough, that I lack something that should make me whole.
But before I go on, please know that I’m not writing this to berate you. My goal isn’t to spew angry words in an attempt to fight fire with even more, pointless flames. I’m writing this because I am ready to stand up for myself—and for all the bodies who are told they, too, are lacking.
The Instagram posts and magazine covers tell us to suck it in and push it out. Our pudge won’t budge and our lanky elbows stick out more than they should. One boob is often slightly bigger than the other, while legs and limbs struggle to achieve an impossible kind of ballerina-ness. We’re supposed to feel feminine, yet toned; perfect, yet effortless; proportionate, yet unique. We’re supposed to find balance between too skinny and too not-skinny, all while keeping our head held high against your sharpened words. Words that seem to perpetuate, despite the ever clear pressure of a shallow, this aesthetic-obsessed society.
“Look at those pencil-thin legs!”
“What size is that dress, again?”
“Are you sure you’re eating enough?”
These aren’t uplifting, and these definitely aren’t compliments.
What’s uplifting is simply, yet oh so complicatedly, this: us being able to know that what’s here is here—and what’s there is there—all because it is meant to. We want to know that our oddly-pitched laughter is a song worth singing, not a noise to be ashamed of. We want to know that even though our knobby knees sometimes look like frowning lemons, the sole fact of having frowning lemons for knees is exactly the reason why they should be shown off. We want to know that it’s okay to have hair in places that pop-culture unequivocally shames. We want to know that even though our tummy sticks out when we eat too much, that our gums take up most of our happiest smile, and that our figure represents a school ruler more than it does any type of fruit, we are who we are meant to be: beautiful humans in beautiful bodies.
When you point out how much I weigh, you are preventing me from knowing this.
You prevent me from knowing that I am carried by my body in such a way that is mine and only mine. By your words, I am made to forget about how prefect the vessel is that carries my most important parts: my heart, my brain and my soul. I forget that within those parts live my ideas, and within my ideas, my dreams. And, that within my rawest and purest dreams is where I exist without boundary and without the feeling that I lack anything at all.
So now, I refuse to forget. I refuse to fall victim to the negative tug-and-pull of this life as a 20 year-old woman in a world where your words somehow manage to mean more to me than my own.
When you point out how much I weigh—whether you mean to harm me or praise me—know that I am grateful. I’m grateful that your narrow perspective now does nothing but enlarge my own.
Perhaps—and I hope—I’ve done the same for you.