When I was 16 years old I took a hostess job at a breastaurant — one of those chain restaurants, like Hooters, known for large-breasted servers.
Yes, men, even woke men, still say the most unbelievable things to us in bed and most of the time, we don’t say anything back.
I have to reject self-loathing when it arrives in the guise of self-care, and that means I have to opt out of skin care culture.
People talk about skin care like it’s fun — a way to relax. But for me, the very idea opens onto a black hole of self-loathing.
What I’ve noticed, as a fat feminist, is that self-identifying as a feminist or an activist bears a different social cost depending on your body size.
My breathing hastened and my crying intensified. The elevation wasn’t doing me any favors. All I knew was that it was pitch black on a lava field in Guatemala and I’d lost my tour group.
I don’t care about my weight. But other people do.
Like, "Yum, there is a table full of delicious food" but also, "Ugh, am I gonna hate myself after I eat this?"
My swimsuit phobia started in middle school — that breeding ground of body shame and fear. One minute I’m a kid excitedly putting on my pink two-piece and running into the ocean, the next, I’m avoiding any place where people are known to live in their swimsuits and I might be forced to wear one.
For years I felt ashamed for having a body. Embarrassed to have big boobs. Embarrassed to be anything but tiny and perfect. Embarrassed to be anything bigger than a dainty wisp of air. I felt like taking up physical space in this world was both vulnerable and too powerful.
Kids see it, we see it, the American people see it: Disney princesses perpetuate an unrealistic portrayal of the female body.