Maybe I’m missing something but isn’t the whole “no makeup selfie thing” just as bad as every other bullshit-judging-women-in-an-effort-to-keep-them-weak-and-controllable practice out there?
(and to be clear, I’m all for being proven wrong. For example, I used to think the whole “nails of the day” trend was super fucking ridiculous and stupid…that is until I heard someone explain it in a different way. I was listening to a podcast and one of the guests talked about how the “nails of the day” was a way for anyone to express their creativity. She highlighted the fact that it was almost completely limitless, that truly anyone could do it, for the small price of a few dollars for a bottle or two of nail polish and a couple of toothpicks, anyone could be an artist. And that changed my mind completely.)
But here’s the thing: isn’t it damaging to our psyche(s) to think that going make-up less is brave and courageous?
Are we, as women, so fucking hideous that exposing our natural selves is this act of noble defiance?
Can’t we just stop judging ourselves, and each other, for a goddamn second, just long enough to feel a bit of love and appreciation for our own flesh.
Isn’t the act of daring to expose ourselves au naturel just another way of trying to one up other women?
Look look look at me, a woman better than all the others, a make-up less woman, I’m basically a fucking hero.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m all for posting selfies (if you want) and seeking attention (if you want) but what if we just cut out all the judgmental shaming nonsense? And even more so, what if we stopped rewarding women for the way they conform or don’t conform to whatever beauty standards you subscribe to, and just let them develop into super interesting people.
Because, by the way, even if you could get past the whole look at me I’m so brave for being willing to show you my hideous face without the guise of make-up, can we be honest about what those MUL Selfies are really about?
The no-makeup selfie is just another stab at attention seeking to validate that you, in fact, were born more naturally beautiful than all the other girls. And you know what, THAT WAS FUCKING BLIND LUCK. If you happen to be lucky enough to be drop dead gorgeous without make-up, well congratulations. You managed to be arbitrarily selected by a gene pool of beauty. You didn’t earn it. You don’t deserve it. You didn’t work hard for it. And fyi, it’s value is entirely relative. So what do you say you stop trying to make other women feel incomplete or less than and just be fucking amazing in your own right. Be interesting. Be amazing. Contribute something to the betterment of society. Or at the very least, please, think about how the things you do affect those around you.
I’m not saying you shouldn’t post selfies (go right ahead, go on with your bad self!). I’m not saying that you shouldn’t seek validation (I mean, I would caution against relying on it to feel good as its a fickle fickle thing). I’m not saying that you should or shouldn’t wear make-up. What I am saying is that it’s hard enough being a girl/woman and trying to live up to some bullshit standard (to impress men?) and why on earth would you want to make it harder for your fellow com-madres.
Think of all the amazing things women could be doing if they weren’t so busy feeling badly about themselves?
Disagree? Want to change my mind? Give me your best argument in the comments!
[dropcap]She stands[/dropcap] in a school yard, on a playground, at a bus stop, on the sidewalk, reflected in the wet spots of my face
Your daughter. Her daughter. Their daughter. Our daughters.
This world, is breaking them.
I want to tell her, that she is innocence and potential and full of enough ink to write her message across all the days. I want her to know she can swaddle herself in cotton candy love; that she doesn’t have to seek it outside; that she is enough, but that if she wants to, that’s just fine too. Tell her not to hold her breath. Tell her not to apologize for taking up space in this world. Tell her that no matter what, in the darkest hours of her darkest days that there is someone who loves her. Tell her that that someone should be herself. Tell her to look inside for reassurance and outside to reassure.
I want her to know that her hands are made of glue, and that the world is hers for the taking, that she has the power to put all the pieces back together. I want you to tell her for me.
Long before she becomes tortuous and entirely adolescent, tell her that life is a series of stages. Tell her that sexuality is fluid and flexible, tell her that she should think with her brain and care with her heart, tell her that mistakes will happen but that shame should not be a part of her life.
“When you have shame,” you’ll say, “they have all the power.”
Teach your daughters to live without shame and no one will ever control them.
Remember: I am someone’s little sister, someone’s baby girl, someone’s friend, someone’s love. Please don’t be mean. My heart breaks the same as yours.
I can show you a picture, paint it on an easel, move your hand across the words in Braille but you’ll never really get it, unless you once tried to talk to someone who thought you were Disgusting.
It’s a special kind of hurt the moment you find out you’re a sideshow Freak, a detour to chubby town, a vacation gone whale hunting, and you’re swimming for your life from men who want to mount your head on their wall.
You are an endangered species, in a world of bridges and railroad tracks and ceilings with beams not strong enough to hold you, like arms that should cradle you but hang you out to dry and then forget until they look and you’ve blown away.
This post is not in response to this awesome SO BRAVE beautifully written post because that just feels way too antagonistic or in opposition, which is not what this is. This is an addition. A plus(size). An addendum. So here goes…
When you see a picture of a woman, exposed with the flaws she thinks she hasbut you see none, you stand up and applaud. She has value. Her hurt should be taken away. You think I have no say in how she should live her life. Who am I to judge. She has the right to feel beautiful, be beautiful, goddamn it she is beautiful (because honestly, aren’t we all?)
And to be clear, her hurt is in no way less important or worthy than mine. But, I have to wonder if that same go grrrrl reaction happens when an actual fat person, bares their flaws for you to see. And though I dream that it does. I beg for it to be so. I would give almost anything for that to be true, for this to be a world where you don’t think you have any fucking say over my body. I have a lifetime of experience that says otherwise.
I’ve never worn a bikini. Bikini season means nothing to me, though I’ve spent most of life swimming away from whale hunters. No insult is ever equal when it comes to fat people. I’m never just a bitch like all you other lucky bitches get to be. I’m always a fat bitch. I live in constant fear that teenage boys will spit on me (and I’m thirtyfuckingone). When I reject a man while online dating (politely), I’m never just a girl who rejected him. Suddenly I’m a fat bitch that no one wants anyway.
I’m not really going to go into why I’m fat (which I am). Because the truth is it shouldn’t matter, to you. This is my body. I am allowed to eat (which I do). I am allowed to fuck (which I do). I am allowed to be happy and not harassed or stared at. I should be able to workout and not live in fear that you think I’m disgusting. I should be allowed to just be me, in whatever shape that comes in.
I’m not lazy. I’m not worthless. (though even if I was, who are you to judge?). I have value. I hold two BA degrees. I’m currently getting my MA at Concordia in English Literature. I’m kind to people. I get choked up on phone calls with my parents because I love them so much. I want to make the world a better place. I want to protect young girls whose sexuality is judged and mocked and held hostage. I want to be the naked tits on the internet that makes it so no girl ever commits suicide after she couldn’t stand being harassed and bullied for amistake. I want to bear the burdens so other little girls never have to. I have a family who loves me. I have friends who love me. I have people whose hearts break every time you hurt me. I have no less value because I’m fat. You don’t get a say in how I deal with my body or my issues. I spend my days trying to make people laugh for no other reason than the world needs more joy. MORE FUCKING JOY. I should be allowed to sit by a pool, any pool, public or otherwise and not have you think that my grotesque form is somehow obstructing your otherwise perfect existence.
And so here I am. At a summer BBQ. Unaware of a photo being taken of me. By a friend. Who doesn’t see anything other than her friend, the one who makes her laugh and writes “about the most boring shit in the world but in a way that makes it seem sooo interesting”, making a burger (or something lol I don’t really even know what I was doing) on her thighs, on a day when we were all just so fucking happy.
UPDATE: In my rush to get this post out quickly yesterday, I worry that it feels unfinished, that I never actually said the thing I meant to say which is this: That I am enough. You are enough. Our bodies are our own. Life is hard enough as it is without having people tell us what we can or can’t do, what we should or shouldn’t show the world, or how much fun and happiness we are allotted.
That being said, by the absolutely amazing left-me-near-speechless outpouring of love and support and stories from other women and men about emotions and hurt and strength and bravery and desires to be stronger (I could go on but this sentence is turning into a grammatical nightmare of love)…by what this post has inspired you all to say, I know that even without these extra words you somehow understood exactly what I was trying to say. So thank you, you beautiful brave people. My heart, it runneth over.
[dropcap]I[/dropcap]t’s come to my attention. As of late. That I’ve been dating idiots. Now don’t get me wrong. People are inherently beautiful and everybody has their talents and upsides. But when it comes to dating. These boys are fucking ridiculous. And that could very well explain why they’re on Plenty of Fish. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. But these aren’t boys that are looking for a discussion. They’re not just dating. They’re “looking” for something. And so if a fella is open and willing. You have to wonder. Why. At 36/37/39/etc. his not finding it. And that brings me back to the idiocy.
And the thing of the thing is. I kind of don’t mind. Because while I know most people read this blog for the funny business. I have some fucking wisdom. I swear. To bestow on those willing to read/hear it. And possibly the friends of those people. Because someone has to be friends with these ridiculous boys that I’m dating. They’re not social rejects. Just. Boys with maps to dating. That haven’t been completely drawn in yet. And so they’re guessing. When they should be pulling over and asking directions. And so here I am. Waiting in the service station. Throwing nails on the road so they’re forced to pull in to fix a flat. Ready to guide.
And that’s why I write these Dear Boys posts. To share the wisdom. The small amount I have to share. Because that slogan I came up with awhile back isn’t just a funny catch-phrase. It’s a bit of the truth. Mixed in for good measure. I really am hoping. To leave a legacy. Of boys that have become just a little bit better. Equipped. More able. Stellar. Master daters. Something She Dated.
Dating Vancouver a Better Place…One “Something” at a Time.
So that’s me. Taking one for the team. Jumping on a grenade for you. Ladies of Vancouver, BC. And possibly even more widespread. Because after all. Boys migrate. So you never know. Atlanta. Paris. Saskatoon. Prague. One day you just might owe me a thank you. But remember. I don’t take refunds. And I don’t offer warrantees.
So let’s get down to it, boys. Because you’re screwing it up. And you’re grossing me out. And honestly, it seems obvious enough to me, but I guess I’m going to have to say it, nobody wants to be a sideshow. Because whether you mean it as a compliment or not. Compartmentalizing me. Physically. Is really insulting. And insecuring. And ick ick icking me to death.
For example. When you say (as a dude so recently did on Match.com) you posted lovely photos (this is good) – you are simply beautiful (keep it coming!). I truly appreciate a genuine curvy figure (umm…fuck off). And now just to be clear. Where the fault lies. So that there is no doubt. Is in the appreciation of a genuine curvy figure. Now if he had said you’re a babe or you’re stunning or something equally clear about thinking I was attractive. That’d be awesome. Because I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. I’m not a chick who can’t take compliments. But the gross part, is three fold.
First. I hate the curvy thing. And I’ll explain why. Because saying I’m curvy doesn’t convey attraction. It conveys sideshow. Nobody wants a chubby chaser. Because the thing of the thing is. I don’t want the dude who likes fat chicks. I want the dude who likes me. Huge difference. And further to this. The word curvy is a thorn in my side. My not curvy but chubby bunny side. Because I’ll tell you. Every fat girl has taken enough shit from dudes (and chicks) who would criticize them for daring to call themselves curvy. Curvy being a coke bottle shape. Curvy being 36-24-36. Curvy being Vida Guerra or These Models. And I am not curvy. I’m beautiful. I’m adorable. I have value and all that other stuff. But I’m not cruvy. I’m less Marilyn Monroe and more Beth Ditto. But most of all, I’m just me.
Second. The word appreciate. Now I know I’m going to catch some flack from all of you. Something like you’re being too critical or stop being such a word nazi or something akin to this. But to me. Saying he appreciates my curves is honestly a bit of a jellyfisher. Because what he’s really saying is that he’s different. He appreciates what I have…fill in the blank____when others do not____. And so it becomes just another signpost that this fella wants to take a detour to chubby town. Whether he regularly vacations there or just heard about this great special. But either way. It yet again. Makes me feel like a sideshow. Objectified. And not in an awesome way. But in a yellow-fever, jungle-fever, chubby chaser, freak show type of way.
And finally. Just in a totally word-nerd kind of way. What’s with the genuine? Like as opposed to the other girls. Who are fake curvy? What the fuck does that even mean. So my dear boys, my dear dear boys. This is my advice to you.
Ick. To every dude who likes a chick with some meat on her bones. Or finds himself attracted to some ethnicities over others. Nobody Likes To Be a Sideshow. The way to your woman’s heart. The key to your ladies panties. Is not by making her feel like a freak. It’s not by making her feel like if she were a hamburger that you only ever like her beef. She is a whole dish. A WHOLE dish. And if you can’t appreciate her for that. You should damn well keep it to yourself. And honestly for her sake and yours move on. But don’t tell her. Don’t fucking make it clear that you just want her for something arbitrary and out of her control. Because she’s not a circus act. And you won’t win her over by talking about her tightrope. Just Sayin’ boys. Step your game up. She’ll appreciate you for it.
aka Something She Dated
aka Your boys favorite chubby bunny
aka That girl 2 treadmills over getting closer to curvy status
aka Helping boys woo their ladies one compliment at a time
aka Dating Vancouver a better place one “something” at a time
Vancouver Dating Blog: Dating Vancouver a Better Place, One “Something” at a Time
Sometimes. Wait. Scratch that. Most of the time. It’s hard to get your exact point, your tone, the precise meaning, across the interweb. It’s kind of like when someone asks you to define the difference between Awesome and Rad. I mean. Where do you even start. But I digress.
Sometimes I forget that you, my blog readers, aren’t my friends in everyday life. You don’t know what I’ve been through. You don’t know what my life is like. You don’t know where I’m coming from. And while a hurdle, this isn’t usually that big of a roadblock. But. Well. I hate to be misunderstood. Specificity has no bigger supporter than me. Vague is no friend of mine. So because the last post was already pretty long and fumbled…here is an “attempted” point form list of some of the clarifications I’d like to make. Some are in response to comments left (which PSizzle were awesome and thank you so much for both your support and bringing up new points or things I needed to clarify…I heart you!) and others are just things I think are important. For clarity’s sake.
1. Audience. The post was about me. Not women in general.
2. Location. Vancouver IS very different than Toronto and London (New York, LA). Christ, it’s even completely different than Seattle (it’s closest major american city for ya’ll that don’t know). Vancouver is small. Vancouver is characterized by health, exercise, affluence, nature, etc. (for reference all wonderful things). In Atlanta they love me, New Orleans same thing. Seattle is golden and Florida is a kingdom of ripe fruit (for my pickin’). I stress, Vancouver is very different. And even if it wasn’t for the characterizations as mentioned above…the simple size of Vancouver works against my me. There’s a reason I use plentyoffish.com. It’s not because the site is awesome. It’s because it’s the only one that has a decent amount of local people on it. Every other website can’t seem to get the same draw.
3. Pulling. I’ve pulled hotties. I’ve pulled notties. I’ve pulled averages. I’ve pulled nice guys. I’ve pulled pro-football players (yes, plural). I’ve pulled regular joes. I’ve pulled hard-workers. I’ve pulled military guys (in more than one country). I’ve pulled a UFC fighter (not to be confused with MMA guy). I’ve pulled a bouncer, a promoter, a Chef. I’ve pulled Canadians, Americans, Eurpoeans, Africans, Latin Americans. I’ve pulled a fireman, a DJ, a Graphic Designer. The list goes on.
But you know who I’ve never pulled.
The Smart Guy. The Physicist. The Professor. The Lawyer. The Doctor. The Poet. The Extreme Hacker. The Guy who’s brain I’d like to lick. I’ve never pulled the Funny Guy. And I don’t mean I’ve never pulled a guy who knew how to laugh or tell a joke but I mean the really Funny Guy. The Witty Repartee Guy. The Sparring Words Guy. The challenges and makes me think Guy. I’ve never met the Changing the World Guy. I’m thinking this might require a whole post to really get to the bottom of it. But here’s the gist. The hottie? Not even close to a specification that makes someone not a “loser”.
Example. The first date I went on with someone off of plentyoffish.com was Barbie. He was a bartender. He had the double shirt. He had…an 8 pack. I mean seriously, like fucking steel. He was definitely a pretty boy. But. Dumb as bricks. I mean honestly, borderline retarded. Super nice guy. Really sweet. Absolutely no filter. Conversation was insane. And not in a good way.
4. The “Like Us For Who We Are.” Maybe it’s a difference between girls who feel they shouldn’t have to be made to feel less for not being a stick figure and girls like me, obese. But I call bullshit. Because I don’t want a guy to like me for being obese like that’s some indication of who I am. That is most definitely NOT who I am. It’s a flaw. Something to overcome. I am not the cheeseburger I ate when stressed for exams. I am not the blubber it turned into. I AM the person who sometimes lacks the ability to appropriately deal with stress. But that’s not something I would want to be dated for. I’d want to be liked in spite of that. Plus trying to deny how important sexual attraction is a counterintuitive action much like the actions that made a world in which a book called “he’s just not that into you” even needs to be published. I’m just sayin’ people.
5. Health. To be clear, I am not trying to get model thin. I won’t be using diet supplements (or anything else that even has the possible potential to damage my brain, body, etc.). I am losing weight to be healthy. Plain and simple. People are attracted to health.
6. Matching. Though I get shy on first dates, at the beginning of parties, and speaking aloud in class (Christ! I don’t drink…can you really blame me?). I have a great deal of confidence. Sure I’m normal. There are moments, days, the occasional week when self-esteem takes a hit. But usually. I think I’m pretty awesome. Sometimes that might be obnoxious. Mostly I think it’s just great. I mean. Join the party everybody. You should think you’re pretty awesome too. And if you don’t, well either the problem is something you can change…in which case go right ahead and become more awesome. Or the problem is just a thinking thing, in which case…go right ahead and just start recognizing your awesomeness.
But here’s the thing of the thing.
I don’t think my body matches my self-esteem. I can garauntee you, if I was not obese. I’d be talking to the fellas. I’d be flirting on beaches and coffee shops. I’d be approaching in bars and lounges. I’d be making buddies with the guys in the next row at the concert. But I don’t. Because I don’t want to be the granade in the scenario. And I know (generalization sorry boys) that they’re not thinking…awesome maybe instead of letting me touch her perky tits and cup her firm ass, she’ll talk about books, and travelling and ask me questions about science. So I smile. And I’m nice and friendly. But I hang back. I don’t lead the pack. And I just want to make my body match my stride. Which would be at the front of the pack, saying….Haaaaaave you met Cindy?
7. Bodies. For reference ladies…I think we’re all freaking beautiful! Go on with your bad selves. Big boobs? rock ’em. Gorgeous smile? flash it. Amazon tall? God your amazing and you damn well better show it off! Batt those lashes. Sway those hips. Point those sexy toes. Flat stomach? midriff it. Juicy thighs? Wear those tiny shorts! I’m saying….perhaps the saying goes for you too…it’s time to get balls out! There’s no need to be a carbon copy of Jennifer Aniston. And my weightloss will be nothing even slightly headed in that direction. I am not a size 8 trying to get to a size 4. I am size don’t-want-to-die-at-50 trying to get to a buys-clothes-at-a-regular-store. Jus sayin’
And in that spirit. Here is a little spoken word. About Boobs. Since as women I don’t think we’re ever more self-concious whether they’re huge, small, different, somewhere in between.
*Dating Vancouver a Better Place, One Something at a Time*
But here’s the thing of the thing. There’s a big difference between knowing the truth and wanting to hear the truth. Knowing the truth and sharing that truth with others who didn’t ask for it. Sometimes the truth should just keep its damn nose to itself. Boys. I’m just sayin’.
But other times. I have to shout it. I want to shout it. About myself. I have to say it. Outloud. Because it’s the truth. I’m okay with it. And I kinda wish you would be too. But I won’t force you.
I am self-aware. True Story
I prefer terms like Chubby Bunny and Pleasantly Plump. Hate terms like BBW and Obese. But a spade is a spade and I could be a Biggest Loser contestant. And before you get all, “Butthat’s not all you are” and “you’re beautiful and you’re smile…” it’s cool…I know. But this isn’t that blog post.
This is about dating and it’s correlation to body size. Specifically MY Vancouver dating pool and its kiddie pool size in relation to the wide net I wish I could cast. While there may be plenty of fish in the sea there are very few fish swimming in my plus size online bird bath.
So why is my dating pool the size of a bird bath? Partly it’s a numbers thing (with Vancouver being a fairly small city, not to mention one highly characterized by granola eating hippies and organic produce buying yuppies (love ya :P)) but mostly it’s a Darwinian selection thing. When selecting a mate, it’s in your best interest to pick one that is strong and durable. It’s a sexual attraction thing. It’s a live-for-a-long-time kinda thing. Sure you can’t predict the future and you’re mate could be hit by a bus tomorrow. But it’s a hedge-your-bets type thing.
And I get it. I’m guilty of it too. I’ve always said I didn’t want to date somebody else who was obese. Fuck we’d probably just bounce off of each other. All kidding aside though. It’s the truth. I’m not attracted to majorly overweight guys. And I know you’re thinking that’s cold, girl. But here’s the thing of the thing. It has less to do with how they look than what the weight signifies (to me).
To me, the weight reveals everything. They have issues. They have stuff to deal with. And before you say something ignorant like, I know lots of happy fat people. Think. I mean really think. Chris Farley. Kirstie Alley. Elvis. Oprah. Me anytime before 2 years ago and after I was twelve. Jus sayin’. And yes I know everybody has issues. I had issues. I have less issues now. And because I’m looking for fun fun fun dating. I don’t want boys with issues. I want boys that have less issues. Like how I have less issues.
The Tie In.
Okay so maybe losers is a bit harsh. But spot me some leeway. Call it wordsmithing and poetic license and dramatic effect and all that. Thematic significance and we all know I love themes. It just fits. And for Christ sakes! I know you’ll at least cosign that the “somethings” and “potential somethings” I’ve been dating aren’t “winners”.
My theory is this…..
Sidebar: Okay so I’ve written and rewritten the end of that sentence like 20 times and nothing feels…well…like something I could write and not be judged for being a totally politically incorrect asshole. So I’m just going to be a politically incorrect HONEST asshole.
My theory is this…until I’m the biggest loser (read: not obese) I’ll have to settle for the biggest losers (read: not physicist smart, not highly educated, not super confident/manly/ballsy, not always tall, sometimes no dates at all). Now don’t get all, Oh SSD?!? (hands on your hips and disapproving pout) on me. Because frankly I know I deserve to spend time with wonderful awesome guys. I think I’m awesome. It’s not a self-esteem thing. It’s a reality thing. And I’m okay with that. most of the time.
I am university educated. I have big boobs and a nice smile. Some boys have said nice eyes. My friends appear to like me. At parties I’m sociable and said to be funny (people have been known to laugh). I’m adventurous and I’ve been out in the world (read: I have things to talk about). I’m independent (read: have lots of my own interests). I’m a dynamo in bed. (okay that one I’m just hoping is true and if not a girl can always learn with enough enthusiasm right?)
So why wouldn’t the dates be pouring in? Why aren’t I being bombarded online and courted offline.
I have one theory. It has something to do with where the men are. The ones with balls of steel and Chuck Norris swagger…Read More Here
For another perspective on this topic there are some amazingly wonderful and lovely ladies who have weighed in on this topic: Cece @ The Big Girl Blog, Lucky Girl @ How Very Lucky, and KB @ KB In NYC. They all make some really awesome points.
Unfortunately unlike Lucky Girl, I haven’t been all sorts of different body sizes. I’ve just been the one. Big. I haven’t been a normal weight since before I had hips (which ironically occurred late though I had boobs by grade four). So I don’t have anything to compare my current dating life to.
But that’s all about to change. Because you all know me and science. I can’t simply accept an idea, a notion, a claim. I have to test it. And I’m not going to get into but my life is the peachiest it’s ever been in my entire life. Except this one last thing. My weight. So not only is this the summer of boys. But it’s also the summer I become the biggest loser. So wish me luck. I’ll keep you posted on any inverse correlational details. And for reference…the tally thus far.
Weeks Since the Summer of Boys Began: 5
Total “Somethings” Dated During the Summer of Boys: 3
Total “Somethings” Dated: 5
Total “Pounds” Shed During the Summer of Boys: 12
*Dating Vancouver a Better Place, One Something at a Time*