Dear Lady,

We wanted to write and share our thoughts with you, because as your wardrobe, your looks are a reflection on us. We see you as a “big beautiful curvaceous woman” but you only see yourself as “plus size” and consider it a bad thing. It isn’t a bad thing though, and we have some things we want to share with you.

First of all, stop wearing dark colors all the time. Yes, black makes you look slimmer and dark colors help too. But for crying out loud woman, you need a bit of life in your wardrobe. Did you know that your best colors are really blues and reds and purples? We know you look at them longingly while you’re out in the store, but then you go and buy dark colors because you feel you can’t wear the colors you want to wear. STOP THAT! You are drawn to those colors because they will look good on you. Go ahead and wear dark pants and skirts if you must – but please – bring some color up next to your face. Trust us – people will be less likely to notice your butt or hips if they’re drawn upward to your face.

And speaking of clothes — stop buying cheap quality clothes because you feel you don’t deserve better. That’s a lie. You deserve nice things too. Stop shopping at only the discount stores. If you have to shop online — that’s ok. It’s ok to go to nicer stores and find pretty things on sale too. We’re not saying you have to spend a fortune. But buy nicer quality clothes because they’ll fit you better, and you’ll feel better about yourself.

Did you know that you can even pay FULL PRICE for something for yourself and the world won’t end? It’s true — find one item that you really love and pay full price. Trust us — every time you put it on you’ll remember that feeling of “I’m worth the full price”, and you’ll love to wear that item. Who knows — maybe someday you’ll even be able to buy clothes that aren’t on sale?

While we’re at it — we have a few more tips for you.

Stop buying clothes that are too big for you because you don’t like a part of your figure. Sometimes it’s nice to show some curves — even if it is your breasts. We were so proud of you when you broke down and bought that size 20 shirt that you loved when you normally buy size 22/24. That even made you brave enough to try on the 16/18 top, (ok…so it was black) and you realized that you were buying clothes TWO SIZES too large for your tops. We practically jumped for joy when that little black number made it into the closet. WAY TO GO! Now keep it up — only remember — colors look better on you than black.

In addition — throw out all that old underwear and those yucky bras and get some that aren’t “granny-style”. You know what we mean — even your granny would probably be embarrassed to wear them! Get yourself some comfortable undergarments that support you and some pretty panties or comfortable panties that make you feel like a woman. You’re not a clown or elephant or any of those other labels you use for yourself.

Speaking of undergarments — get at least one piece of lingerie that makes you feel sexy. Do it for you — not for him. You deserve to feel pretty and sexy because you really are that way deep inside.

Well — those are our tips for you. We’re happy to see you’re wearing a tiny hint of makeup now and some perfume, and we’re thrilled to see that you even spent money and bought yourself quality shoes for your new walking program. Sure they were over $100, but they were an investment in your health.

Just don’t forget us — some of us need to be “retired” as we’ve gotten holes or stretched too much.  Some of us would prefer to move on to another woman who needs our large sizes instead of hiding your figure. And others of us are just waiting for you to realize that we’ll make you look pretty if you just add us to something with color.

We believe in you – now believe in yourself.

Sincerely,
Your Clothes

Redhead, Ginger, Carrot-top, Copperhead, Big Red, Brass, Cherry, Coppertop, Fire-ball, Fire-crotch, foxy, Raggedy Anne, freckle-face, Rusty, Wendy, and the list goes on and on! There are tons of names for redheads; some mild, some wild! But what has given redhead women this surrounding of fame? All from a hair color that all TRUE redheads are born with, of course! There are key moments in history that redheads have made a profound mark, and people have interpreted this. Making today’s redheads are either walking targets for jokes or much cruel tactics, or semi-formal celebrities in a crowd.

This story is believed to be true within the setting, yet very controversial still. This particular redhead woman was Adam’s first wife. Yes, like Adam from the Bible. See, controversy already! The story goes that Lilith and Adam were both created at the same time, that they were equal (unlike Eve, she was created from Adam). Then one day, I guess Adam started getting too bossy and demanding about her fetching some water, and she declared that she was an equal and would not serve Adam in any way. She then flew off into the stars and never returned. She was then declared a demon like creature by God himself. She was punished by having to lose 100 of her children a day. (See pretty interesting stuff!)

Poor Lilith. But she’s not the only redhead who has been condemned in the past. Many are taunted and bullied every day, just for their hair color. It starts in grade school and progresses every year. Childish taunts become sexual comments. Being a redhead myself, I remember how cruel kids could really be, over something I couldn’t really change at the age of five. The older I got, the worse it got. I was always paler, so I looked awkward in shorts and skirts. When I got old enough, I started highlighting my hair, trying to dull down the color. I never really liked it, though. I really enjoyed my red hair, and could never fully dye it another color, losing my natural red forever. Comments got more sexual, and the red hair color seemed to signal an open invitation to guys, young and old, and way old!

The sexuality of a “Ginger” (not a fan of this term, personally) has always been a hot topic. Why it’s always on the discussion board, I’ll never know for sure. Jonathon Swift once wrote, “It is observed that the red-haired of both sexes are more libidinous and mischievous than the rest, whom yet they much exceed in strength and activity.” (From Gulliver’s Travels, part 4, A Voyage to the Country of the Houyhnhnms,), using the stereotype to his advantage, for sake of his story. In my personal experience, I am more adventurous than the other women my age around me, but I’m not sure it could be attributed to my hair color! Marilyn Monroe was born a natural redhead, and couldn’t seem to shake off her natural sexiness! Where did this rumor originate though? Catherine the Great, of Russia (royalty from 1762 until her death in 1796), is rumored to have been killed, after a harness that held up the horse she had sex with broke, allowing the horse to crush her. Yes, you read that right! Supposedly this woman had a horse hoisted above her bed, and she had sex with it one day, killing her in the process. Very big rumor, I’m aware. But these rumors are what have led to the image that surrounds redheads today, believe it or not!

George Washington was a redhead as well, although he has no sexual rumors following him that I know of! As was Winston Churchill, again no sexual rumors! There have been many red haired men in history that have added to the redhead image, as well as women. Some were leaders, such as Washington and Churchill. Some have been royalty, like Richard the LionHeart, and the current Prince Harry is even a redhead among us! The men have definitely added to the story of redhead’s history. More than likely, adding to the “Fiery temper part!” General George A. Cluster being known as a redhead as well!

While there are many rumors, myths, and images that redheads have trailing them in their lives, each redhead is a unique one! Some have freckles, some don’t. Some have a bright orange-red, while others have a deep auburn color. We’re still a rarity, definitely a minority of sorts! The Oxford Hair Foundation conducted a study in 2005 and found that redheads could be extinct by 2100!

Since less and less people are redheaded, there will eventually be a point where there is no more red hair! Currently, only 4% of the world population has red hair. Many have started campaigns following this finding, declaring, “Save the redheads!” I doubt though, that many redheads are choosing other redhead mates, based specifically on hair color. The gene that produces red hair is the Melanocortin 1 Receptor, found on the 16th chromosome. This gene is a mutation of another gene. This single mutated gene is responsible for producing red hair, and is also a recessive gene. Meaning that that both parents would have to give the child one Melanocortin 1 Receptor Recessive gene to produce a child with red hair. So, perhaps redheads will be extinct soon?

Redheads have many different rumors surrounding them. From temper, to sex preferences! Redheads have always been a point of interest for most. Some people seem to despise Reds, while some tend to fall head over heels for them! Why these myths and feelings about redheads are, or where they came from, we’ll probably never know for sure. So, if you’re a redhead like me, I say enjoy being unique!

I am always amazed when my husband says he thinks I’m beautiful. I look at my body and wonder just what it is that he’s been drinking lately because he certainly can’t be seeing the same thing I see.  For instance, I see stretch marks from a pregnancy with twins. I see the bikini cut scar of an emergency C-section. I can’t help but notice several scars from tubes in my body during a month when I was hospitalized. Perhaps the hardest thing for me to deal with is the 9″ scar from an incision that was done for two surgeries.

I look at my breasts and mourn the fact that for years I went braless as much as possible, for now they hang and look horrid. I look at my body and regret all the times I chowed down on chocolate and potato chips now that I am trying to take that excess weight off. I look at my fingers and sometimes cry that I can’t find pretty feminine rings in size 12.

However, my husband looks at me and see things differently. He sees the marks of a woman who bore his two children and suffered through a pregnancy that was high risk for both her and the kids. The bikini cut scar reminds him that I carry with me the reminder of what I went through to have those children for both of us. The marks from the tubes in my abdomen and the 9″ scar remind him that he almost lost me when a gall bladder surgery went bad and over five liters of bile built up in my abdomen and almost poisoned me to death. When he looks at my breasts, he doesn’t see the sags as much as he sees the opportunity to play and have fun. While he knows I’m frustrated with my body shape and size, he never belittles me, but only encourages me to do my best.

I see the flaws – he sees the memories and rejoices in the fact that he still has me in his life.

I think sometimes that we need to look at others much the same way that my husband looks at me. As we see their flaws, we need to look beyond them to the person inside. I think of the woman who has rough dry hands because she’s spent years working to provide for her family. The woman who has a not-so-fashionable haircut because she uses that money to buy her child clothes and food. There are those out there who can’t have a new wardrobe every year or add to their wardrobe, because all of their money is going into supporting a family member or simply meeting the basic needs of life.

Starting with myself, I want to encourage us to look at beauty not as just an outward thing but learn to look at the “flaws” and “scars” that others might have and recognize that some of the most beautiful things do not come simply from looks.

I was 20 years old and working in a cubicle, when I got a new cube neighbor. Her name? Dejah. It didn’t take me long to learn she was a stripper. And it took even less time for me to get intrigued, and lose interest in being trapped in a cubicle all day. So, my 20 year old body, with perky breasts, went on stage.

I remember my first dance like it was just yesterday. I had three songs. By the end of the first one, I had to be topless. By the end of the second, I had to by down to my g-string. I was walking around to get to the stage, and I heard it.

“Hey! A new girl! And she’s got meat on her. I like meat on a girl.”

I was 5 feet tall, and weighed 125 pounds. Not nearly as skinny as most of the girls there, but I felt good about myself. I certainly didn’t think I was fat. Or meaty, as the man had said. I climbed the stairs to the stage, and did my best not to trip and fall out of my 6 inch heels. I was nearing the end of the first song, and needed to be topless. I was wearing a short transparent robe that was only secured in the front by one button across my breasts. I reached down to undo it, and before I could chicken out, the button popped open. Was I really meaty?

About three weeks later, some of the girls had gathered up a dislike for me, for no other reason than the fact that I was the new girl, and I was getting noticed. I came in at the beginning of my shift, and the manager followed me into the back. She said “Rumor has it that you’re pregnant. Is that true?” I asked why anyone would say that. She said “They think you have a little belly on ya.” I held back tears, and said “No, I’m not pregnant.” As soon as she left the dressing room, I broke down in tears, and I had mascara all over my face when I had to go on stage. That was my last night. My stripping debut lasted almost a month.

Now, I have four kids, and I’m almost 30. I weigh 133 lbs, and I have stretch marks, a muffin top, forehead wrinkles, and some jiggle on my thighs. But I feel better about myself than I ever have. And I’m not going to lie and say I take care of my body by working out and eating right, or anything like that. Because I don’t, and I never have. And I probably never will. Because life is too short to do things that you don’t like, just so you can live up to some social standard of what beauty is.

In medieval times, they prized bigger, curvaceous women because it meant that they were wealthy, and didn’t have to do manual labor, or struggle to get enough to eat. And in today’s society, the size 8 that Marilyn Monroe wore would deem her a plus size model.  Marilyn Monroe… a plus size model. Wait… SIZE EIGHT… PLUS SIZE MODEL? In an article from the LA Times, written in 2009, it states that the average American woman is 162.9 lbs, and a size 14. In most stores, size 14 and up are in the plus size sections. So how is it that if the average size of a woman is 14, we have these ridiculously high standards about how we should look? And tell me how this adds up: At a healthy size 11, I’m too big to be a plus size model, but too small to actually buy plus size clothing.

My point? Societies standards are a crock of shit. Which is why it’s more important than ever for women to be in tune with themselves, and learn to have self confidence that isn’t affected by someone calling you ‘meaty’.

Eden Café recently ran a great piece about feminism and the problem with things like body policing . I loved this piece because it’s a subject I think and write about a lot. I am a queer-identified feminist, but I often struggle with feeling queer enough, or being told my lifestyle choices aren’t in line with someone’s particular concept of feminism. My personal theory about why some feminists systematically “call out” and one-up one another is because we long to directly “call out” the patriarchy, the media, rape culture, etc. and it’s not always safe for us to do. Activist communities may be the only place we feel empowered enough to speak honestly. But sometimes we take our frustrations out on each other in toxic ways, instead of learning to work with our differences, and recognizing that we’re all on the same team.

There’s a conversation I’ve seen played out over and over again. It goes like this: smart, empowered woman says “I don’t think I’m a feminist. I don’t like what that’s supposed to mean.” To which I reply, “All feminism means is that you believe in equality for all genders. Anything else is a personal agenda.” I’ve even had this conversation with my mom, who felt alienated from the second wave movement of the seventies as a wife and mother. If the term “humanist” wasn’t already tied up in discussions about humans vs. god, I’d say I’m a humanist. I believe all humans should have access to the same privileges, rights, and opportunities regardless of their gender.

So, the body hair thing. UGH. Wasn’t this dealt with in the 70’s? Haven’t we moved on to LEGITIMATELY IMPORTANT issues? Apparently not. In early October, I presented a paper (you can read more about it here) at the Moral Panics of Sexuality Conference, at Arizona State University in Phoenix, Arizona. I presented about feminist strategies for menstrual suppression (another loaded topic), on a panel about body panics, with Dr. Breanne Fahs, one of the conference’s organizers. Dr. Fahs presented a paper on body hair and heteropanic, which I believe she is also developing into a book. She spoke about how she asked her female students to grow out their body hair for 10 weeks, while male students were asked to shave theirs as an extra credit project for her women’s studies classes. I was a little put off by this assignment, because it did feel like body policing to me. And ironically, one of the most interesting people I met at this conference was one of Dr. Fah’s students who is a committed feminist, but chose to have laser body hair removal in the past, and therefore couldn’t participate in the project. I don’t think that makes her any less of a feminist.

However, once Dr. Fahs explained that in Arizona (and many other conservative areas, no doubt) body hair is a huge deal – participants in the experiment dealt with backlash from family, friends, partners, employers, and even strangers yelling homophobic slurs – I understood a little better why body hair politics matter to her. I’m used to living in urban areas where hairy female armpits are a non-issue, but in Phoenix, refusing to shave might cost a woman her job or her relationship. That’s a seriously depressing prospect in the 21st century.

Nonetheless, I don’t think that choosing to shave your pubic hair (or vajazzling it, or getting it waxed into a heart shape, or whatever you do with your lady parts) makes you a puppet of the patriarchy. Think of it this way: if you refuse to shave your body hair in direct defiance of the patriarchy, rather than considering your own preferences, you’re still letting the patriarchy run your life.

A little background: I started shaving my pubic hair almost as soon as I was able to grow it (in my early teens – I was a late bloomer in this regard). This was in the early 90’s, before Brazilian waxing was a requirement for porn. (This was the era of the “landing strip,” the pubic mohawk that served as an awkward era of transition between the carefully manicured pubes of the 80’s and the completely smooth aughties.) I was already shaving my armpits and legs, so I figured I might as well shave everything. I am a natural blonde with very little body hair to begin with, so I only need to shave once or twice a week to maintain. A friend described a full month’s growth of my armpit hair as her “five o’clock shadow.” So, I guess you could say I was an early adopter. I like how smooth and slippery it feels, and I’ve never had an impressive enough bush to want to grow it out and flaunt it.

(As an aside: I’ve always felt vaguely annoyed by people who eschew pubic shaving because it looks “childlike”. If you truly believe that an adult woman’s shaved vulva looks like a pre-pubescent child’s genitals, you are creepy as fuck. Okay, maybe that was a little judgmental, but so is telling me I am promoting pedophilia with my grooming habits. If you are a woman who believes this, I sure as hell hope you don’t shave your armpit hair either, because guess what – that’s technically pubic hair, and little kids don’t have that either!)

However, I recently decided to grow out my body hair for the first time in years (interestingly, I made this decision about a week before Dr. Fah’s presentation). Not as a feminist statement, because my body hair is not political issue for me. I decided to grow out my body hair as a grooming experiment, and see if I liked it. I got sick of my prickly legs in a week, and decided to keep shaving them, but I was surprised to discover that I kind of like having armpit hair and pubes. I am letting my pubic freak flag fly, and I enjoy feeling like a freakadelic hippy sex goddess. I know pubic hair is natural and shouldn’t be considered a “bohemian” novelty, but after years of shaving, it’s kind of neat to go au naturale just for fun. And I’ll probably go back to shaving at some point, but why should it matter either way?

I recently saw a picture on Fetlife of a lady with a luxurious bush dyed the color of red velvet cake, and it looked so delicious and delightful! My pubes are freakishly pale, so I decided that dyeing them might be a fun way to increase their “visibility”, so to speak. I had attempted this sort of experiment with blue manic panic as a teenager with mixed results, so I was excited to learn that you can now buy foolproof pubic hair dyeing kits on the internet! I can’t wait to have a neon pink bush! Masturbation guru, Betty Dodson, allegedly once told Tristan Taormino (and I paraphrase) that shaving is a great thing for women to do, because it means they’re spending time getting in touch with their vaginas, instead of living in fear of them. You don’t have to shave your pussy to show it love, nor do you have to dye your pubes hot pink. But you do have the right to groom your “lady garden” any way that makes you happy, without facing judgment from others.

dancing on the walls: You see it in commercials for feminine products of all shapes and sizes. A woman with long flowing hair and clothes–usually a twirly skirt–and limbs spin under godrays on some sort of wall. A natural stone one on the beach, or a cliff, or the crumbling wall of some old, forgotten village.

I always dreamed of wearing a dress where the skirt swirled as I danced on a wall. My partner would hold my hand as I danced and giggled and laughed, and then he would pull me into his arms and hold me close and kiss me. For years, this was one of my cherished fantasies of what it would be like to be pretty.

It finally came true. While my newlywed husband and I were visiting my dad, my stepsister helped me fix up my hair, and she did my makeup and then helped me get into a dress that was too big for her and a tiny bit snug for me – but I was able to wear it and make the skirt twirl. My excitement knew no bounds because I was finally pretty, and I was on my way to the church I’d grown up in with my husband. I knew I was gonna knock them dead.

I walked down the stairs and preened for my husband and dad and stepmom, twirling the skirt and having such fun. My dad smiled because he’d never seen me this way. However, my husband blew it when he answered my “Do you like it?” with a response of, “Um..its nice..but you’re a big girl and built like an ox, and that style doesn’t really look good on you.”

OUCH.

I ran back to the bedroom in tears while my father took my new husband aside and tried to explain to him about tact and women. To be honest, it really is a shame that my husband was brought up without being educated on the finer points of tact, and how you can be honest and yet not hurt someone.

“Built like an ox….built like an ox…” haunted me for the next 30 years. It looked like I would never have my dream of twirly skirts and feminine clothing because, as my husband put it, I had “broad shoulders and a full breast”.

For the next 10 years or so, I didn’t really care about what I wore. What did it matter if there was no way I could be pretty? Who wants to look at an ox wearing a lacy nightgown – know what I mean?

Then I started reading about seasons of color and studying what colors looked best on me. I started wearing the colors that made me look better, and while I didn’t twirl my skirts anymore, I at least felt a little bit good about what I was wearing. Until I went away to college, my mom had bought all of my clothes, and they were pretty much in her styles and colors. Now I understood why I hated fuschia and loved mustard and greens, and even peach in the summer. I decided that even if I couldn’t be pretty, I could at least wear colors that I liked. I also started shopping at Cato, because they had younger styles of clothes than what I had been wearing.

I still dreamed of twirling skirts and dancing on the walls and kicking my legs out, but couldn’t bring myself to that point yet.

A few years ago, though, I did start to wear those skirts, and I started learning about what styles of tops looked great on me. I may not be dancing on the walls, but I was loving the way I looked…somewhat. But then I’d look at my grandma-style underwear and bras and think, “I wish I could look pretty underneath too.”

I joined EdenFantasys website a few weeks ago, and thanks to the encouragement of another member, I finally got up the courage to do something I’d dreamed of for years. I ordered myself a red bustier corset set that included a g-string. Wow. I’d never done anything like that before. But I love red, and I wanted something that made me feel not only pretty, but sexy, even if I am a large woman.

The day it arrived, I tried it on anxiously, and when my husband saw it, he loved it, largely because he knew I liked it. As he rubbed his hands over me, and I felt the sensual material rub against my skin, I finally understood what had been missing for me all along.

I needed sexy things for me. It didn’t matter as much if my husband liked them as it did that I liked them. I needed the sensual feel, and I needed to be able to look in the mirror and see myself wearing a lacy bra and lacy underwear.

So I went shopping and added those things to my wardrobe, along with some pretty lingerie.

I feel like a totally different woman now. Why did it take me over 50 years to accept the fact that I could be pretty, even as a plus size gal? I have no idea.

But I have learned a valuable lesson from this. They say pretty is in the eyes of the beholder. While that may be true, I think it also needs to be in the heart of the one who is being seen. They have to accept the fact that they are pretty, despite any scars or size issues, and they need to find the things that make them feel pretty.

My husband has said for years that I was pretty to him because he loves my character and who I am inside, and that makes me beautiful to him. I am so glad for his faithfulness and his acceptance and love of me. But I had to reach the point where I could finally say to myself, “I feel pretty…oh so pretty.”  Sometimes I even dance around the room twirling my skirts as I sing it to myself – because I know it is true. I am pretty.

If you asked me to strip naked in front of a body-length mirror, I’d protest like a two-year-old at first. I hate mirrors; the less often I have to look at myself in one, the better.

If you somehow managed to coax me into stripping naked and pointing out everything I liked about my body, I would say this: How soft my skin is, even though I rarely use body lotions. My eye color, a dark emerald green. My gappy front teeth, which gives me a youthful look when I grin. My hair color, because it is a rare shade even for natural redheads. My pubic hair, because it’s a sign of womanhood. I’ll trim it when it needs it, but I wouldn’t ever shave it off completely. While most women appear to hate their pubic hair, I’m proud of mine.

Now, if you asked me to identify everything I hated about my body, I would say this: How thick and oily my red hair is, because it makes the Georgia heat only more unbearable during the summer. How sensitive my skin is, because even sensitive soaps make me break out. How oily my skin is, because of how often I break out whether I’m PMS-ing or not. How prone I am to contract infections of all kinds. The scars I have on my lower back and inside my butt crack because of cysts. The two crossbites on my lower set of teeth. My severe cramps during periods. My short neck, because short necks ain’t pretty. My chicken arms, my gorilla breasts, my elephant legs. My obesity, and how petite I am. I could go on forever just bitching about this, I guess.

I can’t remember ever truly loving myself. I remember finding myself ugly even as a Kindergartener. Once body fat overtook baby fat, my classmates definitely did not help me feel any more confident about myself. I was constantly bullied and neglected over my weight. If anyone did talk to me, it would be just to insult me. I’m now afraid of rejection by anyone, so I find it very difficult to make and retain friends. This may be lifelong, I fear.

I recall a particularly traumatizing incident in middle school where some Indian women came to my art class with saris to try one. Having Indian best friends in elementary school, I was the only student who willingly volunteered. When I couldn’t fit into the little orange dress, one of the women said, “Oh, looks like you’re too fat! Can I have… this skinny girl try it on instead? Yes, she’ll be much prettier than this fat girl…” Saris still give me very bad memories.

Okay, I’m fat. I get it. I was large for a twin baby in the early nineties at six pounds, nine ounces. I can never recall wearing really tiny clothes except as a baby, and I have difficulty imagining myself as an extra-small, small, or even a medium. Depending on what part of my body you’re referring to, I can wear anything from extra large to 3XL. I developed early, wearing a bra by age seven for instance, and now I wear a 48DD/E bra. Many girls desire having larger busts. I would love to have smaller boobs; a C would be nice.

Aside from my obesity, I’m perfectly healthy. I don’t have diabetes; I don’t have heart problems, and my blood pressure is actually slightly below normal. I have PCOS (polycystic ovarian syndrome) and IBS (irritable bowel syndrome), but I have yet to experience any serious medical problems from either. If anything, my doctors are primarily worried about, not my blood sugar or my cholesterol, but about my thyroid. If I’m not crying at night over obesity-induced medical problems, then what is causing my piss poor body image?

I feel vain for saying this, but I hate how my obesity denies me from feeling pretty. Clothes and makeup are often implemented to flaunt or enhance your best physical features. I’m just a size too large for underwear with lace, ribbons, and other pretty notions; I have to buy plain ol’ “granny panties.” Being at an odd band and cup size, finding good, decently priced bras in my size is a challenge. I hate Wal-Mart bras, and yet most of my bras are those because they appear to be the only brand that carries them for prices lower than $100. And even then, they’re not exactly bras you want to flirt in. Plus-size clothing is the same deal. I hate Tinkerbell, and yet I have two Tinkerbell shirts because my mother could only find those at the thrift store. I absolutely love Donald Duck, but all the plus size shirts with his mugshot on it are just fugly. It appears that only smaller girls are allowed to wear cute and sexy clothes.

I can definitely see how I’m cute, but I don’t feel like I can ever be sexy. Sexual attractiveness is the first step to a romantic relationship. Someone finds you sexy, you chit chat, and with luck, you may hook up. Women often purchase lingerie and the like to spice up their already sexy bodies, and to seduce. But with the negative perception towards obesity as ugly, and the lack of beautiful things available for overweight women, I have difficulty picturing myself as a sexy woman. Not being able to have someone find me truly beautiful, sexually beautiful, is what I’m afraid of most. I am afraid I’ll be alone forever.

I Do Not Like What I See at All

So what is your body image? Is it positive or negative? If you answered negative, you are not alone. Thousands of women, not just teens, in the United States alone feel that their body does not meet today’s certain social and cultural ideals of beauty. And why shouldn’t we feel this way? As women, we are constantly bombarded from a young age with images to compare ourselves to and try to be like. (And for all of you who answered positive, stick around.)

One commonly known example is the “Barbie”, and the “Barbie-doll like” images, they portray a ‘beautiful’ long locked blonde, with blue-eyes, impossibly thin waist, who dresses in stilettos for every occasion, and lugs around double D’s. That Barbie has been in the spotlight lately for those impossible features, even sparking one woman to create the “life size Barbie” with actual dimensions to show the impossible sizes. Now while I could go on about Barbie and her ill fitting proportions and possible psychological repercussions on a growing child’s mind, it’s not just Barbie that is feeding the delusions of ‘sexy’ and ‘beautiful’.

We have starving models who show us a negative size of 00 for clothing, mannequins in department stores showing size 0-2 with the latest trends, magazines with lipo-sucked, anorexic women, who even then have been photoshopped and airbrushed to achieve the ‘perfect look’. Even the cosmetics we use have advertisements, literally telling us what is and is not beautiful, and how we can fix that with just a simple purchase.

No matter where we look we see it, this message that “all women need to lose weight”. Whether that lost weight is needed to be ‘more attractive’, ‘healthy’, or even the horrible Disney idea that only thin and beautiful princesses will ever be loved. (Because honestly, in real life, the only reason those princesses would need a strong man to rescue them, is most likely because 99% of them are suffering from malnutrition and dehydration, and not able to lift themselves to safety.)

But back to the point, all of these messages are the same; “Thin is in”, and the natural aging process is a “disastrous” fate. So start now with the lifting, cutting, filling, plumping, sucking, and breaking away at all those ‘problem’ areas with “the latest cosmetic breakthrough” to keep you looking young.

By presenting an ideal that is so difficult, and sometimes impossible to achieve or maintain, it’s really no surprise that today’s young girls think they need to ‘diet’ and lose weight at the age of 10 years old. An age so young that their own bodies haven’t even started puberty, and with eating disorders starting that young, our children will never fully develop into adults. And while it’s easy to blame the T.V, magazine, toys and other media outlets, remember that it’s just as easy to have the same effects at home in a controlled media environment.

Seeing mom in front of the mirror complaining of lines and wrinkles as she covers up with a vast array of other tiny bottles and powders isn’t helpful either. Having her complain she’s “so fat” and never take off that cover up at the beach, may seem harmless, but if mommy does it, then maybe she will too.

Other pressures can come from the people in our lives as well:

Family and friends can influence your body image with positive and negative comments. “Sam is starting to get a little chunky, she looked better as a blonde” “Alice sure did fill out over the summer”. And even a doctor’s healthy advice can be misinterpreted and affect how a woman sees herself and feels about her body. “You know Karen, A woman of your height should weigh a little less than what you do right now, perhaps you need more exercise in your lifestyle.”

Even with all of these influences and pressures, you can have a positive body image without jeopardizing your health and well being.

A positive, optimistic attitude can help you develop strong self-esteem. If you have a positive body image, congratulations! Some people think they need to change how they look or act to feel good about themselves. But actually all you need to do is change the way you see your body and how you think about yourself.

The first thing to do is recognize that your body is your body. No matter what shape, size, or color it comes in, it’s your own, and it’s unique. If you’re very worried about your weight or size, amount of hair, check with your doctor to verify that things are OK, because 99% of the time they are. But it’s no one’s business but your own what your body looks likes, is shaped like. You have to learn to be happy with you, just the way you are.

Next, identify which aspects of your appearance you can realistically change and which you can’t. Everyone (even the most ‘perfect-seeming’ celeb) has things about themselves that they can’t change and need to accept. For example: height, shoe size, and age.

If there are things about yourself that you want to change and can (such as how fit you are, or how healthy you eat), do this by making goals for yourself. Make a plan to add more exercise in your daily routine, whether it’s taking the stairs instead of the elevator, going to the gym, or even adding more veggies to your diet. Then keep track of your progress until you reach your goal. Meeting a challenge you set for yourself is a great way to boost self-esteem!

When you hear negative comments coming from within yourself, or even others, tell yourself and them to stop. You are who you are, and if they don’t like it then leave. Try building your self-esteem by giving yourself three compliments every day. While you’re at it, every evening list three things in your day that really gave you pleasure. It can be anything from the way the sun felt on your face, holding a door for someone at the supermarket, or the way people laughed at your jokes. By focusing on the good things you do and the positive aspects of your life, you can change how you feel about yourself, and influence others around you.

“Sexual abuse might play a role in the development of obesity in young black women. Current estimates indicate that about 1 in 4 young women have experienced physical or verbal abuse in dating situations, with black and other minority women suffering the highest risk. “If you look at recurring patterns in teenagers, many girls have had sexual or physical abuse and have never talked about it. Instead of dealing with the issue, they eat.”  -Janet Taylor, MD, a psychiatrist at Harlem Hospital in New York City.

Obesity has been significantly associated with a history of sexual abuse. In our nationwide epidemic, black women have the highest rates of obesity. The root causes are paradoxes and misconceptions surrounding obesity. It seems as though you are never on top, or you are never not a victim. You had to deal with the abuse, and as an adult, you suffer more abuse, because you were not given proper coping skills.

Binge eating or BED is at least six times more common in obese people, and three to four times more common in obese people who report a history of childhood sexual abuse. Most people who are abused are told they are ugly and worthless. It has been shown that black women often experience difficulty asking for emotional support. This, combined with a traumatic history, emotional withdrawal, and eating for psychological reasons, compared to their Caucasian counterparts. When you sit back and think about it, it all has to do with being in a Nuclear family where the support system is fairly strong. Where the majority of African American families are non-nuclear households. They are mostly blended with grandparents, step-siblings, and step-parents. In an African American home, abuse can happen, and no one would know, or notice the child acting different. I know that family background, sexual abuse, and obesity all plays into one. I’m not saying that all obese people have been sexually abused. With study after study, it shows being overweight, and sexual abuse go hand and hand.

Most women have difficulty losing weight because they must overcome their demons. Many women equate thinness with attractiveness, and therefore, they eat too much so that sexual offenders will not find them tempting. The fear of becoming a victim again causes most women to not even try to lose weight. They keep gaining and gaining, with the hopes that people who are out to get them cannot because they are not sexually attractive. Some women see being skinny is a sign of weakness, and somehow convince themselves that if I do lose the weight I’m welcoming and saying I want to be a victim again.

In a dream world, we all are healthy and free from any type of abuse, whether it was inflicted on us, or if it was self-inflicted. A better line of communication needs to be established. Beyond sexual abuse, in an African American family, the hand of responsibility is passed down from the single parent to the oldest next in line. In most African American families, there are more than three children, and it is a single parent home. No one is around to keep track of what food is being eaten.

Everything is quick and easy, and on top of that, cheap and processed. When you are presented with a human being that has the responsibility of caring for siblings, with no real supervision around, and you add sexual abuse to that mix. You are presented with a person who was doomed from the start. We internalize everything; this comes out in destructive personalities. Some develop eating disorders. Some become highly sexually active. For the weakest of us, we become binge eaters. What makes matters worse, is that being black you are taught that family business is family business. What’s done in the house stays in the house, and it dare not be repeated.

I’m not saying that these issues are for everyone. There are people who are just down right lazy. You also have people who are like me, people who are scared of losing weight. Some people think being fat is a choice. I personally do not think it is a choice. I feel as though the majority of weight gain is somewhat of a defense mechanism. When you are in the mind of a food addict, you will notice that we do not eat because the food is good. We eat because we need that comfort. I never saw my eating as a problem. I just did it. Eating when you are an addict soon becomes tasteless; we eat and swallow everything so fast. There is barely time to breathe. The addict in me feels the need to hide and sneak, even when I do not have to. I would eat when people were asleep. I’d hide food. I could not just eat one. If I had a pack of cookies, I could not just eat one cookie. I had to eat two or three rows.

Eating in front of people was embarrassing. I would get remarks and ugly looks, and most of it was from the family. Family members would buy food, and bring it into the house knowing my problem. I would be told I could not have it. I’ve learned that I’m a defiant person, and because I was told I could not have something, when everyone was away, I would eat it all. It was an ugly cycle. It never seemed to end. My binge eating started after I experienced a traumatic event at the hands of someone who was supposed to protect me.

I ate when I was depressed; I ate when I was happy. I ate when I was bored. I ate just because it was in the house. I would get called a name, or given an ugly look. I would eat. The whole time thinking “this is why you are fat”. but the action of eating overpowered my common sense and logic. Food was the only thing in my life that did not make fun of me. That did not treat me bad. Food was by my side when I needed something or someone. Food was the best friend that NO ONE could take from me.

My weight, along with my solid build, made me look like a beast. I now learned that being fat was my way of protecting myself. You will not approach someone who is scary and large. It kept people away, so no one got close enough to know the real me. My weight and my size screamed STAY AWAY. Nobody talked to me. I made no friends, which made the likelihood of me getting hurt slim to none. As of today, I still fight my food demons, but I’m learning to quiet them. I was not getting love from the people I should. I never learned to love myself. I soon learned that what I was feeling, and how I was thinking, was not just in my head. I learn that I was not the only one. Eating, being obese, and with a history of abuse; from my view there is no rainbow after the storm.

Sources:
SOURCE: Keith, S.W. “International Journal of Obesity,” advance online publication, June 27, 2006.
By Daniel J. DeNoon
Reviewed by Louise Chang, MD
© 2006, WebMD Inc. All rights reserved

There was a time in the American culture when women like Marilyn Monroe, Jayne Mansfield, Rita Hayworth, and Lana Turner were the epitome of what a sex symbol was. They were the bombshells and the goddesses that we ogled from near and far, and there wasn’t a man in the country who didn’t have a pinup of them somewhere in their garage.

Do you know how we refer to these absolutely gorgeous women today? Do you know how we revere their memory and honor their beauty?

We call them fat.

The idea of what beautiful is has changed so drastically over the years that the women mentioned above would never be the superstars they were, but instead they would have to deal with magazine covers and delightful names like “Wide Load” “Big Girl” and, if you are not in the US, straight out things like “Fat Ass” and “Pigilicious”.

This breaks my heart. I did not grow up with Marilyn Monroe as an idol, I am a bit young for that, but I did grow up loving women of every shape and size. As I was educated by school systems and myself, I realized that the shapely woman was the form that mankind worshipped for 500 generations before Twiggy came along and destroyed the ideals of beauty forever.

That’s right, I said worshipped. Fertility statues, such as the Venus of Willendorf, were what mankind looked for in a woman in times past. Full hips, large breasts and a larger frame inferred that the woman would be an excellent mother. A mother, without which our species would have dwindled down to nothingness 50,000 years ago on the frozen plains of Europe.

For those of you wanting a more recent example, take the works of Peter Paul Rubens, this man, who the word rubenesque was invented in honor of, showed women the way they both truly were, and were desired to be. Large breasts, wide hips, and a soft and plump body is what was considered beautiful.

Where did we go wrong?

I wish I could pinpoint a date, and then go back in time and make everyone love one another the way it ought to be. But unfortunately, it was a series of events over the course of decades that gradually focused the eyes of the males of the world on the smaller waist and frame as a beautiful, as opposed to the larger.

I am not against women of any size, I am against the labeling of what size of woman is unattractive due to forced societal norms. It is asinine and cruel, and for the most part, largely American in origin, as well. Since America never shuts up, and screams the loudest in every conversation, we seem to push the beauty ideals for a great swathe of the world.

This makes me incredibly sad. I am delighted to be a admirer of plus sized women. I am pleased to say I prefer a larger waist, stomach and breasts than nearly all of my peers. I love women, I worship them for the true progenitors that they are. They are mother; they are life, and I refuse to believe that Nicole Ritchie is the face of beauty and perfection when we have women like Adele, Tyra Banks, and Mia Tyler.

So my friends, we have lost our way. We have gone from seeing women as goddesses and beings of immense beauty, to seeing them as fragile, broken things that need to be nearly emaciated for us to call them them whole, real, and beautiful.

How do we get back?