My body is weird. I don’t particularly like looking at it in the mirror, just because it gives me the creeps. It has these weird bends and bobbles. Faded stretch marks from years of gaining and losing weight, and scars from an operation I had four months back. Not to forget the massive birthmark on my right leg, that, if you squint, sort of looks like a map of the world. I always call it the map of my world.

My stomach, in particular, is a mystery to me. The operation I mentioned was a gastric bypass. Don’t get me wrong, I’m quite happy with the results. As I’m writing, the total of kilos lost is up to 25. But there is something about the shape of my stomach that irks me. It’s bulky on top, very skinny in the middle and slightly less bulky on the bottom. As a result, I look permanently pregnant.

This permanently pregnant stomach of mine has been a nuisance since the dawn of time. I quite vividly remember walking into a shop at eight (I think) years old and being asked if I was pregnant. I was gobsmacked to say the least. On bad days, I keep replaying that very moment in my head. It is joined by the moment that took place on class picture day in sixth grade, when nobody wanted to stand next to me.

I was bullied from the moment I first entered the gates of school. Mainly because I was quite the chubby kid. My self-confidence was, and still is, non-existent.

I always wondered (I still do, by the way) if I had done something to these kids that had offended them. Or was I just that ugly?

Of course, I never had a boyfriend. I am, at twenty-odd years, still single. I jokingly say that the only long-term relationship I’ve ever had was with my television. I may joke and jest about it, but rest assured, this is to protect my feelings.

The gastric bypass might have been a huge turn-around, were it not for the fact that I still feel like a very odd person looking in the mirror. To me, I’m just this weird 20 year old, with her hair dyed red and geek glasses on. Oh, and let us not forget my ever-present pseudo-pregnant pouch.

The weird thing is that I do have parts of my body I like. I like my fingers. Mainly because they have proved to be very useful over the years. I like my eyes. Always get good comments on them. I like my freckles.

But it’s still not much. My self-confidence and my body image is something I’m constantly working on. But it doesn’t seem to be improving. I genuinely don’t know what to do with myself.

I hope that, one day, I’ll be able to look in the mirror and say to myself that I look pretty good. That I’ll stand on those scales and be proud of the number that shows up on the display screen.

But not just yet. I’m not ready.

Last week I spoke at a blog conference about what I learned in my first year of blogging. I managed to get through the event without any wardrobe malfunctions or having any food thrown in my general direction; I guess you could say I was kind of amazing.

Afterwards, a handful of attendees were kind enough to come up and slather me with warm and fuzzies (cuz more than a handful is a waste, yo).  It was kinda like a Care Bear stare, but with less fluff. One guy patiently waited his turn, got my undivided attention, and proclaimed, “I just had to tell you that I’ve never really been attracted to a big girl before, but you’re sexy as hell.”

My brain cells screamed, “HUDDLE!” and banded together for an impromptu three second pow wow:

               Are we offended?
               Are we flattered?
               Is hell *really* sexy after all?

At the end of the three seconds, it was a brutal stalemate. So I tabled the debate, said thanks to the well-intended-but-etiquette-impaired-fucktard, and moved on to the next guest. But it got me wondering…

What is it that makes a woman sexy?

And so…
Here is my shamelessly-biased, ungrounded and unprofessional, Results Not Typical list.
Be-freakin’-hold:

1. CRAVE HIM:  There are no golden-arches above my bed, but I’ve had more than my fair share of partners. And if there is anything that my exhausting and selfless sociological study of the flesh has taught me, it’s this: the #1 ingredient in lust dust for a guy, is the knowledge that you crave him and that he has the goods to satisfy said cravings with some toe-curling naked playtime.

According to WebMD’s article, “18 Secrets Guys Wish You Knew” (that I have categorically filed under, “Really? This is a Secret?”): Men like pleasing their partner. Your pleasure is important to your man…Too many women feel uncomfortable talking about what they like and don’t like…he’ll feel good if you feel good.

He gives you a bone with every thrust. Throw him one back.

2.  “Men wake up aroused in the morning. We can’t help it. We just wake up and we want you. And the women are thinking, ‘How can he want me the way I look in the morning?’ It’s because we can’t see you. We have no blood anywhere near our optic nerve.” – Andy Rooney

FORGET YOUR BODY FLAW. I am a big girl. Big. At one point I weighed 294 pounds. An ideal weight, if you’re a panda bear. I’ve got curves in places that men shouldn’t find sexy. I’ve got stretch marks that I can’t blame on pregnancy.  There are certain parts of my body that I can’t reach without risking muscle pulls. But I have never, not ever, let my size get in the way of me getting my groove on. Simple mathematics: if he was attracted to me with my clothes on? There’s 0% chance he’ll be LESS attracted to me once we’re butt/buck naked. Secure, worth-loving, men don’t think about the size of your ass, your thighs, or your stomach when they are living in the realm of the hot and bothered.

Nope.

They just don’t.

For them, the hottest thing a woman can be is aroused, pleasured, and having a orgasmically-delicious time, all thanks to the ego-boosting talents and blessings of their manly men partners.

And later, when he’s having “alone time” with himself? The size of your body parts is equally irrelevant. How you stared up at him when his cock was in your mouth? That’s the shiz right there.

Winner, winner chicken dinner, baby.

3.  BELIEVE IN YOURSELF. I’m Christian. My first husband was agnostic, at best. One day we were loudly discussing our faith, and he basically called me out as a big-eyed dingledork for being a believer. This is what I told Mr. I-Can’t-Consummate-My-Marriage-On-My-Wedding-Night-Because-I-Shot-My-Load-Before-You-Even-Touched-Me: Let’s pretend you’re right. Let’s say there is absolutely no God; it’s all one helluva fairy tale like Cinderella, or Jack and his Jolly Green Giant beanstalk. If at the end of my life, my faith has inspired me to make stronger, better choices, filled with integrity and compassion, what is the big freaktastic deal?

My point is, this premise is EXACTLY why we should be wearing a big ol’ fuzzy grand marshal hat in our personal “Yay Me” parades. What different choices would you make in your day to day life if you woke up one morning and abracadabra, you were suddenly the smartest, sexiest, strongest, most successful, unstoppable hot ass in town? I say, make those choices anyway! Then, if at the end your life, we find out that you’re some putrid oozing pile of worthless goo?

So. What.

If you filled your cup-o-life and/or bed-o-sex with better choices, inspired by empowering confidence, and faith in yourself?

No harm. No foul.

Oscar Wilde once said, “To love oneself is the beginning of a life-long romance.”

I reckon it’s time we get to lovin’. Go team.

Jughugs,
Kirsten

I’ve been fielding some questions related to sexual confidence lately, mainly body image. Not necessarily because of the article I wrote for Eden Cafe on my personal body image, but because these people trusted me to be honest with them. Maybe someone else needs to hear it too, so I wanted to say it here for the masses. And this works for any couple, just adjust the verbiage as you read.

He doesn’t care about your pudgy spots. You’re in bed with him because you want to be. Maybe you love him, maybe you think you do, I don’t know what your reason is, but you wouldn’t be there if you didn’t want to be. Truth be told, he wants you there as much as you want to be there. There’s no reason to be self-critical of your body in this very moment. He’s not looking at the pudgy spot around your belly button or the wrinkle at your waist. I promise, he doesn’t care.

This is why God gave us lingerie. If you know you’re going to be preoccupied with the imperfections, cover them. Corsets, babydolls, teddies, crotchless body stockings, whatever, any of them could hide what you want to hide. Not enough cleavage? Put on a corset to push the twins up and together. Pudgy belly? Yay for babydoll nighties! Really, there is a plethora of lingerie for a reason: to flaunt what you have and to accommodate your imperfections.

A woman’s best light is… Candlelight, twilight, moonlight, no light…Dim the lights, and get to business. It’s hard to see a flaw if it’s hard to see period. It’s less likely that your partner will notice your “flaws” in the dim light. Also, dim light is more relaxing, and you’re able to focus on your feelings. The same thing goes for the fact that you can’t see what’s around you, like that dust on the shelf or the fingerprints on the mirror.

Flaws in diamonds are called “character flaws” for a reason. My mom’s engagement ring has a dark spot of un-diamonded carbon in it. It’s a teensy-tiny little character flaw, but that’s what makes her diamond one of a kind. The same could be said for your little pudgy spot. Who knows, your man may like to kiss it. Your lopsided breasts: he might only be concerned with motorboating them at that very minute. He doesn’t notice because he’s not looking for flaws. He probably won’t care even if you point them out. However, they’re your “character flaws”, and they make your body special.

I’m afraid I’m not doing it right. Did he run away? Did he scream while you were going down on him? Chances are, you’re doing quite well, and he just wants you to do it more often. Hand jobs and blow jobs are hard to mess up. It takes a lot to make an individual act unsalvageable. As long as there’s lubrication of some sort, and things don’t get dry, just keep that hand job going at a speed he likes. If he starts to get limp or go to sleep, you might want to speed up. If you’re going too fast or hard, he’ll probably whimper or say, “Baby, slow down a little.” I’m pretty sure he’s not going to let you do any damage. As for blow jobs, keep your teeth covered if you’re unsure as to whether you might bite. Otherwise, keep the pace to his liking and just pay attention to what he does, voluntarily or involuntarily, and he’ll be a happy fellow.

The only things that matters in sex are that you are present, both mentally and physically, and you are attentive to you and your partner’s needs. Don’t worry about anything other than making each other happy. When you’ve got that going, you’ve got a good thing.

It wasn’t all that long ago that this is exactly what I saw when I looked in the mirror. I was hyper sensitive to every single perceived flaw I had. I had worked so hard to lose the extra weight I’d carried for so long. Surely my life would be different if I was thinner. As the weight came off, my body changed a lot. The problem was that I didn’t. I could see change in the mirror, but inside I felt even emptier than before. Soon it wasn’t enough to lose almost 80 pounds…

What about my breasts? Would they ever recover? I began looking at breast augmentation. Would liposuction fix my thighs and hips? I felt like I was going to a body shop asking for quotes. The consultation was daunting. They could fix everything for a price. When the doctor asked if there was anything else I was uncomfortable with, I mentioned my belly. That fat didn’t go away. I had scars from an appendectomy, c-section, tubal ligation, and a tumor removed from my fallopian tube. Could a tummy tuck fix that? What about my nose? Could we make it less wide? What would the recovery time be on something like that? Where would I want to start? What would be the easiest? It didn’t matter. I couldn’t afford it in a lifetime, let alone quickly enough to fix what was broken.

Have you ever felt so hungry that water won’t calm the burning feeling in your esophagus? Your stomach hurts so badly, you can’t quite figure out if you want to eat or you want to be sick? That’s how I felt all the time. The problem was that it wasn’t food related. I’d been trying to shove food into that space for as long as I could remember, and it had never fixed the problem for more than an hour or so.

Then I read something that made me feel that ache inside again. Something that made me feel like, perhaps, I’d put the emphasis on the wrong thing the whole time. The more I read, the more I kicked myself mentally, until all of the sudden I couldn’t kick any more. What in the hell have I been doing to myself all this time? Nothing good, that’s for sure. I had been kicking myself for about 30 years, always knowing I wasn’t good enough. For whom?

That was when I did the unthinkable; I looked at the picture above and made peace with that girl.

-That’s my grandmother’s nose. She’s a beautiful woman inside and out. I can’t change that anymore than I can write her out of my history.

-That ass, I got from my mother who is an amazing woman. I don’t share a lot of other traits with her, and it always made me jealous when people would tell my sister how much she looked like our mom… at least I got that. So I’ve decided to be happy with what I got there, for a change.

-The bags under my eyes are from staying up too late reading, writing, and worrying. I’ll keep them if I can continue to read and learn and write and express. The worrying I’ve decided to set aside for every third Monday, if I can fit it in.

-Those thighs just haven’t caught up with my changes yet. They’ll get there, and even if they don’t, hell they are functional and get me where I need to be.

-My breasts… ah heck. I can’t pretend they don’t disappoint me a little, but they still feel nice and make me feel nice. They used to draw attention, but if someone looks me in the eyes now and then, or comments on my awkward strange smile… that will be okay too.

-Broad shoulders have been my saving grace a time or two. When my daughter needed me to carry her, they didn’t fail me. What’s better, I didn’t fail her.

-That hole in my heart, it’s always been on me. So I’m filling that hole with something I should have a long time ago. Appreciation.

Cameras are wonderful for capturing moments, but they can never show you who you are.

Cosmetic surgery may enhance sagging breasts, but it won’t enhance your soul. That is something only you can do. You are more than the sum of your parts. So fill your hole.

Well, I usually have trouble figuring out how to start this topic off. Either in conversation or in debate, or even in arguments which got way out of hand, (Seriously, I just asked what you were thinking about for dinner!) it’s always really easy for it to get depressing while talking about body image.

In today’s world, which is saturated with TV commercials, beauty magazines, porn… And… well, more porn, it’s kind of like everyone’s brain is saturated with this twisted standard of what ‘beautiful’ is now.

I’m one of those people who thinks that the beauty of a person is on the inside, but I also hate the way I look and frequently find myself feeling negatively about my features. Crooked teeth and kinda chubby, hairy and… (Hurray for verbally abusive girlfriends from high school!) I will believe nobody if they tell me that my penis isn’t small.

It’s a miracle I’m still arrogant. However, that’s all about my incredibly large, huge, wet, pulsing, throbbing… Brain.

People seem to think they need to change the way they look in order to attain beauty. I’m less worried about the why, (We all want to get laid, duh.) more worried about the WHO. If you’re looking attractive for the sake of others, do you really need to please all those people just to feel good about you? Conversely, if you’re trying to look breath-takingly beautiful just for yourself, where are the instincts to do so coming from? We want to look good because we have the drive to attract a mate, right? But in the civilized age, we have the drive to look to… Make sure we don’t look bad?

I personally only alter my appearance with one purple color contact in my left eye, and five piercings, three on my left earlobe and two on my right. Aside from that, I dress like a bum, avoid makeup…

Oh, wait a minute. I shave on a regular basis and make sure to groom my soul patch. Damn.

My point isn’t exactly moot though.

My beauty is in my brain, whether it’s my low self esteem talking, or the fact that I really do believe that I am unattractive, regardless of what my girlfriend says, my brain is the best part of my body.

If you’ve caught on to the fact that I am obviously adhering to the ridiculous standards that I, in the beginning of this rant, poked with the stick of disassociation, gold star for you!

I find my body unattractive because of the fact that I compare myself to porn stars, and attractive white, lead rolls, in movies about coming of age and fighting for love when you’re an attractive white young adult in the city, with an incredible wardrobe, despite your thin wallet.

I do share a minor resemblance with a slightly more tan, slightly less wealthy Michael Cera. But I hate that guy, so it doesn’t make me feel much better!

Overall, the people who have influenced my body image most are hateful ex’s. Which would be a lot more lachrymose if I didn’t know for a fact that I’m happier than them today with my functional girlfriend, well funded family unit, several pocket sized technological miracles, and the infinite awesome-ness that is sex always at my fingertips. (Literally. It’s the little things that matter. Ultimately, I’m much better off anyway.)

In the end it’s all about relativity. Depending on how much you care, or who you compare yourself to.
I am quite the sexy man, when I’m being compared to Andrew Lloyd Webber.

And I bet you the earth mama, hippy chicks have never had a bad hair day in their life.

Image is important because other people see it. It’s what we display to the world. Self image is important because it’s what we see ourselves as, with or without the world looking. Sometimes when I’m feeling down, it helps to have an argument with my girlfriend about whether or not I’m attractive, I mean, why would she go out with an ugly guy, right?

Look in the mirror today. Look at yourself. I bet you’re a good person, I bet you’re really attractive. If you don’t think so, I bet you my toybox, that someone out there thinks you’re wrong.

If not, you’re probably more attractive than Andrew Lloyd Webber.

I’ve been attempting to write a post on body image for weeks, possibly over a month. Other posts just seemed to have flowed out until I hit this topic. It stalled me. Being the stubborn person that I am, I can’t just pick a new topic and forget this one. So, I’ve been sitting here trying to get this post out. Then it hit me, I couldn’t find the words to share because I’m not done piecing together my body image. It’s still fluctuating and evolving. Though most people’s body image is rarely a stagnant thing. I have yet to meet somebody who feels sexy and attractive every day, all day long. We’re human; we have good days and bad days. Sometimes others influence it; sometimes it’s our own mindset that decides how we’ll feel that day.

During elementary school, I was always one of the taller people in the class, and I always weighed a little bit more. I’ve always had a curvy figure, even when I was young. Oddly enough, it wasn’t the curves that bothered me at that point, it was the height. Now, years later, I can’t recall why. Everybody I know now is either my height or taller, very few are shorter.

When I was in high school, I was put on a medication for asthma. One of the side affects of it was weight gain, but I was told it was very rare and only one out of one hundred people actually gained weight. I was that one. I gained quite a bit of weight, and to add salt to that wound, the medication didn’t work for me, it actually made my asthma worse. So for the time I was on it, I couldn’t really exercise or take part in the gym classes. I walked once around the gym and I couldn’t breathe. So I spent around a year on this medication before we caught what it was doing. During that year, I put on weight. Following that year, I put on weight.

By this time, I weighed significantly more than pretty much everybody else around me. My self-esteem was non-existent, and my body image was what I equate to a black hole. I hid in my clothing. I very rarely went outside without a sweater or something to cover me up. I wasn’t comfortable in just a regular shirt, even in the middle of summer. This went on for a long time.

The process of accepting myself, and my body, is and was a long one. I slowly pulled out of that shell, and I do mean slowly. I went from sweaters to zip ups that I could leave undone. Again, I wore those everywhere I went, even if it was hot outside. I remember telling people I was just always cold, because I didn’t want to tell them the real reason for it. Now, I’m wearing regular shirts out without a second thought most days. I prefer low cut shirts that show off something, and I rarely wear sweaters or zip ups, and when I do they feel bulky. Before they felt safe, like a nice little hidey-hole I could carry around on me. I no longer feel the need for that hole.

So how did I get to this point? I spent a long time in my own head trying to find the root of my body issues. There was a boy that liked to pick on me and make fun of my weight, but if it wasn’t my weight it would have been something else. He never did like me. I was pretty lucky with my group of friends. It was varied enough, and included enough guys, that they squashed anything anybody else tried to start, at first. Then it got to the point where it was just the one boy that picked on me every day. He was friends with one of the guys I was pretty close with, and who knew me very well. He stepped in before I would get to the point of having enough, because my stopping points get blurry at times. Then one day, that friend just stopped getting in the middle of it. He was tired of refereeing and just let me go. Without going into not very nice details, the boy left me alone for a long time after that. Even now, when I’m around town and he sees me he rarely says anything, and when he does he won’t come near me. Standing up to him myself instead of letting my friend do it helped a lot, even if he does still say something when he’s around and it happens. Other than that one person, I was never really bullied in school like a lot of people are. I had a good set of friends at the time. I relied a lot on my brain and wit, and more often than not, they came through. For the people that do remember me, it’s usually snarky comments they recall.

There was one place where I did get bullied though, and that was in my family. I’m sure they don’t see it as bullying, but year after year the little comments dug deeper and deeper in my head. The “helpful” comments were the worst for me. Being told “You shouldn’t eat that,” “We need to get that weight off of you,” and a number of other things. Some worse things that I’d rather not recall only served to dig me deeper into the hole I was in. I know it wasn’t intended as bullying, and they were only trying to help, to educate and see me do better, but those things still hurt. There’s nothing worse than thinking poorly of yourself and having it reflected back to you by people who are supposed to care about you and not see, or at least not point out, your flaws.

Everything that happened added to my own insecurity, and just built upon it until I was both physically hiding in my clothes and hiding in general. I was never comfortable going out, especially to eat. I was always really self-conscious, and I still am some days. I was also very quiet, trying to not draw attention to myself. In school and in general, if people weren’t in my circle of friends I didn’t talk to them. I didn’t join in on the extra activities. If I could get out of things, I did. Even with my family, I was very quiet and held back a lot of the time.

I don’t think I can actually pinpoint when things started to change, or say for sure why. Part of this is because I am still changing, I’m still adapting and becoming more comfortable. In the last little while, I’ve lost twenty pounds and that has helped a lot. It’s the first time in my life I’ve actually been able to lose weight and maintain it. My body seems to finally be straightening out. Another big reason for the change is the guy I’m with (boyfriend just always seems to sound wrong). He’s supportive in helping me lose weight, and a support system is really a huge help. He also doesn’t let me hide. He’s the only person that hasn’t, not physically, emotionally, or mentally. He did for a while, then he started tearing down every wall I had. It wasn’t long ago that he made me finally strip for him. I was so scared and uncomfortable being naked in front of him, and having him see me, that I teared-up and cried a bit, but I did it, and I needed it. Up until that point I was doing okay, and getting a little more confident. But being forced to take down that wall myself, and have him still be there in the end, helped a lot. It let me know that a lot of my issues are in my head, and he doesn’t see them as a huge deal. He doesn’t feed into that fear or my issues at all. I’m not as conscious of it anymore. I’m happier and more outgoing. However, that also started around the time I started with this guy, because he accepted me. I wasn’t so busy hiding anymore since I learned to accept myself.

I am doing better, but I know I have a long way to go yet. I have more weight to lose, but now I know I can be comfortable at this weight too. I have days where my head goes dark and tries to suck me back into that old mindset, but those days pass, and I have a lot more good ones lately. Accepting myself, and my body; being free of that black hole, and all those bulky sweaters has made every bump along the road, every tear I’ve shed over this worth it, because I’m happy. My body image is evolving and fluctuating, but it’s heading somewhere better.

I’m sure we’ll all familiar with the weight obsession in our society today. Watch TV, surf the web, read magazines, or go to the store and you’ll come across a million ads telling you how to lose weight, and be sexy. Every health and fitness website is dedicated to those trying to lose weight. EdenCafe is full of articles written about plus-sized or larger bodied women learning to love their bodies and see themselves as beautiful. The media portrays skinny as sexy, provided you aren’t too skinny. Being thin is ‘glamourous’, and so many women are obsessed with losing weight, dress sizes, inches, and being liberated from feeling ‘fat’. When I see these ads, they usually feature normal sized women, not women of the big and beautiful variety. Well, what happens when you are one of those ‘skinny’ girls that everyone is obsessed with becoming? What if you’d rather be the opposite?

I’m a meager 5’4” tall, and I range anywhere from 100-105 lbs. on a good day. There have been a few times I’ve weighed even less than 100. Yes, I’m underweight. To actually be a healthy weight for my frame size, I’d have to gain 15-20 solid pounds and be able to keep them on. Now, I’m not one of those ‘toothpick’ looking girls with bony arms and legs. I have curves, just small ones. I have a super bony butt, and I realize this most when I sit on a hard surface for an extended period of time and end up bruised. Bathtubs are never comfortable for me. I wear a 32B sized bra, XS or XXS in shirts, and a size 0 in pants. In fact, I even own things in a 00 short. It doesn’t get much smaller than that, and sometimes even these are too big for me.

A lot of women might think “You’re so lucky! I wish I was that small!” They tell me how skinny I am. Since when was skinny a good thing? I mean, when I think of the word ‘skinny’, I think ‘unhealthy’. People often make comments about how I need to go ‘eat something’, ‘eat a steak’, or ask “Do you ever eat?” No, I’m not anorexic. Screw you for asking. I eat pretty healthy, but I’ve been known to gorge myself of jars of peanut butter and a loaf of bread. No, it’s not a binge and purge situation. It’s me hoping it goes straight to my ass, and hopefully stops at my boobs on the way there. Hell, if it wants to go straight to my hips and thighs, it can go right ahead. You don’t see people walking around remarking how ‘fat’ other people look right to their face. I kinda feel that way when people call me ‘skinny’ or remark on my weight in any similar manner. It doesn’t help that even my guy friends and a few ex-boyfriends have commented on my weight saying “You’re nothing but back and legs!” and “You’ve got the body of a 12-year-old boy!”

Sadly, I had become insecure and uncomfortable with being so skinny. I get depressed when shopping for lingerie because I know it probably won’t fit me. They make tons of it for plus sized women, but hardly anything for petite women. I want so much to have a closet full of slinky negligées so I can feel ultra-feminine and sexy. I want thigh-highs that stay up and hug my legs. I want corsets that make me look busty instead of flat-chested. Hell, I’d even love to be able to shop in Victoria’s Secret, but even their XS panties end up baggy and falling off of me. I’ve got a few things, but not many. The couple of corsets I own are loose even when they are tied up as much as they can go, and slightly bunched up in the back. Recently, I acquired a corset from Coquette that I could lace up with room to spare and have it fit super tight. It was the first time that had ever happened to me. After that, I got a little more hopeful.

Not much attention is given to women who feel as if they’re too thin. Most people who haven’t had to deal with being underweight just think that us skinny women are lucky and should be happy about it. I’m not. At 105 today, I feel better than I have in the past, but I could stand to gain a few pounds. I’ve pretty much given up on being able to gain much more, because I’ve tried just about everything. I actually went to see a psychiatrist for my overall depression, and I told her about my issues with my weight. She prescribed me an anti-depressant and glorified the fact that it was ‘weight-neutral’ like I was concerned about gaining weight. (But wait . . . I wanted to gain weight. I don’t care if what you put me on makes me gain 30 pounds!) Then, she put me on a stimulant medication, and I lost even more weight. I think I got down to less than 95 pounds. I haven’t weighed that little since I was in the fifth grade. I was completely disgusted with the way I looked. Instead of cleavage, you could see the bones in my sternum and my ribs. It’s hard to feel feminine when you look in the mirror and see a walking skeleton. I quit the medication after a month, and I’ve managed to gain most of the weight back.

I recently went shopping with a good friend of mine. She’s a curvy girl, has some meat on her bones, is voluptuous, or however you want to phrase it. We went into a couple other stores in the mall that day. I’d make my rounds in the clearance racks, keeping an eye out for the smallest size I could find. I discussed different items with her, asking her if she saw any in a size smaller. I ended up finding an XS top and 00 short pants and still hoped they’d be small enough to fit. Then, while wandering from one store to another in search of fishnets and a corset or bustier, she realized how hard it was for me to find lingerie. I swear we went to 10 different stores all around town until I could find thigh-highs that were small enough for me. I managed to find a beautiful bustier in my favorite color. It was also a 32B. (Finding such a small bra size is like finding a needle in a haystack. How would you feel if you had to shop in the training bra section to find something that you know would fit?) I was super excited, ran home to try it on. I finally got the last hook together. I looked in the mirror and it looked like I was a little girl wearing her mom’s lingerie. The bustier, despite being my size and the smallest one they make, was supposed to be stretchy, but ended up hanging off me. It gapped up under my arms, the bra of it had more space than breast in it. I was immediately disheartened and told my friend of my troubles, and she said she had never even considered what it must be like to be too small for things. For once, it seemed that someone understood just how difficult it was to shop when you’re a skinny girl.

I’m finally coming to terms with my weight. I’ll never be super curvy. I’ll never have a lot of junk in my trunk and a nice rack. (I refuse to get plastic surgery for any reason.) I’ll probably always be thin. The key to me accepting this has been actually finding lingerie that fits. There are a small number of lingerie brands than keep girls like me in mind. The lesson here is that even skinny girls aren’t always happy with their bodies. As long as you’re healthy, love yourself and your body, no matter what size you are.

When I was younger, and I assure you that I say that with a sense of irony because my younger days aren’t that far in the past, I remember when things weren’t so black and white in our culture, when beauty wasn’t about being shockingly thin and having numerous plastic surgeries to achieve their ideal of perfection.

I do assume that I was more idealistic, but then my world changed. I was just getting into middle school surrounded with petite young ladies much thinner than myself. I remember a conversation in the cafeteria where a younger boy looked at me and commented on me being fat. I hadn’t realized this, or even thought of myself in this manner. I’d hear the girls in the locker room calling out their sizes and swapping their jeans. “Oh I’m a size 0.” With a child-like naivety I’d respond, “My jeans are a size 6.” Silence. I was only 11 years old.

Years passed and I grew into my own, but my wide hips and large 5’5 frame made me feel like I wasn’t the equal of those around me. My best friends weren’t much thinner or taller than me, but still I felt I paled in comparison. By the age of 16, I was on anti-depressants which morphed my metabolism and my size into a shameful (in my eyes) size 20.

I’d rocket from sizes 20 to size 12 to size 15 in different seasons and years, but as I grew older and wiser I came to appreciate my body more and more. Be it out of pure stubbornness to admit that I am in any way malformed or a lesser human being even though bombarded with imagery and commercials which beg to differ, or the constant support and strength of my family. I’ve gotten stronger and happier, but there are times where I still come across many people who look upon me badly, but I take much pride in my figure. Marilyn Monroe was a size 16, you know? She also had a similar hourglass figure.

Still looking for a man who can appreciate my hips, but I don’t wish to hide them or change them for anyone. I might not be the ideal for most men looking to bed Kate Moss or Heidi Klum, but I’m much more than a size, much more than my weight, and much more than they can handle.

In writing this article, I hope to encourage and reach out to women with my similar struggles and fears, and letting them know that it’s ok. Everyone has those things they don’t like about themselves, I, myself, used to equate being thin with being happy, but I realize that it’s not something I should stress to achieve and beat myself up when it doesn’t happen overnight. I feel that I am healthy at my size 14, and happy. I wouldn’t trade these hips, that I swore against many years before, for anything in the world. In the years to come, they will do their part to cradle a life then carry it into this world.

Be proud of your body, the way that it is. There isn’t another one like it and it is indeed special.

(Or how I learned to ignore the cultural idea of beauty and find my own)

As a child, I was only told what really matters is how you look on the inside. Well I hate to say this, but it’s a load of shit. This is a great idealism, but when you get down to reality it is just not true. We have created a cultural ideal beauty that none of us can stand up to. At some point or another, all of us have been insulted based on our outer appearance. Why is this? I don’t know, at some point we started striving for perfection, and in the process, lost a realistic view of ourselves and who we are.

Even those we photograph for magazines no longer meet this standard; images are altered at an alarming rate just to achieve this idea of beauty. This has to change, it is counterproductive. We spend so much time chasing this impossible dream of perfection, that we are missing out on who we are and celebrating our differences. I implore, no I demand that we change our ways. Like many great changes this one must start with a declaration, a manifesto, if you will. The following are the new guides to beauty that I will follow, and I urge you to follow and spread as well. All cultural change must start somewhere so why not here and now?

• I will no longer debase myself with words like ugly, fat, dumb, or anything else negative. If I feel that I need a compliment from others, I will openly ask for one. This is not a weakness. We all need support at times.

• I will no longer refer to others with words like ugly, fat, dumb, pale, or anything else conceived as negative. Instead of putting others down to feel good about myself, I find good things we have in common.

• When I hear others debasing others, I will have the courage to ask them why they feel the need to do so? I will not stand by idly and let this ridiculous idea of beauty perpetuate.

• I will not support media that festers this unhealthy idea of self-image. I will recognize that losing 50lbs in a week is impossible, and not give them my money.

• When judging weight, I will look at it objectively. Do I need to lose 10 pounds to look more like a model, or do I need to lose 10 pounds for my health?

• I will promote honesty. If someone asks how something looks, I will give them an honest objective answer.

• Last but most important, I will take the time to look around me and notice that the people around me do not look like the cover of a magazine. I will redefine my own idea of beauty to a realistic one, based on those around me, finding beauty in all the variety and differences people have.

This is my manifesto. Edit it to make it your own. Spread the word, so that we can end this insane cultural concept of beauty. If this is spread far and wide, perhaps one day we will be able to say beauty is what is on the inside. Until that days comes, we must be diligent not only with others but most importantly to ourselves. We must find our own beauty, and not be led, like cattle, to believe that just because we look realistic we are ugly.

I’m not a skinny chick. But I’m also not the fattest chick I’ve ever seen. I’m not that lady in Wal-Mart, on the scooter with my belly hanging out of my muu-muu. However, my inner skinny chick is wanting some attention. More on that in a few minutes.

I’ve always been a chunky girl. Always. I came into this world over the 8.5lb mark, and now I’m a solid 3X in the women’s department, at 27 years old. But, I’m fat and happy. It’s taken me a long time to get to where I didn’t hate myself for my size. I just wish there were more affordable options for ladies my size. I did luck out at Goodwill the other day on some cute dress clothes cheap.

As I was growing up, my mom (a plus-sized woman herself) always gave me fits about my size and not fitting the clothing, in whatever department I was “supposed to be in.” However, I was never unhealthy, so my doctor never really fussed. Mom just didn’t want me to become what she was. So much for that, huh? Yay, heredity.

I’m a good bit more overweight now than I ever was. I have a condition known as Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome (or PCOS), which has a lot of issues related to it. My mother-in-law is a nurse and is therefore an “expert”. She says if I just go on a diet, the weight will magically shed away. I’ve done everything within my budget to try to lose weight. I’ve dieted, I’ve exercised, I’ve added medications to the mix…short of surgical remedies, nothing has worked. I’m finally okay with that. Eventually, I would like to lose the weight, but it’s not something I’m stressing over right now. I’ve got no blood pressure or heart problems, no joint problems, no diabetes, none of that.

However, this is where my inner skinny chick side is trying to make herself evident. I know she’s in there, and I will let her out one day. As soon as I get through my requirements for this final year of college, I’m going to take some time for myself and get some things done. Weight is one thing that will be tackled! The inner skinny chick is dying for a bikini and a beach this time of year. She always begs for it this time of year. One day, she’ll get it. Maybe, one day, I’ll get to live a lot closer to the beach, and the sand, and the water than I do now. At this point, I don’t know precisely what the future holds.

I’ve finally come to the point where, this is my body, I’m responsible for myself, and nothing that anyone else says (that’s not a health expert that knows my charts) really matters. I hate to see young girls in my family (who I feel may have the same issues) get put down by older family members. I hope they take the time to see and understand that sometimes backing up from the table and biking five miles a day isn’t enough for some people.

Next time you start to make fun of someone for their size, please consider that maybe there are underlying problems that aren’t as easy to fix as you might think. Maybe, although they aren’t healthy, they’ve come to terms with the same things I have.