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’.