Stop Applauding Vogue

This week Kim Kardashian's arse may have broke the internet, but there was another story making the rounds and it revolved around butts as well. The hero? Vogue. The act of awesomeness? A popular high-fashion magazine participating in a plus-size photo shoot. While people are applauding and calling it revolutionary, I'm over here perfecting my eye-roll and snort of derision. Don't get me wrong, I love seeing curvaceous women in the fashion industry and praise magazines that hire unique models to sell their clothes and brand.

But commending Vogue for hiring models for a 'plus-sized' photo shoot? I think not. 

In 2012, Vogue signed a six point agreement to promote a 'healthy body image' with their magazine. To do this, they vowed to 'not knowingly work with models under 16 who appear to have an eating disorder and to encourage designers to consider consequences of unrealistically small sample sizes'. And the world patted them on the back, except they took the accolades but refused to change. Not only is it appalling the magazine needed outside influence to reach the decision not to hire sixteen year olds with unrealistic bodies (unrealistic because these pubescent girls are tiny tobstart with thrn undergo mass photo-shopping), they didn't actually agree to anything. The vernacular used tiptoed around any real commitment. With terms like 'not knowingly' and 'encourage designers' they are basically saying, if we don't flat out ask, then we can claim ignorance. 

And ignorant, they are not. They know exactly what they are doing. The fashion industry loves perpetuating unhealthy body images. They want women to see the models in their magazines and feel supremely disappointed in themselves. Why? Because it sells. 

In 2013 a former Vogue Australia editor, Kristie Clements, came forward and shed light on the horrific truth many models live with. She talked about how models eat tissue to curb hunger and use hospital drips to get nutrients instead of eating. The blatant truth, the majority of the fashion industry, Vogue included, ignore the signs of anorexia, even more, they celebrate unhealthy desires. Kind of makes it clear Vogue didn't change, not even after the editors signed a pact to 'encourage healthier body image within the industry'.

Does it sound like I'm calling Vogue a liar? Is it coming across as though I suspect this most recent photo-shoot is simply a publicity ploy? That they are merely out for some praise? To sell a few more magazines? Shut up the pitchfork people who are screaming for equality in all sizes and shapes? And that they will just go back to their ways of immortalizing unrealistic expectations? 

If so, I'm articulating myself perfectly. This is exactly what I think. And it pisses me off. 

The women in this 'plus size' spread are not even plus size. They are average, some of them even thin, especially when you consider the average size of an American woman is a 14. Vogue doesn't deserve a pat on the back for showcasing these women, they deserve a punch in the face for not doing it sooner. They aren't doing anything revolutionary. This isn't their standard. It's just a social media stunt to gain attention. 

To be honest, I'm not going to be happy until every single magazine has women of all sizes, from zeros to 16 and up to 56 (I don't even know if there is a size 56, actually). I am tried of us all being divided into groups. Skinny girls can be in this magazine, but fat girls have to be in another - God forbid if they are together. It doesn't end there either, the separation runs deep. Blondes on the left, brunettes on the right, and redheads straight to the back. Lesbians stand up and straight people sit down. Asians can go in the Fall edition and we will showcase Spanish women in August. 

I want plus sized models to simply be called models. Is that too much to ask? 

The bright side is there are wonderful magazines out there that actually promote healthy body image and showcase women of all shapes, races, and religions. Pick up the latest edition of Bust, Curvy, and Love  if you are interested in seeing a bit more variety, or check out the website Style has NO size. But as for Vogue, just stop applauding them, they don't deserve it. 

Learning To Love My Thighs

I don't know when my hatred of my thighs started. As far back as I remember, I took notice of how big they are, especially compared to other people's. I remember being a little girl, sitting cross legged during gym class and feeling ashamed at the pudginess of them, their sheer thickness. And that was back when they were smooth and cute. The years haven't treated them kind and I have only been worse on them.

Let me make this clear, I don't obsess over my thighs, I don't lose sleep over them, but they are there and I have yet to warm up to them. Pocked with cellulite dimples, chunky, jiggly, forever kissing each other, these tree trunks have never been my favourite part of my body. I keep them hidden. Swimsuit season makes me cringe. I worry if my shorts are too short, or my skirts for that matter, and have avoided buying adorable clothes for fear my thighs will be on display to the world. Sometimes I wonder if they are as horrid to look at for everyone else as they are to me.

These are my secrets. The ones I hate to admit. It isn't easy talking about the body part I am most self-conscious of. But this is also the truth, and as I sit here, alone with my thighs, looking down at them with uncertainty and guilt, I realize this is utterly unfair. To them. Because these jiggly hammies have done so much for me. They have always gotten me where I needed to go - from point A to point B and beyond.

We have explored many lands - like New York, Ireland, California, Montana and Georgia - and never once did they refuse to do what I wanted. They have allowed me to wander streets and mountain trails and taken me down alleyways I never should have never entered in the first place. Together we have swam in the ocean, walked dogs, jumped on trampolines, and rode many bicycles. We have danced until dawn, drove hundreds of miles, gone up countless stairs, and back down them too. Every time I've gotten up, they've done it without complaint - well, unless it was squat day.  

More importantly, they have kept my hands warm on far too many occasions for me to keep track of.  

My thighs work hard. Harder than most of my other body parts - probably trumped only by my heart. They might not be the prettiest thighs ever to exist in this world, but they are strong. They never get tired. And, more than anything else, they have never let me down. They are reliable, determined, and unstoppable. They are the reason I  go for a four hour hikes without getting tired. They allow me to get up, walk around, go for a run, dance like an idiot in my living room, pretend I can kick box, tread water for hours and sleep in my favourite position at night.

This hatred I have for them is uncalled for. It's mean. They don't deserve it. In fact, they deserve better than what I've been giving them. I should be proud of them. They might be scarred and chubby and dimply, but they are my scarred, chubby, dimply thighs, and they are always functioning on a level the rest of my body should be ashamed of. I shouldn't be embarrassed of my thighs - I should be embracing them. 

So, from this day forth, I am going to show my thighs off, give them the attention they deserve. And they need a pat on the back. A little recognition. Some respect. And, even more so, love. It's time to stop hating and start appreciating. Because these are the only thighs I have and life is a hell of a lot easier with them. 

 

And here is a rare photo of my thighs. 

Dildos & Sore Feet

There's this guy I'm head over heels in love with. He's utter perfection. Just adorable. Kind. Gentle. A bit hyperactive at times. A gorgeous personality. Clumsy. Mischievous. But there's a bit of an issue. You see, he's gotten fat. Now, don't look at me like that. I love a little extra something-something, but the winter months have not been kind. And yes, I feel terrible saying this. I mean, how can anyone say such things about such a magnificent creature?

So, I haven't. I mean, there's know way I can tell him he's chubby. When we go out in public and people call him a 'brute' or comment on how 'massive' he is, I tell him they are talking about his personality. Not about his size. I always take the time to tell him he is beautiful. And just the perfect the way he is. But the truth is, he needs to slim down. The even more heart breaking truth is I have also suffered the past couple months. I too am out of shape. There are no excuses, even though I have plenty I can try to pawn off as the reason why my thighs are meeting a little more forcefully than normal.

A couple months ago I was doing so well. We were going for walks every day. Hikes in the mountains. Jaunts around the block. We were at one with nature, except that asshole dog who attacked us that time and scared us into not wanting to go out. Hence the hibernation. Anyhow, I have resolved to get us both outdoors more, not only because of the weight issue, but because it's detrimental to the health of my grey matter for me to check in with nature, sink my feet into the earth, breathe the sweet forest air, and give props to Mother Nature for her most excellent and creative ways. 

Today, Dixon and I made the trek into Royston, to the beach. It's about 7.5 kilometres there, then we had to walk all the way back, so 15 kilometres both ways. It didn't take too long, really. Less than three hours. Worth every single minute. When we got to the beach, Dixon walked in the water and happened to pull me in with him. Wet shoes and an hour and half walk home didn't leave me all that enthusiastic, but there were no options. It's not like they'd let Dixon ride the bus, so I was determined not to let it ruin my experience.  

While we were walking into Royston, I stopped to take a picture of skunk cabbage which, despite its name, is actually quite beautiful. So, I crouched down to get the shot, steady my hand, try to ignore the dog pulling me this way and that, and I think I got a pretty good shot. 

  

But as I was getting back to my feet, I saw it in the water. Flesh coloured. Long. Thick. Alone. And I laughed out loud, because what else is there to do in that situation. Oh, and I took a picture, because who would believe me if I didn't get photographic evidence?

Yep, that's right, in the creek at the side of the road was a ten inch dildo. Just sitting there. No owner around. Of course, I got to thinking about who this could have belonged to and how it got here, in the middle of nowhere, at the side of the road, in the water. Still, the bigger question I had was, how many other abandoned dildos are out there in the world?

I didn't touch it. I left it there, hoping it would make someone else laugh.

Granted, you might be thinking this was the highlight of our walk, but it wasn't. I love going out exploring. Every time I take a new trail, I get excited over what I might find. The whole way down, I walked the roadway, so there wasn't any twisting forest trails, but the nature was there. On either side of us, the water rushing, the scent of evergreens and fresh rain. As the day progressed, the drizzle stopped, the grey sky parted and the sun came out to play. And I found these train tracks. Whenever I cross a set, I think about all the trains that used to run on them, the things they carried, the people who worked them, when they were laid.

Even though we are both out of shape, both packing around a few extra pounds, we made it to the beach. We got down there in about an hour and a half. No one was there. It was just the two of us. Sure, we didn't stay long, but we set a goal, or I did for both of us, and we stuck to it.

The beach was stunning. The tide was out. Little puddles held sea life. Rocks were slick with algae and seaweed. We tasted sea salt on the air. Wind ruffled our hair. Off to one side there were these shipwrecked vessels, all rusted and rotten. They were too far out for us to get to in order to explore, but they looked so neat standing there against the backdrop of the land and water. 

On the other side, just openness. No restrictions. No rules.

Our journey home proved to be a bit painful, for both of us. I could tell by how slow Dixon was moving and his frequent stops to drink water in the creek that he was feeling the burn. As for myself, my ass and thighs hurts, but it's that great hurt, the one telling you you're doing something right. The pain that makes you feel alive. On our return walk, I found myself looking in the creek more and thinking about how such odd things strike me as beautiful. There was this grass in the water and it was bending with the current, as it always does, but the way it was folding over and moving with the rush of water struck me as so pretty.

This picture doesn't really do it justice. You're just going to have to take my word for gospel. The grass in the water was lovely, okay?

Anyway, my feet are sore, but the walk was totally worth it. And I'm pretty sure the big guy feels the same way. It's nice I have these places to explore and the time to spend walking for three hours. Sometimes it gets away from me, but I really do live a very nice life.

Real Men & Women

This morning, I got myself worked up a bit. Not enough to start a revolution, but pretty darn close.

I ran across some stupid meme about what 'real' men want. There was a voluptuous vixen in a bathing suit and the caption read: real men like curves. I've seen it before. Real men don't like bags of bones. Real women have curves. It's annoying. All those posters out there detailing what 'real' men and women want, and what makes men and women real.

It's sort of confounding to me. Are men who like skinny women not real? What about men who like blondes? Are women who are skinny not real?  What about women who have red hair? Last time I checked, we don't brush shoulders with cyborgs, so who exactly are these unreal men and women? Where exactly are you running into them? Furthermore, why the hell do you know what they want?

Now, if I am mistaken and artificial intelligence is so advanced that there are machines walking around next to us, like Terminator, and these posters are really detailing the differences in tastes between humans and cyborgs, then pardon my stupidity.

If I am not mistaken, and people are not-so-subtly tearing other people apart by implying their preferences are wrong thus making them fake, then I refuse to pardon myself. To all those people stuck in the mindset that who they are and what they like make them better than others, grow up.

I will have none of your schoolyard antics.

It's like when you get a new shiny toy for your birthday and take it to school only to have someone say they have the same toy, but in red, so it's cooler.

You know I don't agree with fat shaming. But I don't agree with skinny-shaming either. Or average shaming. Beard shaming. Big feet shaming. Silly nose shaming. Red hair shaming. None of it.

I am anti-shaming.

No, really. Think about it for a second. Let's say only 'real' men like green Skittles. That means ever man who dislikes green skittles is fake! Sounds stupid, doesn't it?

Well, it is! And it sounds just as stupid when applied to anything else, including race, sex, creed, religion, body shapes, hair colours and any other personal quality in human beings.

Breaking news: we're all real. We bleed blood. Our hearts beat. There are nerves and tendons and muscles and veins comprising our bodies. All of us hurt and feel and have the right to simply exist. And we can like what we like. Like who we like. Our personal preferences don't make us any less human. Unless it is promoting hate, but that's a completely different post.

These are the things that cross my mind. It is a blessing and a curse

And now, a ridiculous cute picture of a dog.

It's Not Okay To Be Fat

You know what I am thinking about? How many people are trying to lose weight for their resolution.

A couple weeks ago a guy posted a comment about how it has become 'okay' to be fat. And how it is so not okay. I've heard enough fatist comments to understand they stem from ignorance and you can't change that sort of way of thinking. Not with a blog. Not with carefully crafted responses. Not even with a 'fuck you'.

But this is my place, space, home. And I am wondering where this guy came up with his information? Who ever said it was okay to be fat?

I have heard it out of zero mouths. That's a whole lot of no one.

Besides, who decides what fat is?

My boyfriend doesn't think I am fat, but I know a lot of other people do. My weight alone puts me in an overweight category, according to Dr. Googles (thanks for that, Dr. Googles, I thought we had something special). There are plenty of people who would be horrified if my thighs were their thighs. Or ass, for that matter. And men and women alike, all over the world, think I should dedicate more time and energy to upgrading this outer shell of mine.

But here's the thing. I like it - this shell. It's awesome, because it works. I mean, there are weird hairs and cellulite, stretch marks and jiggly bits, but it's mine. It functions. And it's kind of fabulous, if you squint and cock your head to the side.

For that I am grateful.

And is it not okay for me to be this size?

To some, yes. To others, no.

Fine, I am not obese, or gigantic, but I've been a lot heavier than this. I know how hard it is to lose ten pounds, twenty pounds, thirty pounds - actually, I lost fifty. Fifty pounds. It took a long time. A lot of work. And a complete mental overhaul. And even when I was 210 pounds, or 190, or 175, didn't I have the right to be okay?

Isn't it exhausting thinking you can lose fifty pounds and still be considered overweight?

That's the world we live in. If it isn't one thing, it's another.

So, no it isn't okay to be fat.

And, hey, even when you drop the weight, or half the weight, or get to your goal, it still won't be okay. Because we live in this incredibly messed up world where how you look will never be okay. Not to them. The masses. Society. Beauty magazines and peddlers of face cream and lip liner. They don't want you to be okay. Because if you're okay, you aren't buying into the diet fads and multi-billion dollar fashion/make up industry.

The truth is, I want you to be okay. Happy. Content. No matter what your weight is.

The facts are:

Every single woman (and a lot of men) in my life has made a comment about wanting to lose weight.

My friends, which there are a surprising ten, are not happy with the way they look in a bathing suit.

My Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Tumblr feeds all had people talking about how they are going to get in shape, drop the weight, stop eating poorly, exercise more.

No one seems okay with their weight.

You can't argue with that. It isn't okay to be fat. Not for any of the people I know - it isn't what people want for themselves. Except that one women whose goal was to weigh a ton.

It's why they count calories, feel guilty about eating a box of cookies for dinner on a Saturday night, skip meals, jiggle their bellies in disgust when they look in the mirror, obsess over how little exercise they get, and get sucked into crazy things like Isogenics, where they limit themselves to four hundred calories a day. They feel uncomfortable in their clothes, and out of them.

But isn't that the goal?

Discomfort means someone in the marketing world is doing something right.

I guess the 'why is it okay to be fat' comment irritated me because I know how un-okay it is. I don't consider anyone I know to be fat, or myself for that matter. That's the honest truth. But I know society does. I know how hard it is to lose weight. I know how frustrating it is. How sometimes it feels impossible to drop the bullshit, to let go of what's holding you back, and take the first step. Celebrating who you are is important, if you are skinny, average, chubby, obese. Just look inside and see the person you want to be. Strive to be them.

I know how damaging words can be, even stupid Facebook status updates that aren't 'directed towards you' but that hurt. Words cut deep. Because they are the greatest weapon ever used. And this thing called life? It's defeating. It's not easy. Some days, it's down right inconceivable to be okay. Sometimes just getting out of bed is a chore. And I get it. Digging yourself out of a slump requires tenacity, which is another word for energy, and that stuff doesn't come cheap. Change isn't a walk in the park on a sunny day. Change is a swim in the ocean during the most tempestuous storm Mother Nature ever conjured up and your companions are ravenous sharks. Oh, you have a cut on your knee too.

I know. I get it. I see how we are raised to dislike ourselves. To think there is always room for improvement. And how much money marketing and advertising companies make. They wouldn't make those kind of bones if it didn't work. Not to mention the chemicals in food, how they effect our bodies and brains. How over-processed what we eat and drink is. Also, how by the time we have the knowledge to make an informed decision, the damage has usually been done. High glucose corn syrup, I'm looking at you.  Did you know there are addictive chemicals in food? It's why you have cravings, and it exists.

In the end, there are a lot of things working against us. Because the FDA and big business love to cut corners, we kind of got screwed. But why do we continue to allow ourselves to be screwed? It's time to take responsibility, inform ourselves, and say no. I see a hell of a lot of people doing that, working towards just being okay.

And I think it SHOULD be okay for everyone to be okay. No matter what their weight is. There has been a huge 'love yourself' movement in the past decade with companies focusing on advertising with 'real' women. Laws to cut down on photo shopping. Fashion companies being forced to use models in all sizes. How is this bad? Why is it wrong for people to be happy with who they are? Accept who they are? Love who they are?

It is okay to be fat. Because I say so. 

Just like it is okay to be Christian, Asian, skinny, freckle-faced, tattooed and hairy.

I believe everyone has the right to just be. And maybe that's another thing I am grateful for. Being open-minded and compassionate enough to understand.

Besides, you're beautiful. Don't you know?

I'm Tired

Today, I am tired. I woke up tired. Not sleepy. Just tired.

Tired of feeling cautious. Uncertain of my surroundings. Not sure of what to say or do. Or why I want to say and do what I want to say and do. It's complex, I suppose. Or maybe not. Maybe we all know exactly what I mean when I say I am tired of feeling cautious.

The tiredness goes beyond the uneasy feeling. I am tired of feeling heavy. Physically, mentally, emotionally.

Exhausted over money. Not having any. Like none. Being poor. Unable to buy groceries. Or a dress. A badly needed pair of shoes for work. Travelling is out, because gas is so expensive. Ferry rides are out. So my friends, those real life unvirtual ones, seem so far away. I did this to myself. No need to remind me. The bills are piling up. I'm getting frustrated with myself. And the worry, well, I'm so tired of worrying over money. Of having it be the soul thing I'm fretting over and having the lack of it mess up the good things, and taint the happiness I was feeling.

I'm tired of wanting a hug. And not wanting to ask for one at the same time.

More so, I'm tired of feeling fat, even though I know society's idea of what women should weigh is far under what is healthy. And though I know that. I still stress about my weight. Cellulite. Stretch marks. The jiggle in this wiggle. Even things I once loved aren't looking the same. Not while I'm wearing these tired glasses of mine. They make everything look so much more unattractive than it is.

Ugly. Tired of it as well. It's a beast. And it takes over.

The lack of undisturbed slumber is making me tired. In the true sense, though, not in the metaphorical or symbolic way. In the I-am-actually-tired sort of way.

I'm tired of having these random days where nothing seems to go right. Waking up angry, burning the toast, messing up breakfast, banging my head on a cupboard, staining my clothes, tearing my nylons, not being comfortable in my own skin, seeing the flaws and wondering where the fabulous is, biting my lips and making it bleed and wanting someone to say yes to something but they just keep saying no.

It's draining to feel as though life is simply slipping through my fingers as I worry and fret and lose sleep. It's scary to think I'm getting older and the bullshit keeping me awake is the same. It's crazy that one day I simply won't exist anymore and none of this will matter. It's strange that it really doesn't even matter now.

It's funny because it's all in my head.