antheia

Looking in a mirror when I’m alone, I think I’m a pretty girl. I’ve got a china doll complexion, rosy cheeks, bright blue eyes, and full pink lips. Not only am I pretty, I have a good personality: I’m funny, sweet and smart. I balance a sharp wit with warmth and kindness. All of these are great attributes. All of these add up to a woman I would totally hit on in a bar (if I ever had the cojones to do that).

I don’t think of myself as desirable, because  I don’t wear a size 8; I don’t even wear a 14. And society tells me that this is a problem.

This is the same society that tells me that Paris Hilton (infamous for her ditziness and tiny frame) is more desirable than Jennifer Hudson (who is all curves and talent). When I go out in the world, I don’t see the pretty, warm and desirable young woman. I see the flaws; I see my belly that sticks out, my thighs that touch, a derriere that more than fills my jeans.

Sometimes, I can build myself up and convince myself that I look good. And if I’m lucky, this won’t falter and fade the moment I hit the front stoop. Some days, I can go through an entire day feeling generally good about myself. I’ll laugh and make jokes, cock my hips at someone and tilt my head in traditionally flirty postures, and not feel as though these are parodies of what pretty girls do. Some days, I can be my own confidence booster, and listen only to myself. But some days are like last Friday.

Some days, I walk down the street in my denim skirt and my tshirt, smiling and strutting to the music in my head, when some asshole looks up and says, “Hey sweetheart, don’t you know your ass is too big to dress like that?” Sometimes there’s a dickhead that comments, “Hey fattie, why you dressing like you think you’re hot?”

And the rational, angry part of me wants to tell them to go fuck themselves. That part of me wants to wonder out loud whether they think that deafness is a side effect of being overweight. Or if they think I can’t actually read the label on my clothing. Most of the time, lately, I’m able to act like it doesn’t bother me. I’m able to throw a comment back at them.

But the fact of the matter is that a little part of me, a little and very strong part of me, hears what they say and agrees. It asks me who I think I’m kidding, it tells me that I should’ve known better, should have remembered that girls like me aren’t attractive: I am hopeless and worthless. It doesn’t make me want to go to the gym. It doesn’t motivate me to change. It just makes me hurt.

It is my own problem that I let them define me in any way.

So what does this have to do with you? Nothing, I hope. I hope that you’re confident and considerate. But if you’re one of the people I talked about, I hope that next time you see someone on the street that you think is too big for a shirt that tight, or too skinny for a skirt that short, keep it to yourself. Ask yourself why that’s your problem, or why you should have anything to say about it.

I propose that we take it a step further, even: withhold only the negative commentary, and go out of your way to say something nice. Does the woman sitting across from you have great shoes on? Tell her so. Does the guy in front of the bodega look really nice in his shirt? Say so. Maybe if we all start paying it forward, as dorky as that sounds, we’ll feel a little better about ourselves. What can it hurt?

Because, in all sincerity, the next motherfucker who comments, unsolicited, about the size of my ass as though it were a negative is getting my boot in theirs.