Two weeks ago, I went for a bra fitting. Having been told by dozens of style experts that 137 percent of women wear the wrong bra size, I fully expected to be told that my 34C was FAR too small/big/narrow/high/thick/whatever for my frame. Miraculously, the lingerie shop owner confirmed that I was already wearing the correct size. I will admit to feeling slightly smug about this.
My smugness dissipated as she began to show me a dazzling assortment of silky, frilly, and coyly transparent bras in every style and shape imaginable. I’d worn my one cute bra to the fitting: A satin leopard print that fit beautifully, but featured thick straps and strangely stodgy detailing. Somehow, just glimpsing the universe of beautiful underthings that I’d been studiously ignoring for the past 20 years made me feel anxious. Virtually all of my friends wore and adored gorgeous lingerie, but I’d dismissed it as a frivolous expense and focused on flattering but practical underthings for myself. Yet as I discussed the physics of bras with the owner — learning about underwire placement, the importance of band fitting, and how different styles would achieve different silhouettes — I knew I needed to formulate a plan. A panty plan. Read more…
When I was wee, I was best friends with the girls who were handy. Neighborhood kids, playgroup participants, and the like. In grade school, I gravitated toward girls who were brainy like me. Since book smarts were considered to be at odds with potential popularity, and since I had more going in the Brains Department than the Social Graces Department, I sought out equally bookish girlfriends. High school was pretty much the same as grade school, but in college, I ran with girls who shared classes, activities, or interests with me. And after college I befriended women who worked with me. Longstanding friendships from school and activities sometimes lingered, but new friends were drawn almost exclusively from my coworker pool. Keep reading »
Writing about body love and acceptance? That’s my jam. Teaching women to embrace their supposed “flaws,” accept that physical beauty comes in infinite forms, and learn to love their own bodies just as they are? My life’s quest. So it is with great trepidation that I reveal the following: I really dislike being naked. I mean, if there’s gonna be a roll in the hay, that’s one thing, but hanging out in the locker room? Sleeping? Just about anywhere except the bathtub? I’d rather have a bare minimum of knickers and a bra. Keep reading »
When I think of locales that are likely to offer me an onslaught of body-related judgment, I think of the beach, the bar, and the gym. I mean, body judgment is incredibly pervasive, but all three of those places are renowned breeding grounds for intense figure scrutiny, comparisons, and body-snarking. Recently, I discovered that my doctor’s office should be added to the list. Doctors are supposed to support and encourage us as we attempt to balance healthy lifestyle decisions with actual life events and pressures. But our country’s current obsession with obesity as the big, bad, magically all-encompassing factor in good health means that doctors feel perfectly comfortable judging patients based on weight alone. As someone who sits right on the BMI border of normal-overweight, I can tell you that when I cross over, I get lectured. Even if my crossover is a mere pound. No fooling.
It irks me to feel evaluated based on my body’s shape and size at the beach, the bar, and the gym. But it infuriates me to feel evaluated based on my body’s shape and size at the doctor’s office because I’m being evaluated by someone who actually knows more about my body and its overall health than the average casual observer. And I started to wonder if there are ANY places and situations that feel completely free of body judgment. Keep reading »
Most conspiracy theories make me giggle. I’m a pretty open-minded gal, but the notion that the moon landing was faked strikes me as downright bizarre. However, I do believe that most major cosmetics and personal care products companies actively conspire against women. These corporations strive to manufacture discontent among women to convince them to buy new products, more products, complex systems of products to combat our apparent flaws. In many cases, the conspiracy goes even deeper, getting women hooked on certain cosmetics or procedures as mere gateways, eventually revealing that more costly versions will yield even better results. It’s a system that not only convinces women we’re undeniably imperfect, but also snows us into believing that our “imperfections” can be cured with products. And, of course, bales of money. Keep reading »