...or size 8's in my cupboard.

Body Image. It’s a bit of a bitch, isn’t it? And it seems to creep up on us at the most inopportune of moments. Like those rare days where we think ‘I’m just a stunner’, then on your way to work with your hair flowing naturally and that healthy glow, there’s someone that makes you feel like you look as sexy as a bucket of mashed potato. And just as lumpy. Hot.

The thing that I wonder, is if I felt good in the morning, why can’t I continue to feel that good until I get into my glam jarmies and settle in for some beauty sleep? What gets in my way in the 14 odd hours that I’m presentable for the public? It might have something to do with the abundance of media that is just about everywhere you look – posters, magazines, newspapers, film, TV, internet. You get the general idea. Images everywhere depicting what is and isn’t attractive, and anything that falls outside of that is just downright horrendous and flat out socially undesirable.

But why? Why is my not size 8 wardrobe less appealing than the exact same clothes in a smaller size? They look exactly the same, they cost the same and funnily enough, they go in the same places – jeans on legs, jackets on torsos, tops on tops etcetera, etcetera.

I’ve not always looked at it from this angle; I’d love to tell you I’ve always had these objective thoughts, but not even I am that grounded. Body image didn’t bother me until I hit University, when it seemed to me that there were people everywhere talking about ‘carbs’ and ‘gym’ and ‘muffin tops’ (yeah, cheers for that ABC sensation Kath and Kym), and without even realizing there was even a transition, I was worried about what I looked like. The sudden insurgence and discovery of sexuality didn’t help – people were talking about sex over breakfast, meeting for it after lunch and having it for dinner. Nobody was ever really judgmental; we were adults, after all, so getting teased and bullied didn’t ever send anyone into a mentally disabling downward spiral. Until third year. In third year, I was twenty-one years old, and one malicious guy screamed at the top of his lungs and called me fat. Who cares, what a jerk, right? Wrong. Three years later his shallow opinion of me still makes me want to throw a blunt object at his groin, while making me promise that I’ll eat just lettuce for a week. Which of course, is just stupid. And it still makes me wonder why such a silly, childish observation would make somebody as angry as it made me. Looking back on it, I was significantly smaller then than I am now – so why would he think I was fat? I thought I looked a bit of an alright. Then I return from my flashback to be confronted by the ‘socially beautiful’, and suddenly his vile comment makes sense. I don’t look like that, therefore I’m undesirable and should be shunned. Yes, I will go on fitness fads and healthy eating trips every now and then, but I have admitted to myself that I will never be skinny. The frightening thing about body image is that it can give the healthy and fit the idea that they’re still not good enough. Being happy with yourself should not be about what size and shape you are. Are you healthy? That’s good enough for me.

There are those that honestly believe that to survive, you must be thin. But I’m breathing, I’m walking and talking, and I will never need a small waist to do that.