Worth Your Weight. AKA- I get pissed off.

Usually, I shy away from making mention of comments that can be drawn back to a specific person, although a flippant remark is usually what sets me off into a written rant. But tonight, we’re going to get a little pointed.

Ahem. To the guy today who posted that a girl looked cute, despite the fact that she was pushing 140 pounds, fuck you.

No, seriously, fuck you. Normally, I’m a well-mannered girl. I try to be amusing and un-confrontational. I’m not prone to big shows of emotion. But that statement hit a cord hard in me.

Fuck you for weighing a girl’s worth by her weight. Fuck you for making an errant statement that I’m sure you were, “just kidding,” about. Fuck you and all your friends for thinking it’s okay to crack jokes like that. Fuck you for being one of the reasons I watch girls rip themselves apart over a number. Fuck you for being one of the reasons I do it too.

You know what? Here we go. You stepped in it now. Are you worth your weight? Do you claim to have the justification to take up as much goddamn space in this world as you do? Because I know I’ve earned every inch that I exist in.

I’ve worked with super models. Legit, Sports Illustrated swimsuit mother-fucking super models. And they are fucking trapped. The most stunning girls in the world. Looking down from their strange photo-shoot props at me, whose job it is to tie their $500 shoes. Asking if I’m photogenic. Asking for a better look at my face. Scanning me for any error, or any element that might be considered “better” than what they have. Tiny things trained that their weight is their life. The girls you jerk off to are trapped by the shitty-ass statements you make.

Yeah. I’m trapped in it too. I’ve survived on an apple a day. Then you pass out on a NYC subway and realize that’s a bad fucking idea. I’ve sat in the bathroom and sobbed over what I’ve seen in the mirror.  I’ve taken the pills, skipped the meals, and wished I could literally cut it off of me. I’ve beaten myself up over every morsel I’ve put in my mouth. I’ve worked out until my body has literally collapsed.

And now I’m here. And I’M FUCKING OVER 140.  Because existence demanded that I needed that much space. Thank you, jerk-face, for deciding that decreases my ability to be attractive. But it’s cool, because I’ve seen you looking at my tits before, so maybe you’re a little disoriented (PS- Those are totally part of the 140 package). You know what I can do at 140 pounds? I can take on a hill sprint that you would never survive.  I can hold yoga postures that would snap you.  Do you know what a TRX is? Because I fucking mastered that thing.

You know what else I get to do at 140 pounds? I get to rock at my job because I’m not delirious. I get to eat chocolate, and pasta, and all the veggies I want. I drink wine on weekends, and margaritas with friends. I drink beer at rock concerts, and I never say no to what I really want. I get to enjoy all the aspects of life that I want to enjoy. Give me a pair of heels, and a pencil skirt, and I can pull off a “Joan Holloway” moment like no one’s business.

I’m deeply resisting the urge to turn the tables on you, asshole. Because tearing anyone down over physical aspects is just not a nice thing to do. Instead, I hope you fall in love hard one day. And I hope it’s with a girl who owns her space, no matter what size it is, and she makes you her pet.  You can be happy and kept, and never think again that a girl needs to be tiny to be worth it.

For myself, when I fall in love, it’s going to be like a Decemberist song. I’m sure you don’t get that reference, or how grand it is. It’s okay; my existence is too large for you anyway. Have an excellent evening, sir.

 

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