I took this photo a couple of weeks ago, when I was shopping for pants at Target.  I thought about writing about this then, but then the Femme Write’s topic for July was announced and I decided to wait until today to finally spill my proverbial body issue beans.

Take a good look at that photo.  Pay no attention to the picture quality (it’s a camera phone pic from inside a Target dressing room for chrissakes).  Just look at me.  I am five feet tall.  According to Wii fit, as of this morning I weigh 100.5 lbs and have a BMI of 19.74.

How many of you looked at that picture, read my stats and automatically assumed I was bragging and sarcastically thought “well good for you, we should all be so lucky”?  Be honest.   How many thought “Jesus, don’t you ever eat anything?” or “oh great, some skinny bitch is going to complain about how fat she thinks she is” and wanted to click away?

Every day I read blog posts and articles from the point of view of women who are struggling with their sizes.  They worry about people judging them and thinking badly about them.  They write about all of the stereotypes they have to fight against and how they wish people would take the time to get to know them instead of just being judged on what number might be assigned to the size of their pants.  There are beautiful and poignant posts written by women who have kept their weight a secret from their readers because they were afraid of being judged.  They write about how irritated they get by all of the “skinny bitches” who can eat whatever they want.  They write about how they just want to shove food into the mouths of people who are smaller than they are because they have it “so easy.”  There is both a delicious and malevolent irony in these posts: these same women who cry over being judged because of their weight turn around and do the very same thing to someone else.

But that’s okay.  It’s okay to hate people who are smaller than you simply because they are smaller.  It’s okay to think angry thoughts about and judge someone like me. And it isn’t okay for me to be angry about the very same things that make these other women angry.  I am not allowed to be annoyed because, according to some height/weight chart somewhere, I am “normal” or “thin.”

I’m not allowed to complain about not being able to find clothing that fits me properly because all of the designers have vanity sized me right out of my own clothing department. I’m not allowed to complain about feeling gross after eating too much. I’m not even really allowed to talk about how I want to be healthier and eat better. I’m not allowed to complain when my pants feel too tight. I’m not allowed to hate the way I look or the way I feel inside of my own body sometimes. I’m not allowed to be annoyed by all of the snap judgments that get volleyed in my direction every time I leave the house. I?  Am only allowed to be perfectly happy and content with myself because, according to the status quo, I’m “skinny.”

I’m not allowed to talk about the shame I feel when I try on pair after pair after pair of pants and not a single one of them fits right.  I’m not allowed to talk about what it’s like to stand in a dressing room and have to fight against tears as yet again, something that I should be able to fit into–something that is made for someone who is my age and who has my curves does not fit because I am either too short for the legs or have the wrong sized waist.  I’m not allowed to talk about how humiliating it is to have to buy my clothing (all of it) in the children’s section.  I’m not supposed to talk about the way my self esteem plummets when I have to buy bras that have tags featuring pictures of pre-pubescent girls squealing “growing up is sooooo comfortable!” on them.

Do I even have to tell you how hard it is to carry my “choices” to a register and then be asked “is your Mom around? Does she have a store card you can use?”

This photo was taken a few months ago (and, honestly, is proof that I probably need some kind of supervision to keep me from goofing off when I’m supposed to be working, but whatever).  Three weeks ago, at my friend’s wedding, one of the servers  gave me a kid meal instead of the meal I had requested.  They didn’t even check to see what kind of meal I had listed next to my place setting–they just set down the basket of chicken fingers and fries and walked away. It all got sorted out (we just put that basket at an empty place setting at the table and then asked our server for the right meal), but things like that happen all the time. I regularly have to show my ID at R and sometimes at PG-13 movies.  I have to show my ID when I’m with someone who is buying alcohol–when I go with Will to the liquor store (he’s not a beer drinker, he’s a Jack and soda guy) they won’t even let me in past the counter.  I’ve been asked if I need the class supply lists when I shop for office supplies near the end of the summer.  Not so very long ago I was looking through a rack of clothing and heard “Mom, she doesn’t have to have a parent with her when she shops, why do I?” and when I looked over, sure enough some kid was pointing at me.  I didn’t stick around to hear the mother’s response.

And, again, I hear over and over again how lucky I am.  How I should be grateful to be so young looking.  How someday I’ll wish I still looked so young.  I’ve had people look at me and say “you should just be happy.  I wish I looked that young.”

And you know–I don’t understand it.  No. No you don’t wish you looked this young.  Do you know why?  Because when you look this young, it doesn’t matter how old you actually are, people talk to you like you are an idiot.  Normally perfectly conversant adults switch to a sing songy voice when they talk to me and dumb down their language.  I get told “oh you probably don’t know what that means.” I have had to fight like hell just to be “allowed” to grow up (which, really, is its own post). And you know–okay.  I look young.  We all make snap decisions about people we don’t know–I’ve talked about that already.  But! When these same adults who just tried to give me a vocabulary lesson on some word (that they don’t actually understand) find out how old I really am, they! freak! out!  And then it’s “Oh my God! No you’re not! HELEN! COME OVER HERE AND LOOK AT THIS GIRL AND GUESS HOW OLD SHE IS! OH MY GOD!”  And the pointing! And the staring!  And the huge deal making!

Hello world, I am my own carnie side show act and all I have to do is sit here and breathe.

I won’t lie to you Marge, it’s rough.  We all feel like freaks.  No matter who we are, how old we are or how we’re built, we all have times when we hate the shells we’re stuck in.  I know that part of the point of this theme is to be all “rah! Sister Power! We rule! Yeaaahhhh!”  And I’d like to tell you that for the most part I’m okay with who I am.  And I am: for who I am on the inside I am better than okay.  For who I am on the inside, I’m kind of a badass…even if not too many other people realize it yet.

But on the outside– it would be nice to just blend in–in any way that is normal for a 32 year old woman (blending in when a bunch of middle school kids get on the bus does not count).

Always standing out no matter where I stand is wearing on the soul.

On the 5th of every month, bloggers from around the world are open to write about rights and issues concerning women. First started by Shine and Marie, we’re hoping to bring a variety of women’s issues to the forefront to make people aware of what’s going on. For the month of July, we’ve chosen to write about Body Image. Please join us in telling us your stories, thoughts, and ideas on a monthly basis. To read previous installments, click here.