body shame

When I was 16 years old I took a hostess job at a breastaurant — one of those chain restaurants, like Hooters, known for large-breasted servers.

Yes, men, even woke men, still say the most unbelievable things to us in bed and most of the time, we don’t say anything back.

People talk about skin care like it’s fun — a way to relax. But for me, the very idea opens onto a black hole of self-loathing.

What I’ve noticed, as a fat feminist, is that self-identifying as a feminist or an activist bears a different social cost depending on your body size.

My breathing hastened and my crying intensified. The elevation wasn’t doing me any favors. All I knew was that it was pitch black on a lava field in Guatemala and I’d lost my tour group.

I don’t care about my weight. But other people do.

Like, "Yum, there is a table full of delicious food" but also, "Ugh, am I gonna hate myself after I eat this?"

My swimsuit phobia started in middle school — that breeding ground of body shame and fear. One minute I’m a kid excitedly putting on my pink two-piece and running into the ocean, the next, I’m avoiding any place where people are known to live in their swimsuits and I might be forced to wear one.