Although society has become more accepting of plus sized women – as if being anything more than a size 6 is something to seek approval for – than the environment our mothers grew up in during the 90s, young girls and women are still fed the unrealistic and exclusive expectation that being tinier equates to deserving more respect.Â
How can someone’s size reflect their impact on the world – how much they deserve to be loved? Â
I, for one, admit to not being perfect. While I don’t judge other women for simply taking up space, if I notice my stomach is not as flat as it normally is, I feel almost guilty: Lanaya, how dare you stray from the perfect form? And yet tighter pants fail to encapsulate my merit as a friend, daughter, student, sister, or athlete. Whether or not I can zip my sweatshirt all the way up to my neck, I am witty, headstrong, and loving: as is anyone, despite the number on the scale. Â
By allowing society, and let’s be frank: men, to instill the belief in my mind that the smaller I am, the more beautiful I am, I am reinforcing how evident the patriarchy is in our current world. Would you see yourself the same way if you were bigger?
My friend only makes love in the dark.
Blinds drawn, mirrors covered, lights out:
The ritual of undressing is one she performs in haste.
She kisses boys when her bloodstream floods with cheap wine and tequila,
The state of intoxication masking her anxiety.
She only sees herself –
Her humor, intelligence, and deep brown eyes,
When part of her is slightly blurred–
So ashamed of what it means to be woman,
Clothing and shadows bandaging her self-hatred temporarily.
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I take my time when entering the shower,
Carefully sliding my underwear down my pale thighs,Â
Even taking the time to fold my pants:Â
One, no–two times, over my arm and placing them delicately on the floor.
I gaze at my reflection as I stand topless brushing my teeth,
The hot steam reddening my cheeks and highlighting my freckles,Â
Warm dew moistening the blonde hairs circling my arms,Â
Wondering how my belly button is so perfectly centered on my stomach.
I tilt my head to stare at the mass of hair between my legs,
The way my breasts lean slightly to the side.
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Would I still love myself so much if I took up more space?