It’s a scary word – the F word – and people cover it up with euphemisms whenever they can. Plus size, big, fuller figured… It’s a bad word.
I’ve written about it for W24 before, but still find myself veering away from the word whenever it comes up. These four long reads by four fabulous writers each tackled the F word and really moved me with their brave, beautiful copy.
Not a world without carbs, not sweating red in the beating sun, not even slow internet with a continuously turning circle of death and yet NOTHING LOADS.
Except maybe shopping for pants. I feel my heart shudder and my chest seize up when pant shopping becomes a necessity. As a short person, pants are even worse. They ALL come up to my belly button, and drag on the floor long over my ankles like I’m simultaneously a 12 year old and a middle-aged woman.
‘Beyonce Fucking Knowles. Beyonce doesn’t need pants to do shit. Do you think pants are going to stop Beyonce from running the fucking world?’ rants Matt Bellasai, my spirit animal, in his latest video.
‘Your face is streaked with dry tears and you don’t even remember when you started crying… all so you can squeeze into a piece of fabric that tells you how much fatter you were since the last time.’
My latest column looks at research proving that people in the 80s were 10% thinner than they are now – as in, a 25 year old today will have to work a heck of a lot harder to be skinny (thank god for diet apps though!).
Which brings me to my awesome mom, who was my age in the 80s! She’s all kinds of fabulous… see below.
In light of the university fee riots #feesmustfall happening across the country, it does feel in some ways like we have a small window back into the 80s, and worrying about weight seems so silly in light of these larger, societal issues. Nonetheless, body confidence issues are real too and also feed into society’s expectations and, as you’ll see in this piece, the frame work and control dynamic we are born into.
But this piece is not so serious. Here’s a humourous look at how weight has changed in the past 20 years and how some elements of weight gain are out of our control.
Is having your ideal body really the recipe to happiness?
I was awkwardly bending over, pulling champagne coloured stockings up over my ankles, when I saw the time. LATE! I was late. Conclusively, hopelessly, white-rabbit-in-Alice-in-Wonderland, late. Shimmy, shimmy, hop, tug – it was up to my thighs – when with a dreadful RIIIIIIIIIP I felt the stockings tear under my unusually long, unusually elegant, nails.