I write this with a heavy heart.
I went in today, for my monthly ritual of choice- stripping my skin of it’s fur. As the parlour woman waxed away and I purred in delight, I happened to notice how my thighs now resemble loose bags of cotton. Fluffy and billowy, minus the lightness.
… unsexy, huh? My parents wouldn’t think so. You see, I’ve had the absolute misfortune of being raised with positive body image for as long as I can remember. Pimples on your chin? No problem. Unwaxed legs? Who gives a shit. A planet-like ass? That counts as attractive!
This terrible style of parenting I underwent involved zero cable, no building ke dost, and way too many books for company. “I can see the problem almost immediately”, you chuckle. Goddamn imagination. I could imagine George Kirrin to have a frame too masculine (I think she’d like that), Nancy Drew to have a waist too thin and a nose pointy enough to be in someone else’s business, or even Mia Thermopolis (think chick lit) to just be way over on the chubby side- and that was all okay, because I didn’t know that being pretty was a big deal. Yeah, thanks Mom, I’m plenty grateful.
Some of my friends, on the other hand, have seen brighter days. Their families have always encouraged them to look like other people and not be themselves. Their friend circles wholly endorsed the replacement of actual personality with beauty products, an idea that is till today best friends with mainstream cinema- what’s a fat Vidya Balan again? And self-esteem? What self-esteem?
As I move into 22, I’ve only started to buy into these ideas. I have a long way to go, but with the support of body shamers and generally shallow people (remarkable how I don’t have any of these in my life yet; is it because of my choice in people?), I’m definitely getting there. Because, what’s in a name if your face is pretty enough? If you can help out in developing terrible self-image, stay tuned for my tutorial on how to fuck off. Asking for a friend.