I refer to XO Jane more than anyone who is neither employed by nor compensated by the company. (I still love you XOJane, even though, my “It happened to me” was not finalist worthy and I thought the finalists were mostly not great and while I understand you wanted to work within the law, but if it EVER EVER came between my own personal, non-incarcerated safety and that of my child, I would put my child ahead of me every time, but it’s your life . . . )
I have strong opinions. Some of them are inspired and/or echoed by XOJane.
Today there are TWO tidbits gleaned from that site that I must, I must, I must (you know you’re finishing that chant in your head) discuss,discuss, discuss.
One is a great essay by Amanda Richards that she describes better than I ever could
“As a Young Possessor of the Chub, I remember people constantly telling me “Don’t worry, you’ll hit puberty and thin out, then you’ll be SUCH a beauty.”
Richards raises a great point. Why do we do this to our kids? Why do we equate thin with pretty? Why do we want our girls to strive to be beautiful above everything else?
Richards opens the discussion that continues in the comments, most of which are excellent talking/thinking points if you are raising or just around children.
I remember hearing similar things when I was a child. I remember hearing that I was going to be beautiful once my baby fat all went away. I never thought I was truly, horrifyingly fat. I was overweight, but I didn’t think that made me the kind of troll that needed to live under the overpass on Cold Springs road to keep the Northside free of Billy goats.
I always thought I was cute and it gave me confidence.
I remember exactly where I was and what I was doing when all of that changed.
I was twelve years old and in the Seventh Grade at a local Catholic School. It was Lent and every Friday during Lent, the school would offer a meatless dinner as a fundraiser. I volunteered to bus tables and help serve because I was accruing goodwill in the hopes that I would get support and recommendations for the next year when I wanted to go for a scholarship at the Catholic High School (I got it, BTW)
I had a HUGE crush on the son of the organizer of the event. I was wiping down a table near him, wearing an oversized pink shirt and my Chic Jeans (1982 anyone?) and I overheard someone tell him that I “liked” him.
He said, “She’s a little too much for me.” Then he laughed the cold heartless laugh of an eighth grade boy.
I have been carrying a grudge against Gonzalo Cervantes for thirty-two years. I suspect I will carry it a little further.
Because one sentence goes a long way.
The other article has the kind of information that doesn’t need to be sullied with my psychosis.