So some freelance writer working for Marie Claire (a mainstream fashion/women’s magazine? I guess?) wrote a douchey article that covers at least half of a fatphobic bingo card all by itself. I won’t link, not wanting to further up their page-views, but it can basically be summed up as “ew, fatties!” If you’ve the spoons and/or Sanity Watchers points, you can read some of the specifics over at Dangerously Luxe’s awesome smack-down, because while I could expend a thousand words going in to everything wrong with the original article, I simply can’t be bothered today.
Because today, the Boychick and I went shopping, since I’m down to one no comfy, attractive (unstained and untorn) warm shirts or sweaters, and that’s just not good now that we’re solidly in the Northern autumn, not even here in semi-temperate Oregon.
I, alas, could not find any sweaters. But I did happen to spot a dress. And I shrugged, and tried it on.
When I walked out of the dressing room, the Boychick said “Ooo, I love that dress! Mom, you should buy that dress.” Well, how could I not?
Today I dedicate the purchase of this red-hot dress to Marie Claire, Maura Kelly, and everyone who thinks fat chicks are disgusting, unattractive, unfuckable. This, unfuckable? Try fucking hot.
A friend protested this dedication, saying they didn’t deserve my hotness. And while that’s surely true, I firmly believe that the best revenge is a life well-lived.
Preferably in a red-hot fuck-me dress.
(There is a part of me that does not want to post this picture. There is a part of me yelling about how fat I am, how flabby my arms, how double my chin, how sagging my comfy-tank encased breasts. I am afraid of the insults of trolls, and afraid of the whispers from tsking readers. But there is nothing a troll could say that the troll inside me has not said to myself. There is nothing a well-meaning loved one could shake hir head over that I have not spotted myself. But as I’ve learned before, the best antidote to this urge to hide is to show myself. And frankly, if my flesh bothers someone, including that horrid little voice inside me, I have two rude words to say — five hundred times.)