I'm not a woman, but I can't imagine many of them are trying to emulate the look of walking cottage cheese or a graffitied version of the Michelin Man.
Hello, my name is Abracadaver, and I am just one of the millions of women who aspire to look like...nay,
become...Tess Holliday.
Tess is hotter than the bottom of my laptop. We all wish we looked like her, and it is the secret shame of every straight-sized woman that we can never achieve this.
Every time I shoulder a bar full of weights to do squats, I
wish I had the strength to instead drop them and gorge myself sick on five frosted full-size party cakes and watch my arse deflate into a giant soggy bag of cottage cheese.
The tears of shame and envy run down my face as I sob into every fun cardio routine, hating the way my lungs work well and don’t struggle to pull in oxygen during a workout, the way my stupid,
stupid knees refuse to scream in pain under my embarrassingly normal weight, the way I can stand up from the floor by myself without having to crawl to the nearest piece of furniture to pull myself upright.
The endorphins and rush of accomplishment after a good run pale in comparison to the brief sugar-high of stuffing fistfuls of doughnuts into my mouth. If
only I could know that joy.
I can’t even show my face in clothing shops. Just peering in through the windows, I’m crushed by the same dreaded feeling inside, the certainty that an extremely wide selection of things in that store will fit just fine.
One time, a friend offered to loan me a dress for a nice group event. I’d hoped that I would be so big that she would have to awkwardly hang the too-small dress over my neck and let it fall down in front of me like a terrible apron...
just like my hero Tess in that magazine shoot. But no. It slipped over my shoulders and fit me extremely well. I was never so humiliated in my life.
I know I only have myself to blame for this. Years of recklessly indulging in fruits and veg; picking tea or ice water over a large syrup-filled coffee milkshake with cereal-flavoured creamer; selfishly choosing to mindlessly graze on actual foods instead of processed packaged items that would nourish my body with preservatives, corn syrup and life-giving refined sugar...this is my fault. I know it.
Even now, I’m trapped in a depressing cycle of regular sleep, daily exercise, clean foods and getting laid by people who aren’t holding their nose just to earn clout or pay me to sit on cakes. There’s no escape from this pit I’ve dug for myself. I don’t ask for or deserve your pity, Tess. Please, just...try to sympathize.
