By Hannah Kirkpatrick
Did I read that title correctly? Shouldn’t it say “Every reason to hate, shame and discipline my body?” No, actually it doesn’t, but most likely, regardless of your gender, society has projected these disgusting expectations onto all of us. I’m here to tell you that they’re wrong.
Everyday when I walk into the lounge it seems like I can’t run away from the constant chatter of, “Oh my god, she’s so skinny” or, “Is that 2% milk? Do you know how much fat is in that?” Well, given the generosity of the milk-labeling employees, I’m assuming that 2% of the milk in here is fat, but hey, what do I know?
We walk into the high school and look at people’s legs rather than their faces, and when in conversation, stare at their complexion rather than actually paying attention to what they’re saying. It’s a harsh and cruel way to say it, but it’s true: we’re all looking for imperfections in people.
However, in case your mom didn’t mention this to you, finding others’ flaws doesn’t perfect your own.
I’m not perfect, I’m just as disgustingly vain and self-obsessed as everyone else, if not more. I used to buy really expensive jeans in a size zero during the fall and make them my “goal jeans,” hoping that somehow I would be able to squeeze my thick thighs and tiny white-girl butt into them. If we’re being honest with each other, which I hope we are, I never fit into them; I will never be a size zero, but I’m okay with that.
I think the most challenging part of growing up (especially in an elitist town like New Canaan, where every mom looks like a supermodel and breeds amazing looking children all designed to look better than the one sitting next to them), is that we try to fit into this cutout of what “pretty” is. I used to think that pretty meant being a blonde, skinny, fashion forward, big-boobed, tan chick who loves to play beach volleyball and drives a Range Rover. So, I dyed my hair blonde, got spray tans, tried to save up for a Range Rover (until I ended up crashing my 2004 Honda CRV not once, but twice), and even started skipping dinner to try and look like Candice Swanepoel. I wasted about two years of my life waiting for somebody to say, “Wow, Hannah, you like, actually got pretty, what happened?” so that I could go on a humble rant about how it was really not that hard and that being healthy and fit was the best thing that ever happened to me, when I was actually coming home everyday and crying about how hungry I was. Meanwhile my sister could sit in front of the TV, eat 6 apple cider donuts from Stew Leonard’s, and somehow manage to lose weight. Life wasn’t fair.
Fun fact: life isn’t meant to be fair. All girls aren’t meant to look like Victoria’s Secret models and unfortunately all boys are not going to look like David Beckham in Calvin Klein underwear. We’re not mechanically engineered to all look the same. I’m never going to fit into size zero jeans and I’m never going to be a natural blonde no matter how much I beg the hair gods for it. I’m always going to have chin acne (also known as chacne for the lucky few who haven’t experienced it), kneecaps that look like melting marshmallows, and mosquito bite scars lining up and down my floppy biceps. And you know what? I don’t give a damn anymore, because I’ve found that “interesting” or “unique” is a far cooler compliment to get than “pretty.” So let’s all sit down, take some 2% milk shots together and start paying attention to what other people are saying, rather than how they look while saying it.
