"Can we, as a country, all
2005 : by Storm Large
am woman. I AM!
I'm all woman, for sure, and I do
womanly things. Though I can pee standing
up, I opt to sit. I enjoy Oprah, having
tea, and I am frequently very hard
on myself for not being totally perfect
all the time. I own an apron and I
do it front ways now and again. But
one thing makes me an anomalous and
somewhat atypical female: I FUCKIN'
HATE CLOTHES SHOPPING.
If I ever find myself getting a little
big in the head, imagining for a moment
that I'm a super fox or something,
the quickest way to knock myself down
a peg or two is to go shopping for
My Hell will be a tiny department
store dressing room with terrible
cellulite-enhancing overhead lights
and piles of things that I know won't
fit me but I need to try on anyway.
It's only with friendly intervention
and white-knuckled determination that
I have anything decent to wear on
stage. Left to my own devices I would
always buy stretchy black sweats (maybe
gray....DARK gray) and a bag of junior
wife-beaters or a super soft black
t-shirt that I take home and cut up
into a wife-beater.
Part of my loathing to join the throngs
of women and girls trolling the malls
and thrift stores is the size issue.
There is something damn stinking wrong
with the whole system. The size discrepancy
seems to be based on economics. Not
American vs. Euro sizes, oh no. I'm
talking about the difference between
low- and high-end fashion. The nicer
the store, the fatter I seem to get.
Old Navy says I'm a size four. The
Gap says I'm around an eight. And
that spendy cunt, Banana Republic,
and her date-raping brother, J.Crew,
tell me I'm a big fat 12, they're
all out of my size, and I should take
my stretchy black clothes and my chubby
self down the road to the gym and
Then there's the whole size zero phenomenon.
Go to the store right now, a big store
like Freddie’s. Ask for a dozen
eggs, you'll get twelve eggs. Six
of Pabst? That's right: six clinky
bottles in a box. Now go to the butcher
counter and ask for zero lamb chops.
How 'bout zero sausages? Zero pounds
of buffalo burger meat? What do you
get? Nothing. Because, meth heads,
zero means nothing's there.
I don't give a fuck how many tubes
of Oreos you've barfed or how long
it's been since you've menstruated;
YOU HAVE A BODY, THUS YOU HAVE MASS.
So unless you're a ghost, a memory
or an oily fart floating through the
store, you take up space and therefore
have measurements. Get over it.
No disrespect to my tiny bird-framed
sisters who have as hard a time finding
flattering clothes as I do. But I'm
convinced size zero is another evil
that exists only to make women feel
humongous. And I, being all woman,
feel fat enough of the time that I
need no reminder that the fashion
world considers me a six-foot banana
slug in sweats.
Don't get me wrong. I know I'm hot.
It's my job to be healthy, strong
and, above all, fuckable. I am proud
to be a big loud woman in a world
where 3% of the female population
is considered physically ideal. My
womanliness is something to celebrate.
Maybe by poppin' open some beers and
grilling up some lamb chops. But never
EVER by shopping.
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