I was just getting dressed for a friend’s birthday dinner tonight, and I almost talked myself out of wearing the dress that I had on. I’ve talked myself out of wearing it before, actually…mostly because I didn’t think it looked “right” on me. And by “right” I mean that I have a little bit of a tummy, and even though it’s a black dress, it’s a bit visible.

I was about to take it off again tonight when I looked in the mirror and realized that there is no rule that says my stomach has to be washboard flat for me to wear this dress, or anything, for that matter. This is my body, I said to myself, and I like it and I am going to own it and I feel good in this dress and that is all there is to that.

So…yeah. I am happy that I decided to stick to my guns and wear this dress instead of another one. :)

DEAR MR. PARTICULAR: Start at the nearest gym. If that doesn’t net you what you’re trolling for, another place to look would be the Playboy Mansion in Los Angeles. Hef throws large parties there, many of which are charity fundraisers. Who knows? For a generous donation you might meet a woman who meets your high standards — providing you have enough assets of your own to merit her interest.

…”Mr. Particular” is a superficial asshat, and Sassy Pissed-Off Dear Abby is THE BEST DEAR ABBY EVER.

As I stood at the supermarket checkout today, I noticed the racks of magazines for sale by the register. It made me think of things I’ve heard before—the ways in which we put ourselves down by saying things like, “I’ll never be on the cover of a magazine” or “I’ll never look like I belong on the cover of a magazine.” And something occurred to me, which is that in our own world, we are on the cover of a magazine.

Every day, wherever I go and whenever people see me, they are seeing the cover of “Amy” magazine. I am my own cover model, and my own centerfold, too. And what I present—what people see on that cover—is what’s going to make them want to read more, to find out what’s on the inside.

So, even though I may not always have the most eye-catching headlines, I think I make for a splashy cover that (hopefully) inspires people to want to get to know me better.

So, I have a few things that are a part of my everyday “routine.” One of these things is to read Dear Abby. I used to read it when it was still in my local newspaper, but they’ve since stopped running it, so my DA fix comes from a visit to DearAbby.com at 1:00am every day (as that is when that day’s column is put up).

The following was published today, and cheesed me off so greatly that I am writing this post about it:

“DEAR ABBY: Because many women have stopped wearing pantyhose or stockings when they go out on a dinner date or formal function, would it be a fair turnaround for me to put on a three-piece suit and tie and not wear any socks? I’d appreciate your thoughts, please. — SOCKLESS IN MICHIGAN”

Okay, jackass. The lovely Pauline Phillips might not have picked up on the snarky undertone to your query, but I sure as hell did. Your disapproval and disdain of women “defying” the so-called social convention of wearing pantyhose or stockings is damn near palpable. It’s obvious you look down on these women and are trying to subtly control their choices by making your own sartorial suggestion appear as “outrageous” as theirs.

But let me tell you something, mister. I don’t wear pantyhose. The only type of stockings I can handle on my legs are fishnets, and even that is a recent development. My whole life, I have found the sensation of anything confining on my legs to be unbearable.

I remember ballet class. Oh, yes—even an ungraceful ostrich like me was attempting pliés and grand pliés with the rest of ‘em. Despite my best efforts, however, I never could get accustomed to wearing those pink tights. Classes, recitals, all required them, and try as I might, it was too much to bear. I wound up qutting ballet because I couldn’t wear the tights.

Nails on a chalkboard. Sandpaper on your palm. That’s what pantyhose feel like to me. I’ve brushed against my mother’s leg when she’s had on pantyhose, only to recoil in pain. The texture is overwhelmingly unpleasant, and leaves what feels like barbed wire curling in the pit of my stomach.

As I said above, I have finally been able to wear fishnets over the last few years, which you would have thought impossible if you knew me when I was younger. But the thing you need to know, Sir Snarkypants, is that I wear them for me, NOT for men. I wear them because I want to wear them, or because I like how they look with whatever outfit I have on.

I couldn’t give a crap if society commands me Yoda-style, “Wear pantyhose, you must!” But, you know…maybe you can convince me. Yes, Mr. Sockless…if you’re willing to put on a pair of pantyhose when it’s 90 degrees outside (plus humidity) and stand in the blazing, midday sun, also while wearing a pair of high heels and a black dress—as more women than you will ever know biblically have done—THEN perhaps I might think about wearing an item of clothing that causes me such intense physical and emotional discomfort.

…But you’re not going to, so I hope your sockless feet end up in a wading pool full of piranhas instead.

Hello body-shaming, my old friend
I’ve come to talk with you again
Because a vision softly creeping
Left its seeds while I was sleeping
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains
And makes me hide in shame

In restless dreams I walked alone
Narrow hips and collarbone
‘Neath the halo of a street sign
Beckoning me to come in and dine
When my eyes were stabbed by my own reflection’s sight
That split the night
And still I hide in shame

And in the naked light I saw
Ten thousand calories, maybe more
And we’re fed a constant pack of lies
That a woman’s worth is only in her thighs
From the moment we’re born, and to this cruel world bared
And few have dared
To try and end the shaming

“Please”, said I, “Listen to my plea
Your advertising makes me suffer can’t you see
How your words cut so deep
And your image of perfection makes me lose sleep”
Because there’s no one ‘right’ way to be a woman
Despite what you
May want me to think.

And as the women on whose self-esteem they’ve preyed
Executives, housewives, doctors, and maids
In our efforts against shaming we are joining
A movement now is slowly forming
To say to them, “We won’t let you tear us down with your jeering calls
Together we’re standing tall”
And there will be no more hiding.

—

No woman should have to apologize for being skinny.
No woman should have to apologize for being fat.
No more of the “this is so much more attractive than that” memes.
Beauty comes in EVERY shape, size, and color.

End Body Shaming Now!

The above shirt is being sold on your website, as part of your PINK® collection. Had it not been for your Semi-Annual Sale catalog that arrived at my home recently, I would never have known it existed. As I flipped through the pages, somewhat bored and certainly unimpressed by most of your selection, I stopped dead in my tracks when I got to the page with this item on it.

It is a safe assumption that the products in your PINK® collection are aimed at college-aged young women (18 to 23 years old, let’s say). College costs money—in terms of tuition, board, academic supplies—and for many people, that cost is prohibitively high. Scholarships and loans don’t come close to making a dent, and it leaves many young people who want to attend college financially unable to do so.

What this means is that individuals who are enrolled in college—an overwhelming percentage of whom are women these days, outnumbering men, in fact—should count their blessings and not party more, because that would be a profound waste of the money that either they or their parents have invested in their education.

Therefore, to sell a product encouraging young women to “party more” and “study less” is downright irresponsible, and retreads the stereotype of women not needing to be “smart”—that once again, intellect and job readiness come second to being pretty and having fun. The clear message here is, “Why worry about your future, about becoming financially solvent and able to support yourself when you can just meet a boy at one of those parties, and he’ll take care of you?”

While Victoria’s Secret has never been a bastion of women’s rights or using imagery in its ads and commercials that don’t set unrealistic standards for women, it is both disappointing and appalling that you would stoop so low as to perpetuate this outdated, misogynistic mindset.

In short: Your secret is out, Victoria. And it ain’t pretty.

(Another piece of writing from a year or two back…)

~*~

I’m watching him.

His eyelids are lowered, concentrating as he lifts one of my legs up onto his shoulder, then the other. He nudges himself in between, aligning himself as the backs of my thighs press against his chest. 

I understand now why it’s called “naked.”

There’s no hiding here. No cleverly cut dresses or slimming colors, no angles to dodge or lighting to avoid. I’m bare, bared to him. Rolls of untoned flesh;  small, eggplant bruises above my knee; the hair surrounding my sex. He can see them all.

This is how I felt all the time in high school, I think to myself. Only without the legs-in-the-air part.

My breath hitches as he slides inside, filling me. He is panting with the effort of holding on, of giving me all that he can, of making this last.

I watch my stomach jiggle just slightly as he begins to move, and gaze down at the place where our bodies meet. He is moving faster now, grunting, one hand grasping the crook of my knee to hold me tightly.

I have let him in. The many intricate barriers I put up—barriers of fabric, of skin, light, and shadow—have fallen, and he is seeing me. All of me. 

I half-expected him to run away when he did, I’ll have you know.

But I didn’t expect this. Clinging, biting, kissing, licking. Savoring the taste of me on his tongue, and so eager to devour more.

At first, I cross my arms over my body, still trying to hide. He pushes them away, staring down at me with piercing authority. 

Don’t you dare do that again. You have no reason to hide.

I trace the pattern of freckles on his chest with my eyes, down to the mole below one of his nipples and a small scar on his stomach.

I can see all of him, too… it suddenly occurs to me, and I am no longer one, but two. We are “we” here, and he wants to see me like this as much as I want to see him. Flushed. Writhing. Moles and bruises and sweat. Holding on while letting go. 

Naked.

Yesterday, I reblogged a post that was going around Tumblr, that said, “Reblog if you honestly believe or have ever been told that you are ugly.” This post had an almost shocking number of notes—well past a million. After reblogging, I realized I had a lot more to say on the subject, which is why I am writing this.

His name was Tommy Birch. I remember his shaved head. Even when the campus was bustling—after classes let out, as everyone ran to find their bus home—I could spot him from afar.

He followed me around, calling me “Ugly Amy”—over and over, from the moment I set foot outside the building right up until I got on the bus…and sometimes he followed me onto there, too.

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