Letting someone know you find them desirable does have a time and place; say, flirting at a bar or party. Or maybe on a date. Or how about in bed? The difference is simple and monumental: Consent.
Freedom from our body loathing won't come from taking more confident selfies, giving Barbie a double chin or determining to love ourselves better by posting unflattering pictures on Instagram. These are all ways we focus more on ourselves and our obsessions, not less.
Strange as it may sound, I never contemplated the existence of my butt until one fateful day in the eighth grade.
Take back your control. Don't be made to feel inferior by the commercialism of weight loss, the false promises, and the celebrities who are paid for their endorsements. A healthy weight loss is not a race, because there is no finish line.
No one had ever told me that my thighs were huge. It wasn't like they were out of proportion with the rest of my body or I had to search the mall for pants wider in the thigh. Was it a compliment? I wasn't sure.
Body love has nothing to do with our bodies, but the stories they tell. It's about taking ownership of our stories so that we can be resilient in the moments when the visions and hopes we have for ourselves are challenged by what other people think.
How do you measure a man? You measure his penis (while erect -- from the side, not the top). Big Like Me is the story of a man and his average-sized penis. Dabbling in parody, psychology and philosophy, this dissertation is alternately fascinating and disgusting.
You don't know this yet but your family really loves you. They never meant to hurt you or confuse you. I can happily say that you eventually found your way and we won.
So, as I was making my morning rounds at the Madison Square Club this morning, I saw a couple of things that inspired me to write this impromptu blog....
Dance is a complicated world. It's a world where your body is your canvas, and that canvas is supposed to look a certain way. And sadly, that standard doesn't just exist in dance, it's everywhere. But thankfully, the world is changing.
Three-way mirrors are soul-crushing windows into the depths of hell under the best of circumstances; put a pregnant lady wearing an ill-fitting tankini in front of them and expect nothing short of a full-scale nervous breakdown
My bosom, which played a solid supporting role in the long-running dramas of mating and motherhood, is in genteel retirement these days, appearing mainly as visual balance for the ever-swelling regions below my waist. Actually, my boobs, too, seem to be getting bigger and bigger, in inverse proportion to their practical usefulness.
Perfection is like a carrot on the end of a stick mounted to your head. You keep thinking you can grab it if you run hard enough, and sometimes you can get a little taste of it, but it's never quite enough.
When I find myself looking in the mirror, hoping to see a reflection that is reminiscent of the woman I used to be, I'm completely disregarding the changes that my body has undergone in the last two years.
My first real-life, up-close glimpse of this insane standard for the gay male physique was at a bar in New Orleans. Although I did not want to use my minimum wage to stuff the dancers' G-strings, I envied their natural ability to grasp the attention of the room. I realized that beauty and a good body came with a lot of power.
From the moment I heard Emma's shrill, loud cry as she emerged into the world, I knew that I would never again feel content unless I knew she was OK. When Charlotte arrived one minute later, floppy and quiet for a moment, that feeling doubled.