When I read that the national average is a size 16
Like we’re all statistics in a clothing regime
That I’m three sizes short of, but still considered by some as ‘fat’
For my wide hips and lack of a thigh gap
I question why I care, but can’t find an answer
Like my mind is infected with an ideological cancer
That feeds on my body-loving and self-esteem
and turns how good I feel in skinny jeans
Into a desire to no longer be average, but to be something more
To be curvaceous with DDs or a petite size four
But my body does not fall willingly onto this spectrum we call ‘body types’
Like it does not fall willingly into anyone’s needs but mine
And it joins me on this journey to become so fully
The woman I am growing to love, and her not-quite-flat tummy,
So no, I don’t look like the woman modelling on Instagram
Or the women we aim to resemble when we start a gym plan.
Average sizes are a myth, there is nothing average or ordinary
About a woman who can accept she is enough in the 21st century.
We have been told too many times that we as women
should be living for the reward of seeing our bodies thinning
Into something smaller, lesser than man. I am thinking
That ideally we should keep on shrinking
Until we are pocket-sized barbie doll figures
With impossible waist proportions, consumed by ED triggers
But I am not a woman designed to fit into a small space
I was nurtured with the capacity to love and embrace
All women and their shapes, our diversity celebrations
And our personal growth no longer fit your body expectations.
Featured image courtesy of Emily Mae.
Image use licence here.
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