March 5th, 2007

harry potter: moony and pink werewolf cu

A sudden discovery in body image

So last week was Love Your Body week. This meant that jeans were hanging (and still are hanging) in the Hub with little ego-boosting messages like "I love my eyes" and "I love my hair". Great idea, right?

There's one catch. Those jeans were tiny. Seriously. There were about four pairs of jeans hanging up there on the display, and all of them were tiny. Last time I checked, Agnes Scott women have at least one thing in common--the desire to succeed as a woman in a male-dominant world. Clearly this does not equate to the ability to squeeze into such small jeans.

This morning Arielle, Dana, Crystal, and I were discussing this over breakfast in the Hub. When Dana brought this up, I just had to get up and check the size of those jeans. Come on; you know I had to. They were all size four, if you're curious. Gah. Sure, sizes are mostly arbitrary anyway. Why can't we just go standard and measure by inches or centimeters like guys do? It'd make things so much easier. And don't start me on the length ordeal.

So yes, they were all tiny sizes. Ignoring the fact that most of the Agnes community is not a size four (not even me, and I'm not a big person--horizontally, anyway), it just made me thing of the misrepresentation present. Are we saying "Love your body only if it can squeeze into these pants"? This is the garbage that the mass media feeds us. We don't need to hear it at a place where we're otherwise encouraged to bloom to our full potential, too.

And for the record, I love my size seven (why should I be shy about that?) body. Sure, I complain about it when I can't hold up strapless dresses or when stuff's too short for my legs or for my arms or when I have to buy pointy shoes several sizes too big because my feet are a lot wider at the toe than at the heel, but still. It's mine, and it's the only one of mine I have. I need to be proud of it and take care of it.

It gets better, though. When I left to go to French, the people at the next table got up. They looked familiar. They were the parents of one of the prospectives I took on a tour yesterday. "Thanks for the tour!" they told me. I thanked them and asked how they were doing, all the time thinking that they probably saw their tour guide climbing the couches in the Hub just to get to the tag on a pair of jeans.

Ahem. And how was your day?