Rantings of a Real Woman

Did I mention I'm fat? Oh yeah. I am a size 16 with a healthy appetite and great muscle tone. But apparently (according to popular media, anyway) I am just a few pounds shy of being harpooned on sight. Forget the fact that I carried three children to term and have zero hips (so I looked normal from behind and like I was carrying twins from the side), forget that I have caloric needs above 1200 since I am running a household and caring for the above mentioned children, forget the fact that I am a normal woman with curves and breasts that wants to actually eat the cookies I bake with my kids in those rare Kodak family moments carved out of the everyday chaos. I am not an 80lb anorexic waif with the body of a 12 year-old boy and a penchant for masking all that makes me feminine with androgynous jeans and cologne that swings both ways. I have plenty of padding exactly where it counts and I don't sweat the padding that isn't. But I AM sick of social engagements where all these beautiful women who are living full, productive lives are constantly berating and depriving themselves because they can't shop in the junior's department. They're better than that, every last one of them. And so am I. Take that Vanity Fair.