Close! But No Cigar.

I was going to rant about this particular topic, but I’m not feeling the piss and vinegar today. Instead, I’m going to speak calmly and rationally about a topic in hopes that my readers can appreciate my self control and . . .

Eh, FUKKIT.

Sometimes, WordPress will put up “you might like this” article links on their main page for me. Because I’m such a spaz, they recommend everything from chinchilla farming to publishing to Fat People On Tricycles. I sort of ignore it to preserve my sanity (WHAT DO THEIR LINKS SAY ABOUT ME?). Today it was a . . . fashion blog. Yeah, I know, right? I own three pairs of shoes these days and I think Lauren hates 2/3 of them. Anyway, at first I squee’d because it’s Adele looking gorgeous. She’s landed herself a cover of Vogue, and wasn’t I giddy for it.

Then I looked harder.

And read the article.

And I got all pissed off.

See, what I like about Adele — what a lot of women I know like about Adele — is she’s a roundish woman going triple platinum based on her fantastic voice, not because she went on a fiber and caterpillar diet to wear a size zero and dance like a skank for album sales. She’s beautiful as she is. She’s simply /divine/ my darlings. To Vogue’s credit, they were willing to -GASP- put a fatty on their cover! That’s progress, right? She really does look beautiful with those big green eyes of hers, yeah?

Except. It’s a lie. It’s a big fat lie. Look how they photographed her. Head shot only, hair placed over her shoulder so it would cover up any hints of a double chin. It’s all an illusion. I understand that fashion is about what’s pretty, and fat isn’t pretty to society. I also understand that maybe Adele didn’t want to be one of the only heavy people to grace the cover of Vogue. Shit, I get hugely self-conscious when people take my picture. I’m a big girl, and I’m very particular about how people see me. Except . . . Adele’s come out of the closet with her body shape, as it were. She’s out there, hips and all, flaunting what her mama gave her. The concept of her getting hung up about her size at this stage of the game is sort of tragic and — if other photo shoots and live performances are any indication — seemingly out of character?

Hopefully out of character? I’d hate to think that we’re all championing her and she’s secretly weeping somewhere that she’s a size 14 or so. It would ruin something precious for me. Like finding out Batman punches kittens for fun in his off time.

Don’t be Batman, Adele.

Anyway, I guess I just wonder at what point are we as a collective whole going to get over trying to make everyone twig-like to fit into a social parameter. When are we going to stop communicating to our daughters and nieces that no matter how hard they work, they’ll never be Thin Enough? Or Pretty Enough if the cosmetic companies would have you believe. Or Tan Enough. Or Smooth Enough. Or . . . Enough at all.

Ladies, we’re Enough. Regardless of body type, looks, the color of your hair, the size of your feet. We’re Enough.

Fuck Vogue for making you (and me) think otherwise.

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