Theorizing Thin

I know that no one has sympathy for the skinny girl. American culture has taught us from an early age that skinnyness is a physical attribute both to aspire to and to despise; like anything we desperately want, our feelings for it are a contradictory mix of lust for and repulsion of the desired object(ive). It is not us, so we want it. It is not us, so we distrust and mock it with humanity's unique xenophobic psychology. In most people's troubled attempts to become united with their potentially thin selves, they realize the inevitability of imperfection and so begin to loathe skinny. Call it superficial Lacanianism. Or the Freudian haute couture.

The thing is, being skinny has a few marked disadvantages. I'm starting to experience these disadvantages more frequently as I get older, because clothing is designed for women with at least a modicum of curvaceousness. In my current search for clothing that doesn't look like it spends 8 hours a day in a book warehouse, particularly a few pretty pre-wedding pieces, I've spent hours trying on dresses in stores that range from the nice to the Forever 21 to no avail. Either they sag in the front, or they droop in the back, or they make me look like an underdeveloped whore. I'm beginning to think that I either need to learn to alter clothing or start stalking fashionable Japanese exchange students.

What skinny seekers don't realize is that it's as depressing for a woman as tiny as myself to shop as it is for someone who's a little overweight; both of us leave stores feeling a little less feminine than when we went in, a little less pretty and alluring.

A Clinton supporter would point out right about now that it is foolish for women to pin some fraction of our self-worth on appearance, but I believe that doing so is hard-wired. Before women were social beings we were biological beings, and being attractive aids survival. You don't see any Neanderthal ladies prancing around, do you?

Okay, poor, anachronistic, and pseudo-scientific reasoning. Nevertheless, I think I'm correct to suggest that superficial qualities impact the way we feel about ourselves and the ways that others view us. As a result, when nothing fits I feel un-gendered and ill at ease. There are women all around me with boobs and hips, and men with penises, and then there's me: skinny bones jones with no easy physical allocation in the world.

Am I exaggerating? Well, yes. Theorizing about something always imbues it with more dire significance and bullshit than it deserves. There are good things about being skinny, too. For instance, I can fit into my fiance's grandmother's wedding suit, and a lot of other cool vintage items. I can squeeze past slowpokes on the sidewalk without appearing brusque. I can eat dessert twice a day and tell myself that it is all part of the the great Breast Cake Plan. I am sleek and muscular and lithe like the Arctic fox.

It may sound trite and impossibly difficult, but it is genuinely best to feel comfortable in your own skin and to love your body. I find this easier to do when I don't go shopping, which goes a long way toward explaining my wardrobe. Do I wish I had a bosom that required a bra and hips and that made my 24-inch waist look impressive? Yes. Do I have a pang of jealousy when my voluptuous goddess of a best friend shows up looking like the Marilyn Monroe to my prepubescent Gabbie Hoffman? Yes. But I try to desire the things and experiences that I am capable of attaining without plastic surgery.

Besides, no one likes a whiner. Especially a skinny one.