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I call BS on “black is slimming”

black

I am fat. 

I don’t really hide this. Mostly because I can’t. Because, again, I’m fat. 

I’m not, like, cute fat either. Or acceptable fat. The kind of fat that most “plus size” models are. I have a large body. My t-shirt size requires more than one X. I take up space. I mean, look at my profile picture in the sidebar, the rolls in my arms.

Diet culture, magazines, and media tell us treat the color black like it’s some magic antidote to our weight. I LOST 15 POUNDS WITH THIS ONE COOL TRICK. TRY IT OUT TODAY.

Look. I don’t want to burst anyone’s bubble here, but you can be dressed head to toe in noir and people can still tell that you’re fat. If anything, the people who can get away wearing black are the ones who only have a found pounds to “slim” away because all the black does is trick the eye. Those of us who are fat, who have larger bodies, can’t slim anything away. Our bodies are what they are and no color of clothing is going to change that.

Make no mistake: I wear black often, but not because I think if I wear it, I can convince people I’m thinner than I actually am. I wear black because black is a fucking amazing color. The color black is fierce and formidable.

But know what else is fierce and formidable? A fat woman in colors and patterns who doesn’t give a fuck what people think. Bright and bold, shocks of pink and large unwieldy patterns. Florals and abstracts and graphic shapes in all manner of size and shades.

It took me a long time to embrace wearing patterns and colors because I, mistakenly, believed my body was something that needed to be hidden. Back then I did wear black in the hopes it would convince the world I had a body worth loving.

It makes people uncomfortable, seeing a woman own her body. Fat women in particular. As a fat woman, I’m supposed to hide my body. I’m supposed to choose my outfits carefully so as to diminish my presence. I’m supposed to suck in my stomach, contort my limbs, make myself as small as possible and not do anything, like wear loud clothes, that might draw attention to myself.

Fuck. That.

I wear bold patterns and bright colors. I wear tank tops that show off my arms, rolls and all. I wear sparkly pencil skirts that hug all of my curves, including the lumps and bumps of my belly. I go to pool parties and wear bikinis. If I had the wardrobe for it, I’d wear cheetah print every single day.

My body is worthy of love regardless of what color I wear. My body has value even when I wear bold prints that are oversized and “too big” for my frame. My body has value exactly as it is and I’m going to dress it up however the fuck I want.

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