Here's something I just saw on Facebook:
I watched it, and then I watched it again.
I looked out my window at the yellow leaves on the horse chestnut trees in my neighborhood, one of the only things brightening the sodden gray way October is ending. I tried to think up a clever comment to add to the thread about it. I felt a leaden mixture of recognition and dejection in my lower abdomen.
Everything in the whole world managed to tell me by the time I was twelve that I had to find ways--razors, tweezers, dyes, cosmetics, clothes, exercise, diets--to do to my own body what the computer did to this woman's. If my legs weren't long, I had to use the right clothes to make them look longer. If my ass was too big--and I found it striking that fixing her ass was the very last thing they did--I had to find a way to shrink it. I had to reshape my eyebrows and cover any imperfection in my skin.
I love the scene in Pulp Fiction where Fabienne, attempting to explain why she wishes she had a pot belly, says, "It's unfortunate what we find pleasing to the touch and pleasing to the eye is seldom the same." I dated this guy once who had kind of a big ass for a guy. I remember looking at a picture of him on Facebook and thinking, "He's got kind of a lot of junk in his trunk for a guy." I wouldn't say it wasn't pleasing to the eye, but it was definitely pleasing to the touch: muscular and firm, with plenty to hang on to.