on body shapes.

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Last week, I attempted to buy a swimsuit in Miami only to find my self melting into a potential puddle of carling shaped woes on the dressing room floor.

Transported to the store of Mean Girls glory, "1,3,5" in an instant. You know, that one store and sales person who makes you feel like a leper for even asking for a size large. for something a little larger than my nipple please oh please. how dare you disrupt this establishment with your crazy requests.

because spoiler alert, they don't have any in store. and the dressing rooms are the kind made from nightmares that have the mirrors on the outside, ON THE OUTSIDE. because at this point, of course they do.

it's silly. the whole thing. the concept of average or normal. because shapes are shapes and bodies are bodies and life is too precious to worry about whether or not you should wear a strapless if you've got broad shoulders. and if theres no larges or extra larges or empathy in the store then I'm in the wrong store. in the wrong mindset. ripe to fall into the traps of circular inner narratives and the kind of self talk that not even Regina George deserves.

I suppose I talk a lot about bodies because I spent so many years thinking so desperately about mine. there are some synapses in my brain that are shaped like bikinis and I do my best to keep them from firing much these days. but shapes are shapes and bodies are bodies and mine is shaped like everything I've loved, and carried, and ran for, or ran from. it's a story of some of the best nights of my life and the best ice cream the world has to offer. Buy the damn strapless. walk out of that store. Remind yourself that worth does not come from a label or a salespersons sideways glance.

Shapes have got nothing on existential nothingness.

Personally, I'm shooting for Bart Simpson.

Carling Harps