The Shame of Female Corporeality

It is the great shame of the modern woman that she takes up space.

Women in days of yore were little things, will o' the wisps, ethereal creatures we weren't sure existed when they turned a certain way. No logic governed these beings - no facts, no figures. They were spritely, magical, full of fairy dust and romantic notions from boyhood and not much else. Hang one on your Christmas tree before bed for good luck.

Now, women are oak trees, solid things, things you can't ignore, things you can't push off the sidewalk when you walk to your next important destination. Now they are loud, and crude, and vocal, and they take up space. They talk, and they eat, and they shit, and they exist for themselves, and not for you.

Whatever happened to skinny women? Why are we applauding women for their larger sizes? What's so positive about a body that takes up space?

Where have all the Audrey Hepburns gone? Whatever happened to the Judy Garlands of the world? Replaced by Serena Williams, by Rhonda Rousey. It is the humiliation of the modern woman that she exists, fully, and actually, in more ways than mere simple decoration.

Audrey was a muse, you know, and you could be too - a childhood of malnourishment in wartime could make you an international ideal of feminine beauty as well.

Judy was a star, you know, and you could be too -  a steady intake of diet pills and alcohol from your teenage years on could make your excess weight disappear as well.

Women used to be the playthings of our dreams, all perfection on pedestals and alive when we had the time for them. Fading quickly, dissipating, upon waking, unsure if they were ever even there. Now, women are the coffee in the morning, the bitter taste that wakes you up and keeps you that way for the next 12, 14, 16, 18 hours. In your face, and potent, and pungent, and big, so big, always so big, and unwilling to stay quiet or leave you alone.

Women were ideals, locked in towers, created for men to feel important as they played hero and rescuer whenever they finally got around to it. Now these women are here, on the ground, in the everyday, not conveniently waiting around to give a man's life purpose or meaning. Physically able to leave that tower on their own, with enough nourishment and exercise that gives them an independence that is patently unfeminine. It is a shame, these women who take up space in the everyday. It is inconsiderate. It is gauche. It is not to be borne.

Space does not belong to women. It is not theirs to take. Shame, shame, shame - for taking what is not yours. Shame, shame, shame - for stretching beyond your clearly laid-out boundaries, for delineating from the agreed-upon script.

Shame, shame, shame - for being more than society insists you be.