It was in the air, or so it seemed to Kiki, this hatred of women and their bodies--it seeped in with every draught in the house; people brought it home on their shoes, they breathed it in off their newspapers. There was no way to control it.
--Zadie Smith, On Beauty
Where does it come from, this endless criticism we have of ourselves? Who told us to make it a habit of scrutinising our contours, checking it off against an imaginary ideal and tallying the scores to determine if we "passed"? Pass what?
I like the way my body is, I've never been ashamed of it, and I don't want to start now.
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