When I was growing up I distinctly remember shopping for pantyhose with my mom. It might be because we went everywhere with her, or that I have an unusual memory, but this stands out. Do you remember the hose that came in the plastic eggs? The photos showed beautiful, slim and unnaturally shiny and shaded legs we thought we would get when we stretched on a pair. It never turned out that way.
One thing that bothered me was the names of the larger sizes. Instead of the S, M and L designation, you were met with XXL or worse-Queen. Queen sized. Who wants that on any item of clothing they buy? That is not the kind of queen reference I wanted to be associated with.
But what really got me, besides the name of the size, was the fact that the pictures looked like all of the others. Same long, slim, shaded legs. As a young girl that grew up before Photoshop was a thing, that was confusing.
You’ll notice a theme this month in that I am sick and tired of labels. Labels, man—they can hurt. I am not sure why I have to be known as Heather “the heavy one that writes about food and lingerie.” How about Heather the “kick ass writer”? Maybe even with rose petals sprinkled at my feet. I kid. But you get the idea.
I don’t segment people in my mind that way. I don’t have a list for everyone that looks like: Mary the sloppy drunk, Erik the controller, Liz the gossip or Katie the closet eater. I don’t have that in my head so why would I say that about people out loud?
Let’s drop the labels, shall we?