She goes running over to the bright shiny window and feverishly starts pointing.
"Look!" She points, jumping up and down with the sort of glee only children at Disney World exhibit.
Now I must admit... She had me excited. My wife is a pretty even keeled sort of girl and usually doesn't just go all Belieber on me at random. So to see her jumping and pointing as excitedly as she was got my attention.
I get to the window as quickly as stoned legs could carry me, standing next to her, looking through a window.
"Over there," she points, excitedly through the sea of racks and counters to three mannequins standing off to the side.
"What about them?"
"Their real girl sized?"
"Well they have always been real girl sized... Except in the kid section."
"No, their shaped like real women."
"Yup. Always have been. What kind of stores have you been shopping in? Were they selling clothes on squares?"
"No, asshole. The mannequins are fat."
I turned again, straining to see, eventually having to move closer. And as I did I saw she was right. These plastic women wearing rather large panties were in fact full figured.
Needless to say, I laughed like an ass and took pictures, much to my wife's chagrin.
See, she hadn't squealed in delight and pointed like she saw Santa because she knew this was the funniest thing we would see all damn day...
She did it because she thought they were good.
Remove Reason and Accountability
This is what Feminism had become... Cheering at the sight of an overweight plastic dummy modeling attire
that a woman knows deep down whether or not she should be attempting to pull off. Somewhere, Susan B. Anthony is very proud.
I knew there was an issue with body images going on... I'm not that unaware of things. But to see that it had carried beyond the hard bodied Aphrodites populating our television and movies and into the world of the wooden dummies modeling the clothes at the store struck me odd.
It had never occurred to me to hate the dummies.
For years I have been walking past the Hollister store, it's doors guarded by shirtless boys standing next to blue armless sculptures with abs up to their plastic necks modeling shorts. And for years, I walked past them, never once even thinking about entering that store. But it never occurred to me that it was the statue that kept me from buying the clothes... It couldn't have been the knowledge that those were clothes for little rubber men and that my massive ponch earned from late night cheeseburger runs and an utter disdain for diets kept me from donning clothing they sold.
Nope.. It was the fucking dummy that denied me the street cred only Hollister jeans could bring.
But not only that... That same son of a bitch, unfeeling, cocksucker of a dummy then made me feel bad about myself. It did.
Apparently a plastic idol made to remind me how hideous I was (and still am, only now that I am closer to middle age, it is more acceptable) because my body wasn't the ideal type for that clothes (or anything, if we are being honest, as there aren't an abundance of long haired, squinty eyes jerks with patchy beards and roughly twenty extra pounds getting all the ladies on big and small screens) reinforced the image so well, it no doubt brought about a massive shame spiral, forcing me to go and emotion eat myself into a size forty.
But all that is going to change now that we have big, fat plastic dummies selling really big panties and what look like t-shirts making their way into the stores.
The fatter the berry...
I still don't see the point...
Changing the dummy doesn't change anything. A fat dummy doesn't make me any more capable of shopping at Abercrombie or Hollister anymore than it means every girl with a little more to love (or a lot more, for that matter) is going to pull off every article of clothes hanging off the rack. A fatter dummy isn't going to make you any less unhappy about you than a skinny dummy would.
Because the dummy isn't the problem.
The big titted 18 year old jiggling behind the counter with the 00 waist is the problem.
You don't feel bad because of the dummy. You feel bad because of her.
Because she exists... Standing there looking cute, while your digging through the rack desperate to find something doesn't make you look like a monster wrapped in burlap. And as you do that, you seethe. You curse little miss jiggly tits for existing, Changing the mannequins isn't a victory for women with big hips everywhere... No more than making the nymph working the register gain an extra twenty would be.
It's a marketing ploy, aimed at separating you from your money. You think JC Penny gives a shit about your over active thyroid or debilitating addiction to curly fries with gravy? They only care about getting you to buy pants from them. So they put up fat mannequins so you'll cheer and laud their forward thinking, digging deep into your pockets to buy that cute top you had always been tempted to buy but were too sheepish before seeing it draped complimentary on the extra large model.
But once you take it home and try it on, you'll see this for the hustle it is; the larger doll lacking the oozy dough like consistency of your body as your new top squeezes and contours everything wrong. You'll curse the designers for not taking into account women with whatever your personal struggle happens to be, curse TV, curse men. You even go so far as to curse the almighty Himself; damning him for bringing you into existence in a time where heroin chic stripper is all the rage. You'll even blame the 18 year old nymph with the perky tits whose pulling off the short sensible due your older face just isn't supporting any more because fuck her, she should have said something.
But you never once see that the issue is you.
Not because you won't stop eating French fries or anything like that... I'm not a monster...
But because you fail to see the simple truth of life.
You determine your happiness.
If this age of "everyone's ok" has taught me anything, it's that there is no solution that's going to make you feel better about you than you actually feeling better about you.
Make all the videos, change all the dummies...hell, ban all the 18 year old fuckbots from working at the mall during "normal sized only" shopping hours and it isn't going to change a single thing.
A bathing suit will mock your love handles.
A pair of yoga pants will make your ass look enormous.
The jeans will snicker as you change the way you stand thousands of time before accepting that your ass is simply too big to be covered with all that bedazzling without looking like a lumpy disco ball.
And that's because the change has to come for you.
If you are unhappy about how you look, fix it. God knows there are enough gurus, doctors, flesh sculptors, and meth dealers willing to peddle the cure for what ails you.
If that ain't your bag, then try being ok with it.
It has worked for men since the dawn of time and it seems to be what your mothers were screaming about as they burned their bras and stopped shaving their legs back when they were young and vibrant. Sure it has it's draw backs... Every accepted slide further down the "ok with it" scale comes with it's own dire consequences (currently, I have had to admit roller coasters are for slightly smaller men) that- as the name says- you're ok with it, so fuck it.
The dummy isn't fat shaming women. It's a dummy. It stands there and gets dressed by some clown making minimum wage. It's women who fat shame women as they stare at themselves in the mirror, cursing what they see for not looking like what society tells them is hot. Wanna change something? Try changing that.
Or develop a taste for skinny brothers....
They don't care how big you get.