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I have been listening to The 1975 on repeat for literally three weeks. I adore their song ‘Girls’ – I kind of wish I had discovered it in summer – it’s got a fresh 90s style riff through it and it’s a perfect driving song. Love it.

I discovered this photo on Facebook today and I felt like I should blog it, this is just how I feel lately!

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I’m starting to become comfortable in the skin I’m in, albeit incredibly slowly. That doesn’t mean I think I’m perfect, or have a great body (because I’m reaaalllly not and I reaalllly don’t) and I like every single girl on the planet have days where I seriously don’t think I can leave the house because I look in the mirror and I think if I go outside I might accidentally be harpooned or be mistaken for a stray elephant. And it also doesn’t mean I delight in putting on a swimming costume or wearing shorts in the summer. Because I don’t have the body for either of those things. And I will be the first to tell you that.
But it does mean (as I’m sure a lot of people will tell you) I enjoy shopping for clothes for myself, dressing to fit my size, dancing in front of the mirror with a hairbrush and my iPod on and having relaxing baths with a face pack on.
I also find too that awful feeling when you get a notification through saying ” has tagged you and three others in a photo” and wondering what grimace-y mouth open awkward pose you’ve been caught in this time. And then after doing a chin count and a small cry debating whether to untag yourself or just roll with it you decide to pretend you haven’t seen it or opt for the first.
I hope one day, whether I decide to lose weight, cut my hair or make other changes – however I choose – I will be body confident, because in truth, cliché or not, the media stigma of size 10 does exist. And it makes being ‘outside of the norm’ a challenging place to be.
A lady I follow on Instagram recently posted a photo of her small daughter and in her caption wrote of how she was sad to think when she was older her daughter would not see the beauty in herself that she saw in her as her mother – that her daughter would be made to feel insignificant in her skin and told what beautiful looked like.
It’s both challenging and upsetting – an added pressure to both girls and boys that one image is acceptable and another is not.
I have been asked recently if I was Greek, a question which dumbfounded me. How does one look Greek!? I have the complexion of a washed out bedsheet when I don’t wear fake tan and although I have dark eyebrows and dark hair I really felt it a question that came from nowhere. Any ideas on that let me know. I certainly wasn’t wandering around with feta cheese dancing like Stavros Flatley.
I don’t really know the purpose of my own blog post, it’s a lot of rambling on a generalised subject.
Oh well.
Ttfn. Emmy.

PS – give The 1975 a listen.

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