Last week a charming 'anonymous' commenter challenged me on my pant size. No really, they did.
Apparently i'm 'NOT' a size 10. Or if I am, I must be taking my photo's with a wide angle lens.
Here's the thing. I get it, I totally do.
I can't believe I wear a size 10 either. It's nuts. I'm one very well covered woman. I've got fat that escapes my undergarments. I've got fat that escapes my size 10 jeans. I've got fat fingers, fat feet and a double chin.
It's not glamorous, but there you have it.
I'm about 154 cm tall and I weigh a shocking 68 kilos. Just to put things into perspective, I weighed 48 kilos on my wedding day and over 80 kilos when I walked out of the hospital with my 3rd baby.
I've been skin and bones and I've been a hell of a lot bigger than I am now and guess what. I really don't care.
I'm a real person. A real mother. A real women in size 10 jeans (with a lot of stretch).
To be fair, there was ONE time in my life when I really genuinely invested my emotional energy into the size and shape of my body. I was 16.
I've moved on.
Yet here I sit on my generous arse justifying my pant size to a bunch of strangers.
What am I thinking?
This is not the issue here.
When will we women stop?
When will we stop the righteous judgement?
The judgement on the way another chooses to raise their child. The way they decide to spend their money, the food they choose to eat, the size of their jeans, the religion they follow or whether they decide to work or stay at home?
It's exhausting. And boring.
I'm all for discussion and opinions but can we leave the nastiness at the door?
Summer Striped Dress in Red and White | size small (GASP)