Free I'm Judging You by Luvvie Ajayi

got a complex where I previously did not have one. What stuck with me, in particular, was how people focused on my skinny legs. I am basically Olive Oyl. My archnemeses are Timberland boots, because they’re heavy and my skankles (skinny ankles) be on struggle mode when I rock them. I still do, though, because I’m shallow and I like the look. But good GAWDT. I wore them one day while in New York, and you know they walk everywhere there. These shoes are really not meant for those of us who are ankle-deficient, because by the end of walking those raggedy streets in some boy’s size five wheat Timbs, and carrying that construction-boot weight with my ankles, I needed an Icy Hot patch. My lesson learned: wear thicker socks so your feet won’t slide around in your cute boots. Also, ask a New Yorker for exact distance because they play too much. You ask how far y’all are walking, and they say, “Around the corner.” Lies. I should have called Lyft.
    I hated wearing shorts because of my aforementioned sticks for legs. In summer, I’d be in jeans the entire time — rain, sleet, 100 degrees, it didn’t matter. At the beach, I’d wear long linen pants, and then when it was time to swim, I’d throw them off in a hurry and run into the water, all so people wouldn’t see my legs and have the chance to point them out. And dresses? NEVER. Well, besides prom, and that was a gown so it covered my legs. It was a REAL insecurity. I carried this with me through my twenties, from which very few pictures of me in shorts exist. I don’t know when I had my “I no longer give a damb” moment about my legs and my body, but one day, I put on a dress and looked amazing in it and decided that if people didn’t like my toothpick legs, they’d just have to deal.
    Anywho, for years, I did not like my body and was not comfortable in it because people constantly pointed out the fact that I was thin. What comes with being skinny is everyone treating you like you wrote in to their “Dear Abby” column. They’re always ready to give you advice on what you need to do, even though you didn’t ask them a damb thing. “Dang, Luvvie! You’re so skinny! Do you eat?! Maybe you just need a sandwich.” No, I don’t eat. I survive on a steady diet of air and water. Don’t worry about me, worry about you. You don’t see me walking up to you, saying, “I see you’ve been eating. A LOT.” Rude. It’s mind-boggling how free people feel to do this to friends, family, and strangers alike.
    Today, I recognize that my body type is idealized. In a battle of “Who gets it the worst?” I know to shut my mouth and listen and apologize for the dumb shit my fellow skinnies say. Some people are naturally meant to be fleshier, and some are like me and can’t cuddle without stabbing their partners in the chest with their bony chins. It is out of most people’s control. I have friends who weigh twice as much as me but eat half as much as I do and work out twice as hard. I’m pretty sure their hearts are in better shape than mine. They can probably run more than three blocks without wheezing, which is more than I can say for myself and my cardio abilities.
    We’re all walking around being told we’re not enough, whether big or small, short or tall. It is exhausting, and we have got to be gentler with each other on this weight thing. It is ruining lives. People are dwelling in hopelessness because their bodies are not whatever they’re “supposed” to be.
    I really do wish we could love ourselves more. It’s something I am working on every single day. You’re probably like, “Hey, Luvvie, don’t you make fun of people all the time?” Yes, I do. As a professional make-fun-of-people-er, aka humorist, I excel at dirty dozens at others’ expense. But I try my darndest to keep it to changeable things, like