Free One To Watch by Kate Stayman-London

we’re finally making some progress: For the first time, more than 100 members of the House of Representatives are women. In the wake of the #MeToo movement, women are reclaiming our personhood and bodily autonomy. Fat activists face enormous prejudice in seeking vital human rights—like unbiased medical care—for the plus-size community.
    But Bea Schumacher isn’t about any of that. She’s about reinforcing the same, tired narrative about who women are and what we should be:
    1)She’s a fashion blogger who thinks women should spend our time and money beautifying ourselves to conform with the male gaze. (Sorry, just because she’s plus-size does NOT make this in any way subversive.)
    2)She’s going on a show that insists that the entire point of a woman’s existence is to find a husband and bear his children. Hard pass!
    Let the rest of the Internet try to convince itself that this is a step forward for women. I’ll keep calling it exactly what it is: the same old patriarchal bullshit served in a brand-new plus-size box.

THE FATPOCALYPSE IS UPON US
by Anders Bernard, mondaymorningqb.com
    In retrospect, we should have seen it coming.
    The first horseman of the fatpocalypse was Ashley Graham on the cover of
Sports Illustrated
. And we thought, okay—so she’s big. I’d still hit it. Her body’s in proportion, just a Kardashian with padding. We never dreamed it was the beginning of the end.
    Then Rihanna got fat. So did Taylor Swift. That chick from
This Is Us
got nominated for an Emmy—that was the moment we switched from horsemen to actual horses. The message to women was clear: You don’t need to go to the gym, just eat a sandwich instead! It’s easier, and who needs a bikini body when you can buy a bikini in a size 40? Who cares that you’ll be dead by the time you’re sixty when you can carb it up right now?
    Now, “plus-size blogger” Bea Schumacher is going to be the next star of
Main Squeeze
. If you’ve never seen her, picture a barnyard animal that gave up on itself at birth and still thinks it can wear a crop top. And we, the television viewers of America, are supposed to believe that 25 men are going to compete to
marry
this thing. “Reality” TV? Not even close. There’s not a single man in America drunk enough to bang this woman, let alone propose to her—and unless ABS found a chub-chasing cult from some backwoods swamp, there certainly aren’t 25.
    I know what you’re thinking: Men don’t watch this show, so who cares what this bitch looks like? Here’s my point: Telling women they can look like this and still expect guys to drool all over them is a dangerous lie. It’s not good for them, it’s not good for us, and if we’re not careful, the fatpocalypse is going to ruin our lives.

    “You
have
to call Chris Evans! He has the best ass in America, like, canonically,” Marin insisted through a mouthful of sad turkey sandwich in a sad L.A. satellite studio on the ABS lot. Lauren had allowed Bea one last meal with her best friend before she went on complete blackout for filming, for which Bea was eternally grateful—even if the meal itself left something to be desired.
    “You’re ridiculous.” Bea laughed. “How would I even get his number?”
    “Slide into his DMs, then burrow into his heart. It’s like you’re not even a Millennial.”
    “Great plan, but it’ll have to wait until I get my phone back.”
    “Ugh,” Marin sighed, and sprawled extravagantly across the folding chair where she was sitting. At barely five feet tall with a wiry frame and chic little pixie cut, Marin hardly cut an intimidating figure, but woe betide anyone who crossed her (or anyone who crossed Bea, for that matter). “I can’t believe you’ve been phoneless for three days already. Do you feel like a pioneer on the Oregon Trail? Do you have typhoid? Have you been eaten by a bear?”
    “Very nearly,” Bea deadpanned—but there was an element of truth to the joke. After three straight days