Michelle Thomas's Blog

Today I received my decree absolute. I've never been married, this was the millennial's version; an email confirming that the deposit I'd paid on the flat I'd shared with my ex-partner of six years had been refunded.
The relationship ended seven months ago when I packed a rucksack and spent three weeks sobbing on friends' sofas before finding a tiny box room five minutes away from my (our) lovely little flat. A lot's happened since then. Life has gone on. But this notification, this cold scrap of legal data, served as a reminder that something has shifted. I've changed something. I've failed at something. I've lost something I'll never have again. A sixth of my life is gone and won't ever come back.
There was so much guilt, so much doubt, so much anger and self-loathing. There was some little relief, too, streaking through the tumult like angel rays. But aside from the grief – the terrible, corrosive grief that contaminated every aspect of every day and left me reeling (ever stuck your head in a fridge at work to hide a fresh batch of tears from your colleagues? Hello!), there was a nauseating amount of admin involved. Separating our belongings, working out how to get to work from my mate's place on the night bus, changing my address on bills and statements (this particularly tedious bit of ball-achery took me six months to complete). There was a steep cost too – removal vans to hire, greater commuting costs, a deposit and a month's rent in advance on my new place, as well as a month's final rent on my former home. It was dizzying and frightening and now I know, now I know why people stay in unhappy relationships and marriages. I've never been more grateful that I don't have children – I can't imagine doing all that whilst caring for a scared, confused and very sad small human. I myself felt scared, confused, sad and small - I called my parents constantly, unable to make the smallest decision without consulting them. My regression was met with infinite patience and relentless love. 
The deposit was the final thread connecting me to my ex – the refund signifies that he has now moved out of our home. We're not on speaking terms. That's not my decision, but one I respect. During our relationship my anxiety disorder manifested itself in worrying about him. Was he eating properly? Did he get to work safely? What if he got mugged on the way home? He worked in Camden, and during our relationship there was freak accident and a man was killed by a falling shop sign. I obsessed about it for weeks. During that time he sent me frequent texts to soothe and reassure me that he was alright. When the relationship ended my anxiety flared up like psoriasis but I had no outlet. I couldn’t ask him if he was alright because I knew that he wasn't. I knew he wasn't alright, and I knew that I was the reason he wasn't alright and I felt sick with guilt because I still loved him. I'd broken his heart but he was my best friend and I still loved him so much. My friends and family carried me through those frightful few weeks. They spoke soothing words and rubbed my back when I had panic attacks in the pub, after a couple of drinks unbridled the hurly-burly in my head. They didn't flinch when I sobbed and slobbered snot all over them like a deranged St. Bernard. They protected me when I was hurt, and they prevented me from hurting myself. I'm so, so grateful for their love. It saved me. And when I had zero self-esteem and such a low, low opinion of myself, knowing that I was loved by such wonderful people validated me, it made me realise I couldn't be a totally hopeless case.
I was very sad when my relationship ended. Sad, but not depressed. I didn't feel debilitated by sadness – it was imbued with relief that it was over, that we were both free to pursue what we really wanted from life. The truth is, I was a Bad Girlfriend. And I feel as though I'm unlikely to ever be a Good one. It seems to me that every relationship reaches a point where you have to choose between your partner, or yourself. And I choose myself.
It took a long time to acclimatise to my new (single) condition. My husband (we were never married, but I always called him that, even at the very beginning) was my compass, now I was adrift and I couldn't tell dry land from stormy sea. I started smoking again. Our relationship, my life's anchor, had been re-examined and reclassified and there's so much more to that than no longer sharing a roof. It's a rending of the soul. It hurts. It hurts. And to paraphrase a far greater Thomas than I, I did not go gentle. I raged, I raged against the dying of that light. The dying of that love. In the end I was exhausted from raging, from loving so much. I was so lonely. I was so lost, and I had lost so much. And it was time to leave.
It's been seven months now. The last three months have been an unexpectedly exciting, galvanising and fulfilling time, which wouldn't have happened were I still in that relationship (I can heartily recommend going viral as a displacement strategy if you want your mind taken off utter emotional devastation for a few months). It still makes me sad that I've lost my best friend, but I have more perspective now. I know, I've always known, that it was the right thing to do. The rest just takes time.
I still miss him, and the life we had together. Every time I have to catch a train, I have to walk past our old home. His car isn't parked outside any more, and there are new curtains and shiny new furniture in the back room (of course I still look, every time). Every time I pass, there's a faint but very distinct stagger in my belly. It's like walking into what Scots call a “thin place”, a place where there's a thin line dividing this world and the next. A haunted place. This place is a thin line dividing this world and one where we're still together, between the present and the past. It's a physical sensation – somewhere between lurch of vertigo and that shudder which prompts you to say “ooh, someone's just walked over my grave”. I always look. And I always feel it. But then I catch my train in my new present. In my new place. In my new world. It just takes time.

1994.My school report says “Michelle is eight years old going on forty”. I'm a ponderous, cautious, old-headed kid who doesn't mix well with others my age. I live entirely in my own brain, in books, in stories. I've no interest in the kinetic world – I want to move as little as possible. I really want one of those reclining beds for old people that I've seen in adverts. I quite like the idea of being an invalid. Having a body seems like a very tedious bit of life admin. I discover that I'm fat when I'm nine years old. I am informed of the fact by a girl in my year:“Michelle, I'd be lying if I said you weren't fat”.It's so unfair. I don't like having a body. Other people don't like my having a body. So I begin to pretend I simply don't have one. I ignore it, try to disappear into the background as best I can, and keep my head down and buried in a book.1998.I fear and abhor physical exercise. I feel like a different species from every other girl in my year. The sporty girls, naturally, (one of whom has such body confidence that she wears a blue and yellow Adidas three-stripe two-piece to our swimming lessons, like Sporty Spice). Being that we're in rural Wales, there were also many, many girls who live on farms. Girls who can carry hay bails and fence posts. Girls who spend their weekends traversing acres of land to mend fences and tend to the livestock. Girls who complete the equivalent of one of those trendy tough mudder endurance challenges every weekend, summer and winter: staunch, stoic, strong, seeming unselfconcious girls, who seem to understand that their bodies are tools. Machines. Equipment.I dodge school every Monday and Thursday for about two months. It doesn't feel like a lie when I tell my parents I have unbearable recurring stomach cramps – the anxiety is genuinely nauseating. The fear is carnal. The tears are real.In hindsight, it's not as if I couldn't have performed the activity. I wasn't very fit, but I was young and otherwise healthy. My body was perfectly normal for a girl my age – in my mid-teens I was a size 10. And it wasn't the thought of engaging in physical exercise that terrified me. It was the thought of being watched and judged and found lacking. It didn't occur to me that everyone in the class would be too busy doing their own thing to watch and judge me. In my anxious and utterly self-obsessed teenage mind, I would be a target. I would be hurt, and in order to protect myself I had simply to omit that threat from my life by not engaging with it at all.Really, I was still pretending I didn't have a body. It was easier than examining how I really about it. I disliked it intensely. I didn't like the way it looked when it moved. I didn't like the way it looked when it was still. When I dodged I'd sit at home and read and read and read until my brain was full as an egg.2004.I am through to the final round of auditions for a prestigious drama school. The audition is before a Shakespeare scholar – a man who knows every letter of every word Shakespeare has ever written (and quite a few that he may not have). I've chosen Cleopatra for my monologue because she is a Strong Woman (I have recently become a staunch supporter of Strong Women). I sit and watch Mr Scholar tear strips off participants who stand beautifully and speak beautifully, but aren't really engaged in the meaning of the words.(It sounds obvious, but an actor really should understand the meaning of their lines. I auditioned for a Shakespeare play IN WELSH once where a boy recited the line “you kissed me once, on the lips” and pointed at his forehead).I am abrim with anxiety, but I can't wait to perform for this man – I know that I know my shit better than anyone else in this room. I know THEIR speeches better than they do. I know I can withstand any interrogation about any editorial revisions (some classical works vary very slightly from edition to edition – a “thee” when there had been a “thou”, that kind of thing. This bastard had memorised every edition of every edition. But then, so have I. As I say, I know that I know my shit).I know Cleopatra too, as best as a 19 year-old Welsh lass can. I know her pride. I know her churlishness. I know her sorrow. (I'm not saying I'm the lost Judi Dench of my generation. Although I could be. We'll never know. I'm just saying I worked hard.) I begin my audition. I keep my voice steady, my tone rich. I move around the space as I've been directed to by my drama teacher (“using the space” is VERY important in THE THEATRE), drawing imaginary pentagrams with my feet, keeping my mind's eye on the faithless Anthony, goading him, taunting him with (my)Cleopatra's beauty.“Eternity was in our lips and eyes,Bliss in our brow's bent,none our parts so poor but was a race of heaven...”“NO. NO. NO. YOU'RE MAKING YOUR BODY LOOK UGLY”.My breathe stops. His words are suspended in the air like icicles. It takes me a fraction of a second to compose myself, to ask cheerily “OK! What can I do to change that?”. I don't know how he responds. I just know the horror – the dry, inevitable horror – of having my fears confirmed. The thing is, he didn't say that my body IS ugly. It's not. Everything's in the right place, and everything works. I am MAKING it look ugly. I'm holding it wrong. Moving it wrong. Shaping it in a way which is aesthetically disagreeable. I am pretending to be the most beautiful woman who'd ever lived (can we agree not to examine that too closely, please?) and I'm failing because I can't even PRETEND to be the right kind of beautiful. And it didn't matter how well I know the play, how hard I've worked, it didn't matter that I'd lived with those stories in my heart and those words in my mouth for months. I'm not able to do what I yearn for because I didn't know how to make my body look beautiful.P.S. I didn't go to drama school, but for a few years I remembered the names of those who did, and kept a very casual eye on how their careers were progressing. They're not up to much. So in a way, I win.2013.I start running after I experience a major depressive episode. I start running because I'm terrified. I've been bed-ridden for a week, crying because I was thirsty and I couldn't summon the energy to walk to the kitchen for a glass of water. I need a practical strategy to fix my brain. And I hate it. Leaving the flat feels like agony. I run for sixty seconds at a time, praying for respite. There are no endorphins, just numb relief when I'm finally allowed to go home and cry in the bath.2015.It took two belligerent, bloody-minded years for me to stop thinking of running as a chore. For the chorus of “this-is-BULLshit-this-is-BULLshit-this-is-BULLshit” to stop chugging through my head as I wheezed and panted around the neglected South London park. I ran for a few weeks at a time, then stopped because it was too hard or I was too lazy. I never put my trainers on without seething resentment weighing me down. A lot changed in that two years. I left a promising but unfulfilling career as an agent to make lattes and write. I went on holiday on my own. I joined Slimming World, and now I'm no longer lugging around an extra 15 pounds. When I started running again most recently, it felt different. It was no longer an endurance. I no longer prayed for respite. It no longer felt as though I was punishing my body. I was nurturing it. I felt good after running, and not just because of the smugness – the fabled endorphins finally turned up, making my nerves crackle and my breathe feel silky and cool in my lungs. It didn't hurt because I didn't push myself so hard I wouldn’t recover for two days. It felt like the opposite of helplessness and hopelessness. It felt like power.I see toddlers in the park, roaring and rampaging and chasing squirrels and running with no destination and no impetus beyond “look there's a leaf I must dance with it and what happens if I stretch my hands up in the air and go BLAAAAARGH! This is fantastic I'm going to keep doing it BLAAAAAAARGH!!!” It's play. It's instinct. They are learning how to be human and part of that means grasping the mechanics of the vessel they're in. I must have done that once. But when you've spent 30 years avoiding exercise because you abhor it, it frightens you and you're terrible at it. it takes an enormous psychological shift to re-examine and overcome that fear. I've spent years telling myself I'm not defined by my body, in defiance of the signs and signifiers I'm bombarded with every day. The apparent primary goal of exercise is to get those abs – why should I want those abs? Why should I want to exercise? No thank YOU, cardiovascular health! Take your mental health benefits elsewhere! I'm not conforming to your body fascist beauty ideals!I avoided exercise because moving my body meant admitting that I HAD a body, that I'd had one all along and that I'd been neglecting it. It's like checking your bank balance at the end of a decadent month, but when you haven't checked it for thirty years, and the balance is your life expectancy.I try not to think about looking a particular way (a blatant lie – I'd love to have a flatter stomach and slimmer arms). But I think if I were the size and shape I am now and could run for an hour without stopping, I'd be delighted. I still grapple with the notion that I have to be good at running, that it's not enough to just DO it. Part of me still aspires to making my body look beautiful. To having grace. FINESSE. Of course what I really mean is that I wish I was more FEMININE in my movements. I want to be DAINTY. I wish to be a DELICATE WAIF-LIKE ETHEREAL FLOWER BUT I'M JUST NOT. I'm clumsy. I'm ungainly. I'm strong and I'm stoic, and it might take another two years but I'm going to finish the NHS couch25k podcast. It's meant to take nine weeks. So far it's taken me 140ish. Slow and steady and all that.According to the amazing, AMAZING This Girl Can campaign, two million fewer women than men exercise regularly because they're concerned about the way they look. Two million women aren't enjoying the mental and physical health benefits of gentle exercise because they're afraid of their bodies. Our bodies are a tool. They're an integral part of our life experience. They're the connective tissue between our brains and our souls and all the wonderful things we have to enjoy in this world. If you neglect your body, you'll only ever live two-thirds of your life. For me, running is an act of self-love. It feeds my self esteem - it's a tangible demonstration that I care about myself enough to take an hour out of my day tending to something that belongs to me and only me. I'm currently working towards running 5k. I'd like to get to 10k eventually. No more. Stick your marathons up your arse. If I need to travel 26 miles I'll get a bus. 

Afternoon!Since it all kicked off, I've been overwhelmed by messages of support from all over the world. This is an extract from a beautiful email I received from a Turkish PE teacher (faithfully reproduced with his kind permission):"Today i saw your letter in a news. Im shocked. I don't know when it happened. But it is so new in Turkey. Everybody feels sick about your flirt boy. Everybody already hate him. Cause of he hurts your feeling. There is a group of childs im helping them for their physical evolution. Some of them really overweight. And some of them really skinny. But they love eachother. And noone laughs the others body. In my country in school, in course or any organisation first lesson is loving our body and loving our friends. Today i regrouped the childs. We went to swimming. And none of them knows your case. I read them your and the other mans letter. They are just 10 - 15 years old. I think your letter  is a good letter to example them how this case hurts people. After a little discussion i saw them hug overweight friends. I really like this. They are maybe little people. But they have big hearth. And they understand what i mean."We have to keep this conversation going, folks. We have to talk to our young people about their bodies and other people's, about all the ways a healthy, happy body can look. And they have to know that each body - fat, thin, healthy, unfit, whether it's full of burgers or bulgar wheat - deserves RESPECT. It starts with us. Together we can prevent body shaming and bullying, and promote health and happiness for everyone at any size. Thank you. Michelle x

(This letter was originally published by BDC Wire. Here's a fuller version). I've been overwhelmed by thousands of messages of support from all over the world after my recent blog post about my experience of body-shaming was viewed over 220,000 times worldwide. The messages that pluck most insistently at my conscience are those I receive from girls as young as 12. I have three nieces: an 11-year-old, a 9-year-old, and a 2-month-old. This is for them. Dear Maria, Dear Hayley, Dear Fatima, Asli, Beatriz, Cassandra, Meagan, and Katelyn. Dear Macie. Dear Phoebe. Dear Ava. Dear all of you. First of all, thank you so much for emailing me. It's a brave thing, to confide to a stranger that you're confused, or lonely, or unhappy. Sharing these concerns is the best way to get rid of them, but few people remember that (myself included). So again – thank you.Secondly, just imagine we're chatting in a park, or at a bus stop, or at a birthday party. You see, in case you didn't know, I am in no way qualified to dispense advice to anyone. However, you took the time to write to me, so I will respond. If you really need to talk to someone proper, someone who knows how to help you if you need it, I've included some contacts at the end. Each of you ladies has written to me because you think you're “not normal”. Because you find it hard to make friends, or because you've never had a boyfriend and fear you never will because (exclusively because) of the way you look. You've written because you're afraid to take swimming lessons because of the bathing costumes. And you've asked me for advice on how to “make (your) body the kind that will attract boys.” You're writing to me (I think) because when a man tried to make me feel bad about my body, I responded with what I believe you refer to as a “mic-drop” moment. I told him off for imposing his views about my body upon me uninvited. I told him what it means when a man criticizes a woman's weight—it confirms the fear that every girl has (something that, sadly, your letters have confirmed): that it doesn't matter how funny you are, how clever, how kind, how loyal, how determined or adventurous or vibrant—if you're overweight, no one will ever fancy you. I am overweight. While this isn't ideal because it means I'm not at my best health-wise, it's nothing to be ashamed of. Your body should never, ever be a source of shame. Darling Girls: tuck these words into a pocket in your mind, so that you can pull them out and re-read them whenever you may need to. YOUR BODY SHOULD NEVER, EVER BE A SOURCE OF SHAME.  You can decide you want to change your body for the better, as I have (I've lost 20 pounds by dramatically improving my diet and plan to lose 20 more). But taking care of your body doesn't mean you have to hurt it. It doesn't mean starving it, wearing it out, gorging that beautiful brain which you should be filling with books and art and driving lessons on identical, dead-eyed, alien images that insist that being white and skinny and never ever smiling is the only way for any woman to be of any worth.Absolutely no good comes from hating your body. You must train yourself to love it. It is not an object, nor a commodity, nor is it a burden. It is not someone else's trophy. It's the only thing in this world that is yours and yours alone, and you only get one. FFS, girls (yes, I know the middle one means a swear word), love your body.Sadly, there are people – rich, powerful people - who aim to make a lot of money from tricking you into thinking of your body as a source of shame. They'll tell you it's too big, too hairy, too pale, too dark, too muscly, or not muscly enough. There are individuals too, who will try to use this awful power to undermine you, to control and manipulate you. Do not let them. I hope that by starting an honest conversation with you now, you brave, smart girls, you'll have the tools to laugh at any and all attempts to undermine you. Challenge them. Outwit them. Show them your disdain for them. But above all, laugh at them. Then you'll have won. We ALL will have won.Now, girls, I think I am going to give you a little advice, if I may. Find something you love and keep doing it. The world has so many beautiful, smart, enriching things to fill your head and your heart with: books and art and films, and activities like dancing, cooking, hiking, competitive spear fishing....Try EVERYTHING. Start a band. Take photographs. Write a blog. Find out what you like and keep doing it.In doing this, you'll meet people who share your passions. Some of those people will become your friends. A few may become something more, if that's what you both want. (I didn't have a proper boyfriend until I was 19—I know there's no point in me saying, "Don't worry about it," but please, don't worry about it.) One more thing: Absolutely no online dating until you're at least 25. I won't go into why. You're just going to have to trust me on this one.Be smart and be kind, respect yourself and others, trust yourself, and take care of yourself, you clever, courageous girls. When I grow up, I want to be just like you.Love,Michelle xx 

It's.
Been.
IN.
SANE.Last week I was rejected by a man after one date for not being “a slip of a girl”. I threw together a blog responding to the horrible things he said before heading to the pub.That blog has now been viewed 220K times.I've gone from having 70 instagram followers to almost 27k.I'm getting 1000s of messages from all over the world from women and men desperate to talk about their bodies, about shame, about bullying, and about recovery.It's overwhelming, but incredibly galvanising. I've got my big-girl knick-knicks on, and my sturdy boots. My sleeves are rolled up and I'm ready to work to keep the conversation going.*stands on a soapbox, clears throat*MY MANIFESTO BY MICHELLE THOMAS (aged 30).1) Don't be a bad human. In particular in relation bodyshaming – a regrettably widely-used lexical term for the act of bullying and belittling someone due to their physical appearance. Too fat, too thin, too hairy, not hairy enough, too short, too tall......ENOUGH. I've been using the term a lot recently as I had to grab the nearest one to hand when it all kicked off (give me a break, I've never gone viral before). But I'm coming around to thinking it might be superfluous. "Bullying" is a perfectly acceptable term for this type of behaviour. As is "being a bumhole". But yeah, let's keep it PG. Let's keep it at “don't be a bad human”.2a) It's fine to have a physical preference....We all do. That's biology. It's great to fancy someone of a particular physical manifestation. And it's fine not to fancy someone regardless of how well put together they are. We all have our weaknesses (myself? I love a pretty face). However....2b) It's not fine to make your physical preference someone else's problem.Looking at a platonic friend and secretly thinking "if only they were taller / slimmer / hairier / younger...." is fine. It's a cruel biological trick, but hey, the species won't continue itself.Did you spot the key word there?SECRETLY.When you tell someone "You're lovely! But I'd love it if you were taller / slimmer / hairier / younger....", you are making your (perhaps limited) physical preferences their problem. You are imposing your values on them, unsolicited. It's passive-aggressive. It's manipulative. At its worst, this behaviour is known as “negging” - a shamefull prevalent "dating strategy" (YUCK) which involves methodically chipping away at a person's self-esteem until they are utterly under your control. This behaviour is in breach of manifesto item 1. Don't do it.3) Be honest with yourself and others about your body.This is a tricky one. This one may hurt.According to the NHS, one in four of us is overweight.I am one of the four, being roughly 20 pounds overweight.I've already lost 15, and am making good, slow, steady progress.I want to be fitter and care for my body. I want to finish the NHS Couch25K podcast instead of giving up in the 5th week.But that's not to say that I don't love and enjoy my body right now. Here. Today.I'm not ashamed of being overweight. I'm not embarrassed to share that I'm working to lose weight.The feeling of shame in relation to weight is evident by the (well-meaning) messages I've received claiming I "can't be" overweight (well, my doctor says I am), I “don't look overweight” (I do, because I am) and in one bewildering instance, "fat is just a state of mind" (what?! No. It's really not).We need to take the poison out of the statement "I'm overweight". That doesn't mean accepting being overweight as happy and healthy, it just means being unabashedly clear and honest a s/when you're moving towards change.In order to cast out shame, w e need to start being honest about our bodies. P ost honest pics on your dating profiles, ladies and gents. I f you arrive and you're not the person your date thought you were, you're setting yourself up for rejection, because you have already sent the message that your true self isn't good enough.Which brings me to manifesto item:4) Before/After Culture is Evil.You know the pictures I mean: the ones that reinforce the idea if you're overweight you must be depressed, reclusive, sexless, lonely and unattractive.STANDARD BEFORE PIC: Badly lit, in an unflattering outfit. Perhaps in an ill-fitting bikini or (my personal favourite) struggling through a tough work out in skimpy gym gear (“LOOK AT THAT FAT IDIOT! TRYING TO IMPROVE THEMSELVES! LOOK AT THEM SWEAT AND TURN RED AS THEY PERFORM CARDIOVASCULAR EXCERSIE TO IMPROVE BLOOD PRESSURE, SPEED UP THEIR METABOLISM AND IMPROVE THEIR OVERALL PHYSICAL AND MENTAL WELLBEING! WHAT A DISGUSTING LOSER! HAHAHAHAHA!)STANDARD AFTER PIC: Groomed. Glamorous. Gorgeous (with a hint of wistfulness for the lost years in Club Fatty-Boom-Batty).BALLS. TO. THAT.My "before" pics are the swimsuit ones you might have seen online. They were taken on my 30th birthday to mark the occasion. In those picture I'm horribly hungover after a heavy night-before which involved my mates spoiling me rotten with delicious food and booze. On that day my gorgeous friend Zoe and I went to my favourite park, where we cackled like crones as she chased me around with a camera, yelling “STICK YOUR BUM OUT! STICK YOUR TITS OUT!” (to the bewilderment of many a dogwalker)Yes. I'm overweight in those pictures. But did that make that day any less joyous? Less memorable? Less important? Hells No.I don't know what my after shots will look like but if they're as fun as the before....? Mate. I can't wait. Nor should you.Enjoy all the amazing things you can do with your body right now. Do things. Look at stuff. Talk to people. Walk around a bit. Use that joy as a propeller aimed at health and happiness.Which brings me to my final point, and the nub of our campaign strategy – its title.Healthy. Happy. Hot.Aim for the first two. The third will take care of itself. Coming soon. 

This article appeared in The Independent this morning. Below is the unabridged version. 
HiNicole,
I recently went viral because of ablog I wrote about being rejected by a Tinder date for being too fat. I'm now running a campaign against bullying and bodyshaming called Healthy Happy Hot.  I want to address couple of points you made in your video,“Dear Fat People”.
“Fat-shamingis not a thing”
Itdefinitely is. It's when people bully and undermine others for beingoverweight. Like, for example, making a video expressing your disgustat an overweight young man who does nothing more than sit next to youon the plane.
“IfI offend you so much that you lose weight, I'm happy”....“I hopethis truth bomb works...”
Oh,Nicole. It really doesn't work that way. Aftermy blog went viral, I was contacted by people all over the worldsharing their stories. Checkout the comments under myblog, onmy instagram,on myFacebookpage frompeople who've been affectedby bodyshaming.I've hademails from people in theirseventies who werebullied in their youthand haveneverrecovered. One man broke my heart telling me how a girl was sat nextto him on a train texting her friend withher phone tilted up towards him that she was “sat next to someoneFAT”. Outof the thousands – and I mean T.H.O.U.S.A.N.D.S. - of themessagesI'vereceived, not one was from someone who'd been bullied into makingpositive,healthychanges. Notone. Quitethe opposite. Inmost cases iteither leads to people developing eating disorders like anorexia andbulimia, or the people hiding themselves away to eat, and eat, andeat, putting on more weight because they're too frightened orembarrassed orashamedto change. Evenwhen anoverweight person triesto make a positivechange,the knives are out. Overweight peopleare toointimidatedto go running because of the abuse they suffer like LindseySwift (whose kick-assresponse made me jiggle my jello with joy).Theamazing This Girl Cancampaign started because so many women are afraid or ashamed of theway their naturalbodiesmove. Sono, Nicole. You're not helping. You're hurting.
“Youdon't need body positivity. Just eat well and exercise”
It'strue that obesity is an epidemic in the West. But if losing weightwere just a question of eating less and moving more, do you think 35%of American and 25% of Brits would still be overweight? Theconcept of #bodypositivity came about to encourage women of allshapes and sizes to love, respect and care for their bodies. Eatingwell and exercise is an important factor in that, but the key thingis loving your body whatever it looks like, so that you WANT to carefor it. I've had emails from 16/14/12-year-old girls telling me theirterrified that they might be overweight when they're older. They'renot terrified of breast cancer. They're not terrified of heartdisease. They've been inspired to write to a stranger because they'reterrified of becoming fat because they'll be shunned by theirfriends, they won't get boyfriends, and they'll be judged, criticisedand bullied by the ignorant, the shallow and the unkind.#BodyPositivity promotes health and happiness for everyone. What kindof sociopath takes against that?
“Plussize means plus heart disease.”
Whichnutritionistdid you get these fact from, Nicole?Whichdietician? Because I spoke to LucyAphramor,aformerNHS dietician who, disillusioned with the one-size-fits-all idealthat weight-loss automaticallyequals better health,founded her own practice HealthAt Every Size whichfocuses on improving individuals' self-esteem to inspire them to makesustainable changes in eating and exercise behaviours withoutfocusing on weight or size,andhas produced spectacular results in some of the country's poorest andunhealthiest areas. Ialso spoke to nutritionist Sophie Pelham Burn, whoexpressed concern that so many of her clients “assumebody weight to be a proxy indicator for health, which is simply nottrue. Skinny does not equal healthy, neither does athleticism.” Inthe UK anyone from a size 12 up is considered plus size. Which meansthat the average British and American woman, is plus size. You can'tjudge someone's blood pressure bytheir size.Or their cholesterollevel. Ortheir metabolic profile. “Plus-size”isa concept invented by high street fashion chains so that they cancharge women an extra £2 for an extra inch of fabric. It has nomeaning outside of Topshop.
“Fatfamily at the airport....”
Ifound this portion of your video particularly grotesque. There'snothing “kind” or “encouraging” about this story. It'sirredeemably, eye-wateringly cruel. You're bullying a disabledfamily. Yes, it's likely that they're disabled because they'reoverweight. Yes, it's likely that they're overweight because theylive unhealthy lifestyles. But that doesn't change the fact thatthey're disabled, and entitled to and deserving of additionalsupport. You think they don't know that they're fat? You think theycan't feel the waves of disgust radiating from you? You don't say howold the son was, but do you think he doesn't know how his family isjudged by people like you? How do you think that makes him feel?
Accordingto Wiki, you started dancing when you were three. That probablywasn't your decision. You were born into a family that prioritieshealth and physical activity and that was ingrained in you from ayoung age. Great. But not everyone has that. This boy didn't havethat. How dare you attack him for it?
“I'mnot saying it to be an asshole”.
Thisvideo is ignorant and cruel at best. At worst it could be dangerous.Here's why:Atthe beginning of this video you name check the singer Kesha. Keshaspent the best part of last year in rehab recovering from anorexiaand bulimia, which had been brought on in part by industry pressureto look skinny, and constant degrading comments from her then-managerwho told her she looked “like a fat fucking refrigerator”.Shewrote on the subject:
“Ifelt like part of my job was to be as skinny as possible, and to makethat happen, I had been abusing my body. I just wasn’t giving itthe energy it needed to keep me healthy and strong. My brain told meto just suck it up and press on, but in my heart I knew thatsomething had to change.... I had to learn to treat my body withrespect.”
Inthis video, you personify the worst of the internet. As I watched, Iexpected you to rip off a mask, Scooby-Doo style, to reveal anunmoderated Reddit page, overrun by trolls, meninists and healthconcern fascists. Of course, being so abrasive about such an emotiveissue is going to garner you attention. It's cheap, but obviouslyvery effective. And the fact that you relabelled the video MOSTOFFENSIVE VIDEO EVER means you know that. You call it satire. Butit's not. Because you didn't make this video for the 35%. You didn'tmake it for that family at the airport, who I hope don't recogniseyou and realise it's them you're talking about. You made it forothers like you. The girls who text their friends that they're “satnext to someone FAT”, the men on Tinder who criticise a woman'sbody if she won't send him nudes. It's not satire, Nicole. It'sbullying. It's hate-speech. You're attempting to empower yourself byundermining and demonising another group of people who are differentfrom you. In short – yes, you ARE being an asshole.
Iagree with you about one thing you tweeted in the wake of all this,though. “If I were a guy people would've lol'd and moved on”.It's true that a male comedian wouldn't have met so much negativityfor being a bully. As a female who's made a mistake, you will takemuch more flak than a man would have for the same mistake. Theinternet is a dangerous place for a woman with opinions, Nicole, andalthough our opinions are clearly very different, I still hate to seea woman get publicly skinned alive. If you want to talk about that,email me at michelle@healthyhappyhot.uk. However, if you choose to rectify that mistake by apologising, thepositive impact could be enormous. It might make someone reconsiderbefore they say or do something hurtful that they can't take back.Make it good, Nicole. Make it something positive. Maybe even#bodypositive.

Apparently, Socrates* said it. Before you say something, ask yourself – is it kind, is it necessary, and is it true? If what you're about to say doesn't meet at least two of those criteria, don't say it. Pretty good rule of thumb if you ask me.The value of honesty is often perverted and warped in defence of unkindness. “But I'm only being HONEST!” screeches the wide-eyed bully after undermining and belittling someone because of the way they look or speak, or where they're from, or how much money they earn. Honesty is important – of course it is – but so is kindness. So is compassion. So is empathy.A few months ago, after going on a few dates with a very nice man, I received the following text:“I've just been asked by another date if we can be exclusive, and I'd like to see where it goes so I'm really sorry but I'm going to have to stop seeing you. I had a lot of fun, thank you lovely and good luck xx”Naturally, I was a little disappointed. He was a great guy and I was hoping I'd get to know him better. But what a lovely way to be let down. He's absolutely truthful – there's no fey talk of “slowing things down”, he's not “really busy at work”, he's not “confused about what he wants”. I won't be seeing him again because he's met someone who he prefers to spent his time with. He conveys the honest truth, directly and kindly. What more can anyone ask?Empathetic honesty doesn't mean being evasive. It doesn't mean being selective with the truth. You can communicate sensitive information while treating the recipient with dignity and compassion.Be Kind to Everyone (yes, that means everyone).I was in Edinburgh a few weeks ago, during the festival. In a busy bar at 3am, a vicious-eyed man with poison in his voice and chemical violence in his veins screamed obscenities at me for some perceived slight. And I mean screamed - his blood-red face inches from mine, until his spittle flew and his eyes bulged with frenzied hatred. My friends flanked me and drove him away but, deeply shaken, I went home.The next day, Edinburgh being Edinburgh, I saw that man's face on a poster for his comedy show. Then I found him on Twitter. His most recent tweet was a picture of himself posing proudly with his family, sweetly captioned with an expression of his love for them. As I looked at the picture, he looked like an utterly different man to the creature who'd abused me in the bar. I feared and hated this man, and it seethed like a snake pit in my belly. The next day as I left Edinburgh, I tweeted him and asked how his family would feel if they knew that a few hours after that photo was taken he'd be shrieking obscene insults, over and over again, at a woman he didn't know in a bar (I waited until I was long gone, of course. I didn't want to meet him again).A few hours later he sent me an email offering the sincerest and most genuine apology I've ever received. He told me he'd been frightened by what he could remember of his own behaviour that night. He'd been trying to find me to apologise. A sequence of terrible events – stolen money, a bereavement, a friend in hospital – had befallen him all at once. And while he stressed that these events didn't excuse his behaviour, he admitted that he was terribly, terribly hurt, and that his actioned reflected his sorrow and his rage and his loneliness. He answered my question – he told me his family wouldn't recognise him, would be afraid of his behaviour, would see he was hurting and try to help. Even as I read the email the hatred in my heart evaporated. I was surprised by the physical sensation – it felt like the exhalation of a long-held breathe. Turns out that hating someone is EXHAUSTING. It takes as much effort to hate a human as it does to love, with none of the rewards. Buddha* nailed it – bearing a grudge is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die.I immediately accepted his apology. I deleted my tweet. I asked him to please not let it happen again, repeated to him exactly what he'd said to me that night, not to labour the point or to make him feel more remorseful than he evidently already did, but to make sure that he knew what he'd done and that, regardless of circumstance, it was unacceptable.Although my manner of contacting him was admittedly confrontational and spiteful, I'm so glad he responded the way he did. He was clearly enduring a horribly challenging time. I honestly hope things get better for him.“Be kind to everyone, for each of us is fighting our own battles”. Google can't decided whether this is from Plato, Philo or Dolly Parton*. Whoever said it, if we all spoke and acted with compassion and empathy, we'd all live nicer lives.*Sources: Pinterest, Facebook and InstaQuotes. If you know the correct origin of the ideals mentioned and feel compelled to share, knock yourself out. But remember – I'm not an academic. I'm just a lady trying to discourage people from acting like tools.Like what you read? Please pledge for Healthy Happy Hot - a guide to modern manners for all Good Humans. 

I get it.I totally get it.Aspiring writerwrites blog about an unverifiable text from an unidentifiable man.Blog goes viral, receiving the kind of attention that marketing folkthrow cash at by the fistful. Then - oh look! - it turns out that shehas a book to sell. How convenient.
I totallyunderstand why some called the blog“obvious nonsense” and“zeitgeistyclickbait”. Some offered openadmiration at my effective promotion ofmyself and my writing – Iwrote forTheStylist and StandardIssue in the week after the blogwent viral (moreplugging).
According to onepublication, further evidence of the fallacy I created is found inthat I am “extremely media savvy” and “know how to handlejournalists”. Read: I have the social skills and vocabulary to beable to respond to a direct question without crying, hyperventilatingor overuse of the words “like”, “literally” or “basically”.
Of course thereis the indisputable fact that “no man would ever write that afterjust one date”. A friend of mine stumbled upon a Reddit threadabout me (she made me promise not to ever search for it, so Ihaven't). Apparently one helpful MRA (men's rights activist) ran“Simon's” letter through an online “gender guesser” whichconcluded that – yes! - the writer of the letter is, in fact,female. Dammit. I would have gotten away with it too, if I'd spelt“hun” properly.
As I say, I canunderstand healthy cynicism. Especially because I can't prove that Ireally did receive THAT text from a man I went on just one date with.I can't verify that it's true without revealing his identity, andthat of this thirteen-year-old daughter – something I'll never,ever do. I know I received that message. A few of my close friendshave seen it. My publishers have seen it. And the producers of thenational TV show I was on last week have seen it, on the insistenceof their lawyers. There's not much more I can offer, I'm afraid. Icould print a screen grab, but I could easily have faked one, so I'mnot going to bother.
So. Let's assumeI'm lying. Let's assume that I am anall-knowing-evil-marketing-genius,who's just been biding her time as a café manager untilthe right moment to draw attention to a12-month-oldcrowdfunding campaign for a book whichis entirely unrelated to the blogwhich sheJUST KNEW would be read by 220,000people worldwide. Anevil-marketinggenius who has to ask her Instagram followers howto receivedirectmessages, and whodidn't know she'd been given the nod ofapproval by ZooeyDeschannel until three days after the fact. Let'sdo that. Let's assume that all of theabove is more likelythan a man sending a woman he barely knows an abusive message.
Because that'swhat happened. Byimposinghis views about my body upon me uninvited, thatman tried to manipulate me. To control me. To assert power over meusing the most effective weapon he had in his arsenal – the powerof shame. Hismessage wasn'tjustabout tellingme there would be no second date.Sending that meticulously-crafted,400 word message which twistsand turnsbetween such tenderness (“baby....honey...Iadore you”)and such starkbrutality(“Idon't want to be lying there next to you, and you asking me why I'mnot hard”)wasanact of cruelty. It said“I could love you thiiiiiiiiiiiis much...if only you were slightlydifferent”.It'sa widely-used strategy of dominance usedby someindividualsto corrode theself esteem oftheir partnersuntil they are utterly, utterly powerless. Andthis strategy will continue to be used, very effectively, byindividuals and by corporations out to profit from our insecurities,until we challenge it, until we stop being ashamed of our bodiesbecausewe're too fat, too thin, too short, too scarred, or too different.
“Ijust felt like folding into myself and never coming out again.”
“Hesaid I looked fat in our wedding photos. He'd say “Just trying tohelp, babe” I was a size 10 (UK)”
“...duringour time together he manipulated me into believing the way he wastreating me was my fault. That it was because I was ugly andundesirable. He had me to believe that I was being treated inaccordance with my worth and that other boyfriends didn’t do thesethings to their girlfriends simply because they looked a damn sightbetter than I did. I tried to change the way I looked so things wouldstop. At 5 ft 5, I was a healthy 8 ½ stone when I met him. I’velost a hell of a lot of weight since then. An unhealthy amount.”
“Haveyou ever thought about committing suicide? The reason I ask isbecause I have. I wonder if I just DIE, would I save myself the 'namecalling' 'bullying' and other forms of offensive language and action.Am I crazy to think that?”
Theseare afew extractsfrom the thousands of messages, comments and emails I've receivedfrom women and men from all over the world. Thousands of voicessaying “me too”. I've received too manymessages from women and men battling anorexia, bulimia, and addictionto overexercise. I've also heard from too many women and men who areso paralysed by shame because they are overweight or obese, that theydon't know what to do other than hide themselves away and eat, andeat, and eat, and eat. In both extremes these people discuss learningthis behaviour from parents, older siblings, boyfriends, girlfriends,best friends. Each of these people cites an occasion where they werebullied and shamed for the way their body looked – sometimes fromthe ages of 7, 9, 13 - long before their illnesses took hold. I'vereceived messages from too many people who are afraid to go for thatjob, that date, that holiday, because they're ashamed of theirbodies. I've received too many messages from men saying they'reafraid to start a relationship with a girl they really like, becauseshe's bigger than them and they're worried what their mates willthink. I've heard too many catfishing stories (from both sides, bothequally heartbreaking). I've received too many messages from 12 yearold girls, expressing displeasure, disgust and concern about whattheir bodies look like now, and what they may look like in thefuture.
So.Let's assume I'm lying. But if that's your main concern, you'refocussing on the wrong issue. And if you think there IS no issue,after reading these comments and others comments my blog, on myfacebook page, on my instagram pictures – you're either very lucky,or very ignorant.
So.Here comes another plug.
Weneed to have a frank and honest conversation about our bodies – ourrelationship with our own, and with other people's.
Weneed prominent, positive examples of all the different ways a healthybody can look.
Weneed to remove the poison from the statement “I'm overweight” toinspire the one in four of us who are overweight (myself included) tomake healthy, lasting changes.
Weneed to invest in developing positive body image in our young people,so that when they feel vulnerable and insecure, they have the toolsto withstand and recover from any underhanded shaming tactics.
Weneed to do all of the above with integrity, compassion and (Heavenforbid) humour.
I'mlaunching a campaign to raise awareness of the effects of bodyshamingand to encourage readers to aim for health and happiness, whatevertheir shape or size. It's an ambitious project, which is why I willbe seeking advice from dieticians, nutritionists, psychologists andhealth and fitness experts, as well talking to gamers, comedians,models, soldiers, triathletes, Mums, Dads and others who are all indifferent stages in their journeys towards health and happiness.
Speakingof which, the campaign is called Healthy. Happy. Hot.Because if you aim for the first two, the third takes care of itself.

You can supportthe campaign by pledging for the book at Unbound. 

It's.
Been.
IN.
SANE.Last week I was rejected by a man after one date for not being “a slip of a girl”. I threw together a blog responding to the horrible things he said before heading to the pub.That blog has now been viewed 220K times.I've gone from having 70 instagram followers to almost 27k.I'm getting 1000s of messages from all over the world from women and men desperate to talk about their bodies, about shame, about bullying, and about recovery.It's overwhelming, but incredibly galvanising. I've got my big-girl knick-knicks on, and my sturdy boots. My sleeves are rolled up and I'm ready to work to keep the conversation going.*stands on a soapbox, clears throat*MY MANIFESTO BY MICHELLE THOMAS (aged 30).1) Don't be a bad human. In particular in relation bodyshaming – a regrettably widely-used lexical term for the act of bullying and belittling someone due to their physical appearance. Too fat, too thin, too hairy, not hairy enough, too short, too tall......ENOUGH. I've been using the term a lot recently as I had to grab the nearest one to hand when it all kicked off (give me a break, I've never gone viral before). But I'm coming around to thinking it might be superfluous. "Bullying" is a perfectly acceptable term for this type of behaviour. As is "being a bumhole". But yeah, let's keep it PG. Let's keep it at “don't be a bad human”.2a) It's fine to have a physical preference....We all do. That's biology. It's great to fancy someone of a particular physical manifestation. And it's fine not to fancy someone regardless of how well put together they are. We all have our weaknesses (myself? I love a pretty face). However....2b) It's not fine to make your physical preference someone else's problem.Looking at a platonic friend and secretly thinking "if only they were taller / slimmer / hairier / younger...." is fine. It's a cruel biological trick, but hey, the species won't continue itself.Did you spot the key word there?SECRETLY.When you tell someone "You're lovely! But I'd love it if you were taller / slimmer / hairier / younger....", you are making your (perhaps limited) physical preferences their problem. You are imposing your values on them, unsolicited. It's passive-aggressive. It's manipulative. At its worst, this behaviour is known as “negging” - a shamefull prevalent "dating strategy" (YUCK) which involves methodically chipping away at a person's self-esteem until they are utterly under your control. This behaviour is in breach of manifesto item 1. Don't do it.3) Be honest with yourself and others about your body.This is a tricky one. This one may hurt.According to the NHS, one in four of us is overweight.I am one of the four, being roughly 20 pounds overweight.I've already lost 15, and am making good, slow, steady progress.I want to be fitter and care for my body. I want to finish the NHS Couch25K podcast instead of giving up in the 5th week.But that's not to say that I don't love and enjoy my body right now. Here. Today.I'm not ashamed of being overweight. I'm not embarrassed to share that I'm working to lose weight.The feeling of shame in relation to weight is evident by the (well-meaning) messages I've received claiming I "can't be" overweight (well, my doctor says I am), I “don't look overweight” (I do, because I am) and in one bewildering instance, "fat is just a state of mind" (what?! No. It's really not).We need to take the poison out of the statement "I'm overweight". That doesn't mean accepting being overweight as happy and healthy, it just means being unabashedly clear and honest a s/when you're moving towards change.In order to cast out shame, w e need to start being honest about our bodies. P ost honest pics on your dating profiles, ladies and gents. I f you arrive and you're not the person your date thought you were, you're setting yourself up for rejection, because you have already sent the message that your true self isn't good enough.Which brings me to manifesto item:4) Before/After Culture is Evil.You know the pictures I mean: the ones that reinforce the idea if you're overweight you must be depressed, reclusive, sexless, lonely and unattractive.STANDARD BEFORE PIC: Badly lit, in an unflattering outfit. Perhaps in an ill-fitting bikini or (my personal favourite) struggling through a tough work out in skimpy gym gear (“LOOK AT THAT FAT IDIOT! TRYING TO IMPROVE THEMSELVES! LOOK AT THEM SWEAT AND TURN RED AS THEY PERFORM CARDIOVASCULAR EXCERSIE TO IMPROVE BLOOD PRESSURE, SPEED UP THEIR METABOLISM AND IMPROVE THEIR OVERALL PHYSICAL AND MENTAL WELLBEING! WHAT A DISGUSTING LOSER! HAHAHAHAHA!)STANDARD AFTER PIC: Groomed. Glamorous. Gorgeous (with a hint of wistfulness for the lost years in Club Fatty-Boom-Batty).BALLS. TO. THAT.My "before" pics are the swimsuit ones you might have seen online. They were taken on my 30th birthday to mark the occasion. In those picture I'm horribly hungover after a heavy night-before which involved my mates spoiling me rotten with delicious food and booze. On that day my gorgeous friend Zoe and I went to my favourite park, where we cackled like crones as she chased me around with a camera, yelling “STICK YOUR BUM OUT! STICK YOUR TITS OUT!” (to the bewilderment of many a dogwalker)Yes. I'm overweight in those pictures. But did that make that day any less joyous? Less memorable? Less important? Hells No.I don't know what my after shots will look like but if they're as fun as the before....? Mate. I can't wait. Nor should you.Enjoy all the amazing things you can do with your body right now. Do things. Look at stuff. Talk to people. Walk around a bit. Use that joy as a propeller aimed at health and happiness.Which brings me to my final point, and the nub of our campaign strategy – its title.Healthy. Happy. Hot.Aim for the first two. The third will take care of itself. Pledge now. Thank you!

Peter Lloyd of The Daily Mail wrote this today. Here's my response. 
HelloPeter!
Ihope you're well. I'm fine. Thank you.
Justa few teeny weeny notes on that there article you wrote in responseto my blog:
1)MichelleThomas was hailed a feminist hero for criticising a Tinder date whorejected her because of her size.
Thething is, I didn't. I criticised him for sending me a 400 word textafter one date, detailing, in forensic detail, that he didn't fine mesexually attractive because of my figure (I'm a size 14). As I writein the blog, it's fine to have a physical preference. That's biology.What's not fine is to make your physical preference someone else'sproblem. Sending that meticulously crafted, 400 word message (readhere) which twisted and turned between condescending tenderness(“baby....honey...I adore you”) and breathtakingbrutality (“my mind gets turned on my someoneslimmer....I'd marry you like a shot if you were a slip of a girl”)is an act of cruelty. It's an assertion of power. It says “I couldlove you thiiiiiiiiiiiis much...if only you were different”.
Iwrote the blog to redress that imbalance of power which he assertedby imposing his views about my body upon me uninvited. To let him andreaders know that I know that the language he used - ofmanipulation, of control – was transparent in its intention towound. And to let them all know, while it worked briefly, it neverwill again.
2)...herresponse reinforced the odd, unwritten rule that women can saywhatever they want about sexual desire and attraction, but mencan't.
Prettysure that men have had quite a large say in shapingthe rules ofsexual desireand attraction over the last 1000 years or so, Petemate.Youknow? Artists. Filmmakers. CEOs for multi-national companies thatprofit fromconstantly, covertly andovertlytellingwomen that they are physically inadequate. I don't want to patroniseyou, but youmight want to Google that one.
3)….sheclaimed his behaviour was somehow 'body shaming' and 'objectifying'the female form, but, sorry sisters, I disagree...
Youdisagree? Really? Because I think that sketching out a detailedhypothetical situation where I'm lying naked in bed next to him,pleading with him to make love to me, it pretty objectifying.
4)Infact, the only thing he's truly guilty of is having an honest opinionabout women - one that isn't deemed 'on message' by the sisterhood -and actually voicing it. Somethingwomen have long done to modern men.
Thisis wrong. The examples you give (especially the John Prescott one)are horrible. IT'SNOT ALRIGHT FOR WOMEN TO BODYSHAME MEN.It'snot. It's just not. Bur progress is slow. And decades ofobjectification (I mentioned that earlier Peter, it'll still be upthere near the top of the article if you need to refresh your memory)are going to provoke a response. First of all, simply YONKS back, wedidn't know we were oppressed. Then we DID know we were oppressed(and we were, rightly, quite cross about it). Now we're slowing,slowly moving into knowing we're not oppressed. We should aim for notknowing we're not oppressed. And this won't happen unless untileveryone treats everyone else with respects, kindness and compassion.(N.B. I concur with Ms. Allen. Her songs are about specific men, soit's not hypocritical. I'm sure she's written songs about how lovelyspecific men are too, and how excellent they are at the old biblical.Balance, Peter. It's important)
5) It'shypocritical. You know, like when we're told strip clubs are harmfuland degrading - by women thumbing a copy of Fifty Shades of Greywhile in the cinema queue for Magic Mike XXL.
Peter.Ican't wait to see Magic Mike XXL. I haven't seen the first one, butsomeone posted a traileron mysocial media pageandOH.EM. G-STRING. It was as sexy as a sexy number of sexy things having asex-off is Sexville,Sexylvania.And yes, in the trailer I saw, you could argue that the two gentlemenperformers are being objectified. That their bodies (their beautiful,beautiful bodies) are being used as a commodity, with noconsideration for their personalities, their strengths, theirweaknesses, their hopes, dreams and aspirations. BUT. The difference,Peter love. THE MASSIVE GLARING,DIFFERENCE. THEDIFFERENCEBIGGER THAN CHANNING TATUM'S GLORIOUSLY BITEABLE BICEPS – is thatmen who DON'T look like Channing Tatum have been andare fairlywidely represented in the fields of politics, medicine, science,culture, sports, arts and literature. Men who don't look likeChanning Tatum haven'thad toendure watchingteen moviesabout boystheirage whodon't look like Channing Tatum, taking off their glasses, getting ahaircut, miraculously BECOMING Channing Tatum, then landing a richgirlfriend, rending any academic or social qualificationssuperfluous. Menwho looklike ChanningTatum arenot the most widely-documented definition of male power and malesuccess that young boys have as a role models.Menwho don't look like Channing Tatum –as well as men who do in fact - aren'tpaid £100per week lessthan women, irrespectiveofwhether they look like Charlize Theron (GodI lovethat woman).
Doyou understand that now, Peter? Do you?
Nowthe thing is, I know that you think you've got something in yourartillery (or at least you would have if you'd read the blog,something I can't see much evidence of.)
This:
“P.P.S.You're not 5”11”.
BODYSHAMING.HEIGHTSHAMING. MANSHAMING.
Well....no.
Thiscomment was made to highlight to this chap that while he was happy tocriticise my body (which, by the way, I had been upfront and honestabout on my dating profile with full body pictures), he had fibbedabout his own. His profile said he was 5”11. He wasn't. I even(very gently) broached this with him on the date. He needn't havelied because I didn't agree to go on a date with him because of hisheight (in fact, most of my boyfriends have been 5”9 or shorter).However, without that background information, I can understand howthat comment could be misinterpreted. Please forgive me, Peter. I'venever gone viral before. If I'd known the blog was going to be readover 170,000 times all over the world, I would have made that bitextra clear.
Ifyou'd like to read the blog, tharshe blows:

Ifyou'd like to know more mycampaign against bodyshaming and bullyingplease visit my website for  Healthy.Happy. Hot.