As far as body-shaming goes, not much tends to penetrate my radar.
I’ve spent a good deal of my 22 years working hard to make sure my body will never be my currency. When summer rolls around and the inevitable half-joking-but-really-mostly-serious comments about how no-one’s bikini body is ready to brace the beach, I try to tune out.
When Kayla Itsines and her bikini body transformations stumbled into my newsfeed, I quietly unfollowed her and went about my day. And when articles about diets and fads and getting into shape come into focus, I scroll along.
They are conversations that sit behind a wall of ignorance, purposely separating my reality and my body image from the messages hurled at me from a world that finds value in your t-shirt size.
Bluntly, I don’t let it demand my attention for fear what might happen lest I give it air time.
So when I sat with a group of friends on the weekend and found a subtle sense of shame creeping up me about my body, no-one was more surprised than I was.
Skinny-fat, they said. Surely I had heard of it? The kinds of bodies that are thin enough, but you know, not that toned.