The size of your underwear doesn’t fucking matter
I’ve been working on curating a show about anti-diet culture, and honestly, it has been a fucking struggle. One of my dogs knocked over two of my canvases, leaving holes in them, which means I can’t use them. So now, I’m starting from scratch on some pieces for the show, and my brain is in a whirlwind. I’m staring at these blank-ass canvases that I bought for the show, trying to decide what the fuck to put on them.
Originally, I had this really cute, immersive, wonderful event in mind—something that would leave people feeling in love with their bodies. And that’s still part of the vibe I want to create. But something in me is shifting. Soul-deep shifting. I don’t just want people to walk away thinking, "Yeah, maybe I could love my body." I want them to be fucking enraged.
I want them to be pissed the fuck off that the entire world has us so wrapped up in what size our underwear is that we don’t pay attention to the real shit going on around us. And I mean that literally.
Today, I took myself out to lunch. I sat down at an Indian restaurant, put my phone away, and actually experienced my food. I watched the cooks and the servers dancing to music in the back. I ordered traditional masala chai, and it was so good. I ate slowly, savoring every bite, and just existed in that moment.
It reminded me that my worth isn’t tied to calories, clothing sizes, or anyone else’s bullshit standards.
Then, I went to buy some underwear. While digging through the discount rack, I overheard a woman mumbling under her breath. I mentioned that the sizes were all mixed up, and she sighed and said, "I don’t understand why the size has to be on the outside. I don’t need my husband seeing what size I wear." And I said, "I don’t think the size of our underwear matters that much."
She looked at me, almost horrified, and said, "Oh, but it does. What will he think if he knows I wear an extra-large now, when I used to be a small?"
This woman was older than me, maybe in her 50s or 60s, and I was absolutely gobsmacked. WHY the fuck are we so conditioned to care about this? Why the hell is she concerned that her husband might know the size of her underwear? It is not relevant to living a life that we love. It is not relevant to experiencing pleasure to its fullest extent. It is fucking not relevant. And yet, here we are, in a world that has gaslit us into believing that the size of our thighs determines our worth.
Enough.
Moving forward with my show Unbound, it’s going to shift. I don’t want people to just walk in and think, "Bodies are beautiful! Yay!" I want them to leave fucking angry. Because loving your body isn’t some cute little concept. It isn’t a magical, happy-go-lucky mantra. It is a soul-shifting act of rebellion. It is a radical dismantling of everything we’ve been taught. It is war.
And whether it was your mom, your dad, a magazine cover, a TV show, or the fucking health and wellness industry that made you feel like you weren’t enough—they lied to you, they tricked you, they fucking taught you.
And we should be fucking angry. It is time to do something about it.
XOXO,
Tiffany