Dating for big guys and girls valentines speed dating liverpool

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In fact, the typical flirter-with-Emily looks so much unlike this guy, that I assumed my train station beau wasn’t hitting on me at all and must be truly confused by the rail map. Guys “like that” don’t go for girls “like me.” I don’t mean smart girls, or feminist girls, or writerly types who rant on the Internet. Trim guys with defined abs, designer stubble, and movie star cheekbones want girls with flat stomachs and twiggy thighs. ***** Remember that Girls episode when Hannah enjoyed a two-day affair with a man played by Patrick Wilson and the Internet exploded with outrage at the impossibility of such an attraction?

How could someone like him—all American dreamboat—be attracted, on any level, to her soft, pale, wide-hipped, small-breasted body? When Wilson’s real wife got wind of the hysteria, she jumped in with a well-timed tweet: “funny, his wife is a size 10, muffin top & all, & he does her just fine.” A few years ago I caught myself applying the very flawed Patrick Wilson logic to a family of strangers at a water park.

Because the truth is, the man at the train station found me lovely, he told me so when we met for coffee the next day.

Although it didn’t work out, it reminded me how much I’ve absorbed the harmful and false suggestion that “guys like that” only like a certain type, and “girls like me” aren’t it. As hard as it is for all of us to wrap our brains around, bombarded as we are with imagery telling us otherwise, beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and beholders like all kinds of things.

The images of beauty here, and sex, too, are so varied that I can’t help but feel my brain start to rewire.

Seeing row upon row of true variety, all through the lens of desirability, pushes me to expand beyond the very narrow, very specific wedge of humanity I’ve been taught is worthy.

In exchange for pretty eyes I’ll put up with a soft tummy.

In exchange for a nice smile I’ll deal with thick thighs.

What kind of self-loathing is that to think that my body—the one that I spend all my time with and rely on and enjoy—would be the kind of thing someone would have to tolerate?

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