Last year Amy Schumer almost drove the Internet into convulsions when she casually noted at the Glamour U.K. Women of the Year ceremony "I'm probably, like, 160 pounds right now and I can catch a dick whenever I want." While the moment was noteworthy simply for a woman owning her sexuality in such a forthright manner - does anyone really think she was kidding? - what actually drove social media mad is that a woman dared to reveal how much she weighs. And not a supermodel skinny woman, either. A woman with actual pockets of flesh on her body. Maybe even stretch marks and cellulite, too.
God, I love Amy Schumer. I love Amy Schumer so much that when T told me after we watched "Trainwreck" that I reminded him of her I thought it was a compliment. It was only following our breakup that I realized in retrospect it was almost assuredly not. The same way it wasn't a compliment when he said that I reminded him of Scarlett O'Hara. I thought that was a compliment at the time, too, because I've never bothered to watch "Gone With the Wind," so until some friends clued me in I didn't realize Scarlett is what you could call willful. A bitch, if you want to use hate-speak.
Anyway, I weigh 174 pounds, give or take. There, I said it. I'm 5'9" and I'm big, with long, long legs and gorilla-length arms and broad shoulders a hefty ass. My dear Thomas in Ireland, the man T wooed me away from, once said as he walked behind me, both of us disabled with drink at the time and nearly falling out of the pub door, "Ach, would you look at the size of ye, girl! Your shoulders are as wide as mine." (They weren't, but I felt a momentary weird pride at the suggestion.)
I've - I guess confess is the right word? - I've confessed how much I weigh because I promised rigorous honesty and I plan to keep you updated on my weight loss as I continue to train for my big climbs next year. Also because I find myself becoming increasingly sick of fretting about what people, men to be specific, think of me. For most of my life I've obsessed about my weight. My father, who I love with all my heart, unwittingly drilled it into my psyche early on that looks are all that really matter when it comes to women by only talking about looks when it came to women. I've long suspected that no matter how smart, funny, kind, talented, etc. etc. I am, if I'm not pretty none of that actually matters. And in our society pretty women don't typically weigh 174 pounds. Or even 160.
Except they do, don't they? Amy Schumer is glorious, pudge and all. And after spending some quality time peering at those photos Tamar London took of me, I think I look swell too, pudge and all.
Don't agree? That's okay. I can catch a dick whenever I want.
is a journalist based in the Appalachians of Central Pennsylvania. Her new column about travel, adventure, love, loss, heartbreak and healing can be found on the Woman's Day website. She has contributed to Country Living, Gothamist, Washingtonian, EDGE Media Network, Canadian Traveller, Country, Country Woman, and a host of other festive publications and websites. She is the travel editor for the nation's most beautiful publication, Faerie Magazine. Her column, Rebooted, is published across Pennsylvania. She does not have a death wish.