The latest incidence of unsolicited commentary occurred on the heels of publishing the most deeply personal and vulnerability-hangover-inducing essay of my life, regarding my compulsive exercise habits. During a perfectly average dinner of tacos and margaritas, a perfectly average situation ensued, meaning a stranger felt entitled to comment on my body. In this particular instance, while I—a person with an eating disorder so old it could've legally been taking tequila shots with me—attempted with all my might to eat my tacos without agonizing over their carb content, our waiter felt compelled to approach our table of four and gesture at my arms.
“You work out a lot,” he said. Still raw from writing about my workout compulsions, I glanced at my boyfriend and gave the waiter a dumbfounded stare that I am now ashamed to realize morphed into a polite smile because I had no idea how to respond. “Flex for my friend over there,” he said without hesitating to call the attention of his colleague, manning the cash register. “Flex for him now.” I laughed and gave a half-hearted biceps curl before immediately wanting to drown in a vat of salsa. All things considered, it was a mild form of uninvited commentary, given the horrific harassment women face daily. He was, after all, attempting to pay a compliment—or something? But the situation left me feeling uneasy, and even violated, particularly after being so vulnerable about my body and the impact of others' (very vocal) opinions on my perception of it.
We know that catcalling sucks, but why is the practice of publicly commenting on women's bodies (and expecting them to perform on demand: “Flex!”; “Smile!”) still so normalized? And why do women have to keep continuously drawing boundaries and reclaiming their bodies in light of this relentless norm?
Unwelcome body commentary is of course not exclusive to women—Jonah Hill made headlines last month for asking the public to stop offering their opinions on his physical appearance. “I know you mean well but I kindly ask that you not comment on my body,” he posted on Instagram with a heart emoji. “Good or bad I want to politely let you know it’s not helpful and doesn’t feel good. Much respect.”
And that’s just it: For anyone who’s ever struggled with their weight or body image in any way (which is very likely the majority of human beings), commentary of any kind is, at the end of the day, not helpful. Telling someone they look amazing now implies there was something wrong with how they looked before; insinuating someone looks like they’ve “let themselves go” physically not only is fatphobic but overlooks the myriad reasons that weight fluctuations occur (and also—who cares if they do occur?). Hill’s request was rightfully celebrated, but why did it take a cis man making this request for so many people to take notice and applaud the sentiment?
When I initially wanted to write about this topic following my latest personal experience, I told my boyfriend I needed to find a new and relevant example of how this phenomenon continues to affect other women. As soon as news of Adele’s concert special broke, he said, “Just wait and see how quickly people make it all about her body.” I’m grateful the opportunity presented itself to speak out on the topic. But I would’ve been more heartened by the state of our society if he’d been wrong.
