This is one exceptional girl. A senior. She makes good grades, she is lightning sharp, and kindhearted.
A little about her: she can throw a baseball, pick guitar, make jewelry, drive a stick shift, and sew her own clothes.
She is pretty, humble, studious, loyal. She has a future so bright she needs sunscreen.
And a few days ago, her parents checked her into a clinic for eating disorders.
I'm not at liberty to tell her story, so I'll stop here.
But I don’t mind telling you that I’m not happy about what’s happening to women.
I don't like what television is doing to them. And I don’t care for what fashion magazines, underwear ads, music producers, and Hollywood stylists are up to, either.
Turn on a TV. The commercials all shout the same message:
“You’re too fat, too skinny, too tall, too short, too hippy, too flat, too broad-faced, too big-nosed, too gray. Your complexion is bad, you have a turkey neck, ugly ankles, you need a facelift, your hindparts need augmentation.”
Your house is a wreck, your kids dress like chimney sweeps, your
old vacuum sucks, your husband is a minimum-wage loser, and your abs will never resemble the midsection of a thirteen-year-old Ukrainian gymnast.
So, I’m writing to the opposite sex. Every last girl, woman, and granny.
To Bobbi—who feels like the fattest, ugliest girl in her middle-school. Who gets made fun of.
To Catherine—whose husband of fifteen years left her for someone younger.
To Angelica—who’s been clinically depressed, struggling with self-esteem.
I’m writing Cassidy—the thirty-two-year-old with diabetes, who can’t seem to gain weight.
And to Michelle—single mother and nurse, who just had back surgery. Michelle is lying in bed while her sister takes care of her kids.
Katelyn—a girl once abused by her stepdad. Who can sing the yellow lines off a highway. Who's getting married this month.
To sixteen-year-old Mila, whose family migrated here…