that Sarah Klem

I used to blog as the Devil. Then I was Tatiana. Now, I'm just me.

Fuck You, Self Magazine: An Open Letter to Self Magazine

Today started out so great. It is Friday (which naturally rules) and then, in the shower, my iPod surprised me with a little Rob Base. Even though it is raining it is warm enough for cropped pants and I decided on a cobalt blue pair (which I haven’t worn since the end of summer and hurrah they still fit). I sat down and enjoyed breakfast (instead of my standard slurping down of a smoothie on my way into the office) and when I was brushing my teeth, some spit and toothpaste dribbled out of my mouth, but only landed on the white part of my shirt.

In the immortal words of Ice-T, “Today was a good day”

Then, shit. I opened up Facebook while on the train and found this.

Are you fuckin’ kidding me?

Let’s pretend for a moment Monika isn’t a cancer survivor who sells tutus to raise money for Girls on the Run (I get it, being a staff writer for a fitness magazine is hard. You can’t always be bothered to investigate things). Let’s just take this photo and this column at its face value: two women running a marathon in tutus under the heading LAME.

What is hysterical to me is that if a little boy wore a tutu to school and he was made fun of, your same editors or staff writers or whoever declared tutus lame would be decrying the other kids for bullying him and suggest we all wear tutus in support of this kid while we gather up our pitchforks and storm the bully’s parents’ house.

But a grown woman wearing a tutu is open season for other grown women to make fun of, right?

You see what I did there, Self? I called you a bully. Because that’s what you are.

When I first started running, I wore a cotton Superman t-shirt to every race. As I made more running friends they all warned against wearing cotton and sure, there was chafing under my arms and by the end of the race the t-shirt was soaked in sweat, but none of that mattered when my legs were getting tired and some spectator screamed out, “looking good, Super Girl. Keep it up.” and I knew that stranger was talking to me and it instantly gave me a burst of energy to carry on another mile or six or 13.

I imagine that is why all those lame women wear tutus during races. Not to be faster (where the fuck did you get that by the way? Because I know you didn’t bother to ask Monika why she was wearing a tutu when you asked for her permission to use her photo). If they wanted to be faster they would be wearing coochie-cutting spandex briefs and a sports bra like all the other women running sub-3 hour marathons in the front of the pack. No. They are wearing tutus for the same reason I wore my Superman t-shirt: because sometimes, when you are at mile 16 (or even mile 2) and you are tired and you are asking yourself why you are doing this, all you need to keep going is some stranger shouting out, “I love the tutu, Wonder Woman. Keep it up.” to keep you going. Because it makes you feel good. Or strong. Or capable of accomplishing anything.

But you don’t want that, Self magazine, do you? Because if women start to feel good about themselves they will no longer need you and your sage advice on how to “build a better backside” or “6 moves to resize your thighs” or (my favorite) “post-workout pretty in minutes.”

Like I said. You’re a bully. And my mom and dad taught me there is only one way to deal with a bully – and that is to stand up to them.

So, fuck you Self magazine.