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A tweet that read “I found a Lindor praline in my pocket, I feel like Rose clutching the Heart of the Ocean” received the reply “Good.
Now throw it away, just like she did.” That campaign and others like it never elicit the horrified reactions in Italy they would in the United States.
But for the first time in years, that didn’t matter to me. Remember when the Seven jeans squeezed butts (in an effort to minimize them) in a way that tush cleavage just poured out of the waistband? Fifties-style skirts were my preferred garment for a long time, as I thought it “concealed” my shape before I realized that wearing them year-round made me look like a On my last visit back home, I wanted to try on a loose silk skirt in a tiny boutique, and when I picked the sample size (Italian size 38, circa U. size 2) from the hanger, I asked the owner of the boutique for an Italian 44 (it corresponds to a size 8). 4) to a woman that was, well, you know,” she told me while outlining the shape of a bottom-heavy woman with her elbows. Spending time in Italy brainwashes me into shrinking myself, but that inner critic only lasts for a week or two.
Pilates-inspired toning exercises seemed promising, but too many reps, a lack of variety, and the instructor’s sing-songy voice coupled with music box–like background music creeped me out.
Eventually, I flushed my dream of achieving a dancer’s body down the drain.
A couple of years ago, an Italian influencer who had recently lost a lot of weight launched a “motivational” campaign on Instagram and Twitter called #civediamoaluglio (#seeyouinjuly) to encourage her followers to work on their problem areas.
The participants verbally chastised each other if they were giving up along the way.