Yes, it was me in that film, and I can’t believe that this needs to be said, but here we are:
Body-shaming is never okay.
Yes, I have a body. So does everyone. That’s no excuse for rubbernecking.
Yes, I might be a little bigger than most modern primates, but who isn’t?
Yes, my feet are above average in size, but they are in perfect proportion to the rest of my body. Bugs Bunny has a massive pair of hoofs, but no one ever calls him “bigfoot.”
Y’all need to check your nomenclature.
And yes, I might have some body hair, but what about it? My body used to be hairless once upon a time, but puberty did a number on me, as it does on so many of us female primates. What you need to understand is that body hair on a primate is natural and normal and nothing to make a cryptozoological documentary about. I blame the razor companies for trying to make everyone believe that body hair is embarrassing or wrong or paranormal and should be removed from public scrutiny before the researchers for Arthur C. Clarke’s Mysterious World get wind of it.
And while we’re on the subject of accountability, I also blame sweater companies. For the record, owing to my body hair, I have never had to wear a sweater in December. But because of society’s testerical scaremongering, this is considered radical.
We all know who benefits from this mindset, and it’s not the primates who matter. We should be celebrated, not gawked at. A modern primate like me should be able to walk barefoot in the woods now and then without it being made into an international incident.
Likewise, I should also be able to enjoy a braless stroll in the remote North American wilderness without aspiring parapsychologists writing dissertations about my yams. Did anyone say one word about the fact that in an interview–on the national news no less–Bob Gimlin’s nipples were clearly visible through his paisley shirt? No.
This is on you, Patriarchy.
“Pretty should be optional” as one Captain Awkward reader said, and I decline that option. I do not exist to titillate you, though I know that somewhere out there, a wild man of the north is probably jerking off to that film footage of me. And no, I do not find the thought of that endearing, and furthermore, it is not a compliment to tell a woman that with the right stylist she could have won Crufts.
And to the men who shot the film (without getting a waiver from me, I might add), you’re no lookers yourselves. Next time, you feel the need to exploit nature, why not go fuck a tree instead. To borrow a term from Reddit: YTA.
One thing I want to know: If that film made me a star then where are my fucking residuals?
I am not a cryptozoological phenomenon. I am a modern primate in her prime.