replacement to that crap a while ago

I just randomly watched this interview from more than five years ago in the middle of all the Dunkirk promo interviews. It was a weird shock to see a similar interview setting (same questions about fame lol) but with baby Harry replacing the grown man he is today.  Sometimes it’s hard to remember just how much he has  changed over the years, while still remaining reassuringly Harry.

Flat Chested Pop Stars and the Men Who Don't Talk About Them

I’ll never forget one particular afternoon at nine-years-old, demanding my mother pick me up from second grade with a copy of Britney Spears’ Oops, I Did It Again waiting for me in the passenger seat of her Altima.

Like every self-respecting 90’s child, I was a major Britney fan, and after weeks of saving my measly weekly allowance I could hardly wait to get my hands on it. I wore that CD thin playing it over and over in my baby blue boombox, where I had worn out so many other CD’s before it.

Like that one phase of my life where I was obsessed with the Selena soundtrack.

WE DON’T TALK ABOUT THAT.

I’m 23 now and long gone is my Britney phase, but I still can’t help but feel like a little kid again every time I hear one of the songs off that album. Which of course leads to a YouTube karaoke marathon the moment I step back into my shared apartment and inside the privacy of my bedroom, where I can belt out the lyrics to ‘Lucky’ safely and without any judgment.

“I’m singing 'Lucky’ as my audition song!”

One of my co-workers at the coffee shop where I play cashier / barista / muffin wizard was telling us about the national talent competition she was auditioning for in the next several weeks, which included a burly, bearded hipster guitar player she met on Tinder who offered to deconstruct the song for her in exchange for drinks.

Because Nashville.

“I wanted to do something original” she explained. “I sing better than Britney anyway. Plus, I have bigger boobs.”

Well that escalated quickly.

“You ARE joking, right?” another of my female co-workers snapped back with a chuckle.

“What?”

“The last adjective I’d use in terms of Britney Spears’ physique is 'flat chested’.”

The two girls whipped out their iPhones and began pulling up pictures of Britney’s cleavage while I stood at the register and prayed to sweet Jesus that Noon would hurry up and my shift would be over.

I had chips and hummus waiting for me at home, guys.

CHIPS AND HUMMUS.

Chips and hummus > life

“What are you guys talking about?” one of the two male subjects on our staff asked as he leisurely strolled from the milk fridge in the back of the store, carrying armfulls of 2% jugs.

The girls explained the conversation from beginning to end.

He rolled his eyes and placed the milks in the tiny silver mini-fridge off to the side of the store.

“You’re dumb. I’m a guy and WE don’t even sit around and talk about this. We don’t give crap if girls are flat chested.”

He’ll never know it, but in that moment, he became one of my biggest heroes–even if the word 'crap’ in this case was replaced with a colorful four word synonym (you can thank me later.)

–detour–

I lost 100 pounds roughly two years ago. It was one of the best, hardest, most rewarding decisions ever.

Here’s something funny nobody tells you when you want to lose weight…

You lose it everywhere.

EVERYWHERE.

Granted, while I wasn’t exactly born well endowed, going from 'at least it’s something’ to 'practically nothing’ can be, vainly, devastating.

Yeah. This is awkward. I’m aware.

I’m awkward. WELCOME TO MY LIFE.

'What guy is ever going to look at me and think I’m hot?’ I’d tell myself as I studied my evolving curves in the mirror one day, 'I’m lucky I’m not back in training bras.’

Maybe I’m flat chested. Whatever. It doesn’t matter to anyone. Right?

So the Britney jab was a bit… brutal.

'BUT BRITNEY HAS BOOBS!’ I wanted to scream, 'WHAT ABOUT US REAL GIRLS WHO ARE WALKING INTO THEIR WEDDING NIGHTS ARMED WITH APOLOGIES?!’

I’m waiting. I told you I’m waiting, right? Because I’m waiting.

Even Christian girls feel the pressure to look like a porn star. We’re scared to death that what we have won’t measure up for the men who hold our hearts. We fear our inadequacies will force them to look elsewhere–before we’ve even freaking met them.

Then we have guys like the milk man–who albeit is in a minority of men–blowing in like a Northern wind and knocking us all off our sand set soapboxes of tainted perspective.

Here’s the thing about those guys who hold our hearts: if we’re giving our hearts to them in the first place, we’re obviously doing it for a reason. It’s because they’ve shown themselves honorable, kind, gentle men. Souls with the courage to partner alongside us and help us to fulfill our God given calling–and it goes both ways.

So why the hell would they care if they’re getting a porn star or not?

Because the devil makes us afraid that if we don’t look part, we don’t serve a purpose.

I hold myself to such a false expectation of beauty because the world has taken what was once individually beautiful and exploited it, and whatever the lie is, I believe it. We’re a rotating mold of too much and not enough, and if we don’t fit somewhere in-between, there’s automatically something wrong with us that needs to be fixed. We train girls to feel a certain way about themselves and tell guys it’s okay to default to fantasy when we don’t meet it. Sometimes, vice versa. It’s a twisted cycle, yet we wonder why so many of us walk around hurt.

In that one, blissfully bizarre moment at the coffee shop when one guy was bold enough to say 'it doesn’t matter,’ I guess somewhere deep inside, I felt hope.

Hope to believe there are still God fearing guys out there who want quality over quantity, hope to believe that someday, the comparisons we as women make against one another can be seen for what they really are: a waste of time.

I don’t want to be some guy’s porn star. I want to be his wife. I want to be taken for who I am entirely. Love inside working its way out.

I’m an insecure, grace stained mess living within the confines of a fallen world. I will forever see myself in the mirror and wish there were things I could change, ignore what the reflection lies about tells me, but those things don’t define who I am as a woman, let alone a child of God.

I can embrace my awkward flaws because braving the confidence it takes is sexier than perfect assets.

God forbid my insecurities deny others the trauma of hearing me sing 'Lucky’ for the rest of my life.