Fat Vogue, Thin Vogue, Shackles Either Way.

http://jezebel.com/5816282/plus+size-model-on-plus+size-issue-of-italian-vogue-we-need-fashion-to-catch-up-to-women-of-size

The above article features plus size women featured on the cover of Italian vogue.

Okay, I'm all about inclusion, but in my opinion promoting obesity is just as bad as promoting anorexia. Both diseases have similar outcomes (heart disease, risk of early death, bodily deterioration, i.e. bones or tendons), the symptoms are just acquired for different reasons. You're not balancing out the scales by promoting the opposite-yet-equally-unhealthy end of the spectrum (in fact, calorie restriction, within safe bounds, is likelier to extend your life than remaining obese/overweight, and myriad studies have proven this to be true). Here's what we need: a muscular, healthy, animalistic portrayal of powerful women.

Fashion is an industry that is predominantly aimed at women, and, at least partially, RUN by powerful, strong women. Yet we insist upon starving the shit out of a bone-white near-fetus and propping it up on a marble pedestal. Then everyone gets pissed at this hampered, shackled, wing-clipped creature who can't bear the weight of her McQueen armadillos. They get pissed, then secretly go home and lick tidbits of fat-free Yoplait off the back of a spoon and yearning for visible backbones. Fine, the fashion industry says. Here's a "healthy", Rubenesque "beauty". Her features are regular, her skin is beautiful, but she's pounding down the runway with 75 pounds of extra body fat dragging her to the floor.

If a woman is hampered, shackled, chained, she is beautiful. Healthy, wild, and free...she is a threat.

Give me a muscle-bound, brown-skinned bitch with kinky hair, an indeterminate nationality, and a spear. Send her down the runway in dainty lace, sexy leather, a foot-high green velvet bonnet, or whatever other weird shit that fashion decides to pelt at my eyeballs. Dead-eyed, bleach-skinned, starving androids are boring, expected, and at this point, a dime a dozen. If you want to get my attention, provide the alluring dichotomy of a cavewoman who'll both stare me down...and rock that petticoat like a fucking champ.