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If you love this shirt, please click on the link to buy it now: Today, I Don’t Feel Like Doing Anything But I’d Do My Wife T-Shirt This product printed in US America quickly delivery and easy tracking your shipment With multi styles Unisex T-shirt Premium T-Shirt Tank Top Hoodie Sweatshirt Womens T-shirt Long Sleeve near me. AliensDesignTshirt Kansas City Chiefs And Kansas City Royals Heart T-shirt Premium Customize Digital Printing design also available multi colors black white blue orange redgrey silver yellow green forest brown multi sizes S M L XL 2XL 3XL 4XL Buy product AliensDesignTshirt Kansas City Chiefs And Kansas City Royals Heart T-shirt You can gift it for mom dad papa mommy daddy mama boyfriend girlfriend grandpa grandma grandfather grandmother husband wife family teacher Its also casual enough to wear for working out shopping running jogging hiking biking or hanging out with friends Unique design personalized design for Valentines day St Patricks day Mothers day Fathers day Birthday More info 53 oz ? pre-shrunk cotton Double-needle stitched neckline bottom hem and sleeves Quarter turned Seven-eighths inch seamless collar Shoulder-to-shoulder taping TikTok, an app dominated by Gen Z, is the place for a lot of things: You can discover emerging designers, partake in dance challenges, watch beauty tutorials, and even stream fashion shows. But there’s another space on TikTok that’s also taking off—let’s call it BookTok.Digital book clubs are increasing in popularity on the app. Various “bookfluencers” are creating content around their favorite reads, and developing accounts that are strictly devoted to book talk. There’s a page for virtually everyone’s tastes—whether you’re a mystery lover or diehard rom-com reader—and each is the perfect place to find a review on a book you’ve been eyeing, or maybe even rediscover some favorites. The power of #BookTok is not to be underestimated: Some TikTok book accounts, like @alifeofliterature, have featured old books and propelled them back onto best-seller lists; proving that Gen Z’s appetite for books is very much alive. Navigating the app can be a tiresome feat—there’s so much to discover!—but fear not: we at Vogue have rounded up a selection of BookTok pages that are well worth a follow. Spring is the perfect time to pick up a new book, after all—there are tons of new releases this season—so what are you waiting for? Below, the 8 bookfluencers to know.Followers: 212,000Why to follow: This page has a fun, curated take on book recommendations. Videos are broken down into categories like “books that will give you major flashbacks,” “books that made my world stop,” and “oh, you haven’t read the classics yet.” There’s a book suggestion for everything, no matter what you’re in the market for.Followers: 209,000Why to follow: This bookfluencer’s quick-fire book reviews are entertaining and honest. She’ll take a book like Angeline Boulley’s Firekeeper’s Daughter and entice you to pick it up. She also offers handy tips on how to save money when buying books.Followers: 82,000Why to follow: This BookTok page is less service-based, and more about funny takes on being a book lover in general (including the anti-social tendencies). The user also rates book covers by “how many shots it would take” for her to hook up with them.Followers: 288,000Why to follow: This book devotee frequently offers her recommendations, and makes funny TikToks about trying to find comfortable positions to read in and what happens after she’s done with a novel (hint: fan art is involved).Followers: 49,000 followersWhy to follow: This page’s tagline is “I like big books and I cannot lie,” need we say more? Its TikToks are broken down by categories such as “books with a strong female lead,” “books for true crime podcast fans,” and cheekier ones like “books to read based off your favorite baked goods.”Followers: 78,000Why to follow: This bookfluencer’s series of book pet peeves is a highlight (one is when fans get mad about the casting of a TV adaptation; another, when people get mad about breaking book spines). She also rounds up books that made her cry and that have major plot twists.Followers: 193,000Why to follow: Her page’s tagline is “shut up and read,” and its TikToks give you everything you need to do so. She has highlighted books with Middle Eastern and Southern Asian representation, and also made comical videos about her bookshelf organization obsession.Followers: 37,000Why to follow: This page works a bit like a 24-hour librarian who’s always around to help with a suggestion. Plus, the user gives advice on how to read multiple books at once and how to get a copy of a book before it’s released. One way to understand what had happened to her (what she had made happen, what she had insisted upon): It began with the house. It was the particular house, but it also was where the house was and where she discovered she wanted to be. It was a run-down, abandoned Arts and Crafts cottage in a neglected, once-vibrant neighborhood in the city of Syracuse.The house sat high on a tiny lot on Highland Street, which ran atop a hill that bordered a long expanse of grass and trees. It looked like a small, sloping park, but it was actually a cemetery, the old graves clustered in the southwest corner. Unless you were squeamish about graves—Sam wasn’t—the sloping green hill was quite pretty. Highland itself offered a wide view of downtown. You could see the steeples of churches, and you could see how the small city was in a valley surrounded by hills. You could even see the kidney shape of Onondaga Lake, although it was often partly obscured by low-hanging clouds. If you turned your head to the left, or if you looked out the side windows of the house, you could see Syracuse University up on another hill. You would locate it by the quilted low white bubble of the Carrier Dome (named for the nearly absent Carrier Corporation—all that remained were a handful of jobs, the dome, and Carrier Circle, a treacherous traffic roundabout that Sam hated). Soon after you spotted the dome you would notice the various spired and turreted campus buildings.The decision to leave her husband—the act of leaving, really—began the moment she made an offer on the house. It was a Sunday; Sam woke up at 5 a.m. She attributed this unnecessarily early waking to the approach of menopause. Her period still came each month, but odd things had started changing in her body, even her brain. One of which was suddenly becoming awake at 5 a.m. on a Sunday, her mind shaking off sleep with unnegotiable clarity, as if she had already drunk a cup of coffee. And just as with coffee, she felt alert, an adrenal burst, but she could also feel the fatigue underneath it all, the weariness. That morning the wood floor was cold against her bare feet, but she couldn’t find her slippers. It was still dark. She tried not to wake her husband. She used her phone to illuminate the way to the bathroom. She peed, flushed, washed. She brushed her teeth without looking in the mirror. She pushed up the blinds to peek outside. The sky was gradually lightening with the dawn, and half a foot of snow had fallen overnight. The sunrise that was creeping up now cast a pink and gold glimmer, and a little crust of ice on top of the snow glittered from the sky and from the streetlamps. The trees, the roofs of the houses, even the salt-crusted cars looked beautiful.Sam figured that she was the only person on earth who thought late-March snowstorms were wonderful, and this made her feel a bit proud of herself. Always she liked to imagine herself as subtly different from everyone else, enjoying the tension and mystique of being ordinary on the surface but with a radical, original interior life. For example, back when Sam used to shop the sales at the Talbots in DeWitt with the other suburban ladies of her class and age, she separated herself. Sure, Sam had discovered that the classic A-line or sheath dresses made of solid-colored ponte knits were so forgiving, so flattering (“flattering,” that tragic word) to a grotesque midlife misshapenness—a blurriness, a squareness, really. But despite shopping because of an “insider” email-blast notification of a super sale, Sam believed that she was different from the other women. Inside she was mocking the calibrated manipulations, mocking herself, noting the corporate branding and lifestyle implications of the preppy styles and colors. The classic plaids, the buttons on the sleeves, the ballerina flats evoking a tastefully understated sensibility. It even occurred to her that the other women could be having the same interior thoughts and that the idea of conformity—at least in modern America—was never consciously sought after. No one older than a teenager thought, I want this because everyone else has it. No, Sam knew that you were allowed to keep a vain and precious sense of agency. This was the very secret to consumerism working in a savvy, self-conscious culture. Her sense of resistance was as manufactured as her need to buy flattering clothing. Nevertheless (!), Sam also believed that her having such self-critical, self-reflexive thoughts as she shopped set her apart from the other women. Surely. So she still believed herself to be (however stealthily) an eccentric person, not suited to conventions of thought or sensibility.Lately this desire to be contrary to convention had taken on a new urgency well beyond clothes or matters of taste. An unruly, even perverse inclination animated her. It had been looking for a place to land, for something to fasten on. So now (not before), this odd inner state pushed her toward a highly destabilizing wildness (a recklessness) that she couldn’t suppress any longer.She pulled on the same clothes she had worn the day before: stretched-out jeans and a black cowl-neck sweater. She no longer wanted to open her closet full of clothes. Why did she need so many, so much? In the last few months, things that used to captivate her no longer did.She crept downstairs and made herself a coffee.It was Sam’s habit to check out the real estate listings online. She had the bored-housewife pastime of attending open houses. She knew many of the other people there also had no intention to buy but had come to snoop into other people’s lives or to calculate land values or to imagine a fantasy life brought on by the frame of fresh architecture. This last impulse made sense to her. She had even wanted, at one point, to study architecture (and history, and women’s studies, and literature), but she had talked herself out of it and she had gotten married and then pregnant instead. She settled for becoming an architectural amateur.Unusual old structures (Syracuse had many) excited her: They were a visible-but-secret code, the past rendered in materials that could be seen and touched. For example, the abandoned AME Zion Church on East Fayette Street. Its tiny perfect form sat on a sturdy, intact limestone foundation. Paint-peeled crumbling white brick rose into a bell tower next to a large Gothic-pointed stained-glass window. But the building was lost in the concrete dead zone around I-81, grown over with box-maple saplings and covered with graffiti, the windows long boarded up. It belonged to the oldest Black congregation in Syracuse, built 100 years ago to replace a structure at another site that dated to the 1840s, when it had been a part of the Underground Railroad. Now the church sat stranded and forgotten. Syracuse had so much history that it could neglect wide swathes of it. When Sam saw a building that no one else seemed to see anymore, she would stop her car, get out, walk around the perimeter, and even lay her hand on a brick as a form of communion and respect. Fascinating old buildings and houses, empty or still in use, called to her from all over the city. She sometimes drove out of her way just to glimpse one of her favorites. But open houses gave her the rare chance to go inside, which was a much more intimate experience. As soon as she crossed the threshold into a house’s space, she could feel it shape who she was—or would be—in some deep way. Whenever she had a chance to walk inside one, she did, which always worked as an act of imagination, an act she loved. What would it feel like to live here, wake up here, argue with your husband here?This open house intrigued her because it was cross-listed on an Instagram account for architecture nerds:Unique Arts and Crafts bungalow designed by Ward Wellington Ward in 1913. For sale for $38,000! Intrepid buyers only—needs complete rehab. Most original details intact. See link in bio for more #cheapoldhouses#saveoldstuff#bungalow#restoration#casementwindowsforthewinShe was the only fantasy lurker attending the open house at 110 Highland Street that Sunday morning.The house was falling apart. The house was beautiful.It had leaded-glass windows, built-in shelves, and hidden storage benches. Two of the benches were framed by wood-beamed closures (“the inglenook”) and sat at either end of (oh, what she longed for!) an elaborate tile-lined fireplace (“Mercer Moravian tiles”). Sam imagined sitting in the nook, gazing at the fire, reading a book. The tiles were dirty with layers of dust but still intact. She could pick out a narrative in the relief images. (“Saint George and the Dragon,” the agent said.) The clay finish was a rustic, uneven glaze, the colors pink, green, and white. She touched her fingertips to the tiles and felt an undeniable connection. Someone on some podcast had talked about “grounding.” It was when you walked outside with bare feet and let the earth connect with your body. It was supposed to right you, your circadian rhythms or something. Help you get over jet lag. Or maybe it was to mitigate the endocrine disruption of chronic toxic exposure. Or to counter EMF, the low level but constant electromagnetic waves from Wi-Fi and cellular towers. Or maybe all of that, grounding promoted as a systemic cure-all. Sam scoffed at the idea, even despised it as New Age crap, yet as her fingers touched the tiles, she felt grounded. There was no other word for it, as if a corrective current flowed from the house through the dusty tile and into her hand and, truly, her whole body. The tiles were set against patterned deep red brick topped by a mantel made of dark oak, also dirty but intact. Maybe it was Gustav Stickley or it was William Morris who wrote about the Arts and Crafts ideal, how the fireplace should be a work of everyday art. It looked handmade and warm, and its beauty was in its utility and simplicity: She was cold, she needed a fire. The hearth drew her in, invited her to sit. She now understood the fireplace as a form of secular worship. She imagined it would make her feel close to something elemental. (“Obviously, the chimney will have to be looked at.”) To keep her sanity over the long Syracuse winter, Sam needed this beautiful, old, heat-squandering open fire. At her house in the suburbs, they had a glass-fronted gas fireplace that gave off some regulated, efficient BTUs of heat and a low, exhausting fan hum. The gas flame had a cold blue at its center.“This house is on the historic register as the Garrett House. It even has a Wikipedia page. Designed in 1913 by the architect Ward Wellington Ward.”“Yes, I read that in the notice,” Sam said. “I’m familiar with him.”“Oh, good. So you know his houses are very special. Garrett had it built in 1913. After he and his wife died, it fell into neglectful hands, but none of the original details are ruined. Clearly it needs some TLC: a heating system, electrical updates, new roof, mold abatement. Possibly a chimney rebuild. Better drainage in the basement. Shore up the foundations. But it’s still a wonderful house, no?”“Yes,” Sam said.Later she drove to the big suburban Wegmans and bought some wild halibut, diced sweet potato, and triple-washed organic baby spinach for dinner. She also got her daughter’s favorite fruit, mango, and her husband’s favorite cereal, No-Grain Vanilla Granola, and several liter bottles of that German mineral water she liked. She took the groceries to their house. No one was home yet. And then, instead of cooking, she got in her car and drove back into the city. It was nearly six, and the sun was starting to go down. The sky was backlit, iridescent, spring bright, and as she drove she watched the clouds close to the horizon glow pink and orange. She drove back to the city because she had to see the house in this dusk light, this ridiculous, almost garish light. She crested the hill. She pulled into the house’s tiny driveway. The roofline was steep, and the shitty asphalt tiles were coming undone. But. The front and side windows faced the sunset. The city in all directions gleamed, and it looked as if an ocean lay beyond the clouds, some giant lake or shore. Ward Wellington Ward, this architect, he must have known. He thought of the sky and the trees as he designed his house; he knew how much you need those early-spring sunsets in Syracuse, even if they glisten off a foot of snow.She retrieved the business card from her coat pocket and called the real estate agent. “I want it,” the words coming up from some reptilian (perhaps paleomammalian, limbic, sublimbic) area of her brain, some part of her she never knew existed. “I want to make an offer, I mean. Can we do that today?” It felt easy. She signed the papers and wrote a check for the deposit. Inner life had spilled out and become outer life. She wrote an X in the box to waive the inspection. As is.What drew her to the house was its nature: The house was a paradox, both rustic and elegant. It felt hand-constructed, personal. Yet it reeked of artifice, “Arts and Crafts” meant to evoke home and nostalgia through cozy appropriations of English cottages and, oddly enough, some idea of a country church. Also, the state of the house. Dirty, falling apart, empty for too long.It was wrecked. It was hers.She got in her car, and she looked back once more at the house, maybe to imprint its image in her heart, the way you might look at a departing loved one, and only then did she realize, as she drove, that she was leaving her husband. Matt. That she would go live in the broken-down house in the city, the unloved, forgotten house with the view of the unloved, forgotten city. Why? Because she alone could see the beauty. It was meant for her. She couldn’t—shouldn’t—resist. And saying yes to this version of her life would mean saying no to another version of her life.Excerpted from Wayward by Dana Spiotta, copyright © 2021. Excerpted by permission of Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Penguin Random House LLC. For longer than I care to my remember, my relationship with my body was a war of attrition. I’ve been small enough to fit into sample-size jeans and big enough to qualify for the COVID-19 vaccine based on my BMI, but the one constant that followed me up and down the scale was fear; fear that I’d gain weight, fear that I’d stop losing weight, fear that I’d get—or stay—fat, and thus, to my mind, unlovable. I knew I was being unnecessarily cruel to myself, but still, I couldn’t seem to stop.These days, my attitude toward food, exercise, and my weight is healthier than it’s ever been, largely thanks to my recent breakup up with diet culture and focus on pursuing physical activity that actually makes me feel good; that said, I still wake up some days (okay, a lot of days) hating my body. When that happens, though, I have plenty of tools at my disposal, from therapy to running to cooking, that help me to anchor myself in the wider world. And if I’m really struggling in my ongoing quest for body peace, I tend to reach for a book.Of course, reading isn’t a total cure-all for body dysmorphia, but in the face of societally ingrained fatphobia, it’s always helpful to be reminded that I’m far from the only person doing their best to be okay with themselves. Below, find a list of the nine books I’ve turned to—from memoirs to novels and guides—for encouragement to stop hating my body, and instead strive for self-acceptance. If you’ve grown to hate dieting, but can’t imagine a way of eating (or, more broadly, existing) that doesn’t revolve around restriction, this might be the book for you. Harding and Kirby’s focus on establishing a “truce” with your body—rather than shooting for 100%, 24/7 self-love—is key; their book is comprised of essays offering practical advice for those seeking to make peace with their physical forms, including “Stop Judging Other Women” and “Read Up on Fat Acceptance and the Science of Fat.”Gay takes care to explain that her best-selling memoir isn’t a “success story” of weight loss, instead grounding her adolescent weight gain within a context of of sexual abuse, loneliness, and vulnerability. In doing so, she boldly presents a vision of fatness as self-conceived protection against a world that would seek to destroy her. It’s undeniably painful to watch Gay revisit old traumas, but it’s also incredibly gratifying to follow along as she begins to heal and slowly learns to give her body what it’s really asking for.Broder is uniquely skilled at diving into the psychological makeup of self-hatred, and she does so with aplomb in this fictional exploration of a young queer Jewish woman’s struggle with disordered eating in present-day Los Angeles. Fatness isn’t solely presented as something to be feared in Milk Fed; a fat woman is also portrayed as an object of lust, love, and desire, and hunger itself—for food, for sex, for faith, and for connection—is depicted in its most essential and inherently human forms.In this memoir-nonfiction hybrid, Meltzer skillfully blends her own extensive dieting history with the life story of Jean Nidetch, the Queens housewife who founded Weight Watchers in 1963 and helped to create “diet culture” as we know it today. This Is Big doesn’t overtly make a case for or against Weight Watchers, or any other diet; rather, it tells the story of two very different women who each spent much of their lives trying to conform to an idealized body type, and in doing so, presents a potential script for living your life outside the confines of restriction.This collection of essays by writers including Sonya Renee Taylor, Alexis Pauline Gumbs, Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha, and brown herself span an incredibly wide array of topics that all come back to a central question: What is pleasure, and who has been structurally discouraged from pursuing it? brown’s liberated approach to food, sex, drugs, and a long list of other so-called “vices” encourages the reader to determine for themselves what brings them joy, rather than adhering to guilt and shame-driven narratives of worth and enjoyment.Jennifer Weiner is best known for her long history of writing fiction that places plus-sized protagonists squarely in the foreground, but this memoir charts her own personal experiences with weight, food, insecurity, loss, love, parenthood and self-acceptance, adding up to a life story that feels as intimate as if Weiner were recounting it to you over a cup of coffee herself.“I used to believe that I was afraid of food and of being fat, but now I know that the fear was of a deeply troubled culture that would not allow me to thrive. A culture that was, in fact, invested in my degradation,” writes author, activist, and body-image expert Virgie Tovar in this searing excoriation of a diet culture that has forced generations of fat people to focus their anger at their own bodies, rather than at a society that refuses to let them live freely and happily at any size.This memoir might be best known as the source material for Hulu’s first-rate, Aidy Bryant-led series of the same name, but revisiting West’s lyrical and often hilarious prose—which touches on everything from body hatred to abortion to grief to romantic love—is a necessary reminder that the lives of fat people can, and do, contain multitudes.Even if you’re not really into contorting yourself physically, there’s still so much to be learned from this illustrated guide by yoga teacher and body-positive activist Jessamyn Stanley. The book offers 50 easy-to-follow yoga poses with clear instructions, but it also presents a vision of exercise that is guided by the still-revolutionary desire to feel, rather than look, your best. Product detail for this product: Fashion field involves the best minds to carefully craft the design. The t-shirt industry is a very competitive field and involves many risks. The cost per t-shirt varies proportionally to the total quantity of t-shirts. We are manufacturing exceptional-quality t-shirts at a very competitive price. We use only the best DTG printers available to produce the finest-quality images possible that won’t wash out of the shirts. Custom orders are always welcome. We can customize all of our designs to your needs! Please feel free to contact us if you have any questions. We accept all major credit cards (Visa, Mastercard, American Express, Discover), PayPal, or prepayment by Check, Money Order, or Bank Wire. For schools, universities, and government organizations, we accept purchase orders and prepayment by check Material Type: 35% Cotton – 65% Polyester Soft material feels great on your skin and very light Features pronounced sleeve cuffs, prominent waistband hem and kangaroo pocket fringes Taped neck and shoulders for comfort and style Print: Dye-sublimation printing, colors won’t fade or peel Wash Care: Recommendation Wash it by hand in below 30-degree water, hang to dry in shade, prohibit bleaching, Low Iron if Necessary Vist our store at: Hulktee This product belong to hung1 Bake The World A Better Place Tshirts Black If you love this shirt, please click on the link to buy it now: Today, I Don’t Feel Like Doing Anything But I’d Do My Wife T-Shirt This product printed in US America quickly delivery and easy tracking your shipment With multi styles Unisex T-shirt Premium T-Shirt Tank Top Hoodie Sweatshirt Womens T-shirt Long Sleeve near me. AliensDesignTshirt Kansas City Chiefs And Kansas City Royals Heart T-shirt Premium Customize Digital Printing design also available multi colors black white blue orange redgrey silver yellow green forest brown multi sizes S M L XL 2XL 3XL 4XL Buy product AliensDesignTshirt Kansas City Chiefs And Kansas City Royals Heart T-shirt You can gift it for mom dad papa mommy daddy mama boyfriend girlfriend grandpa grandma grandfather grandmother husband wife family teacher Its also casual enough to wear for working out shopping running jogging hiking biking or hanging out with friends Unique design personalized design for Valentines day St Patricks day Mothers day Fathers day Birthday More info 53 oz ? pre-shrunk cotton Double-needle stitched neckline bottom hem and sleeves Quarter turned Seven-eighths inch seamless collar Shoulder-to-shoulder taping TikTok, an app dominated by Gen Z, is the place for a lot of things: You can discover emerging designers, partake in dance challenges, watch beauty tutorials, and even stream fashion shows. But there’s another space on TikTok that’s also taking off—let’s call it BookTok.Digital book clubs are increasing in popularity on the app. Various “bookfluencers” are creating content around their favorite reads, and developing accounts that are strictly devoted to book talk. There’s a page for virtually everyone’s tastes—whether you’re a mystery lover or diehard rom-com reader—and each is the perfect place to find a review on a book you’ve been eyeing, or maybe even rediscover some favorites. The power of #BookTok is not to be underestimated: Some TikTok book accounts, like @alifeofliterature, have featured old books and propelled them back onto best-seller lists; proving that Gen Z’s appetite for books is very much alive. Navigating the app can be a tiresome feat—there’s so much to discover!—but fear not: we at Vogue have rounded up a selection of BookTok pages that are well worth a follow. Spring is the perfect time to pick up a new book, after all—there are tons of new releases this season—so what are you waiting for? Below, the 8 bookfluencers to know.Followers: 212,000Why to follow: This page has a fun, curated take on book recommendations. Videos are broken down into categories like “books that will give you major flashbacks,” “books that made my world stop,” and “oh, you haven’t read the classics yet.” There’s a book suggestion for everything, no matter what you’re in the market for.Followers: 209,000Why to follow: This bookfluencer’s quick-fire book reviews are entertaining and honest. She’ll take a book like Angeline Boulley’s Firekeeper’s Daughter and entice you to pick it up. She also offers handy tips on how to save money when buying books.Followers: 82,000Why to follow: This BookTok page is less service-based, and more about funny takes on being a book lover in general (including the anti-social tendencies). The user also rates book covers by “how many shots it would take” for her to hook up with them.Followers: 288,000Why to follow: This book devotee frequently offers her recommendations, and makes funny TikToks about trying to find comfortable positions to read in and what happens after she’s done with a novel (hint: fan art is involved).Followers: 49,000 followersWhy to follow: This page’s tagline is “I like big books and I cannot lie,” need we say more? Its TikToks are broken down by categories such as “books with a strong female lead,” “books for true crime podcast fans,” and cheekier ones like “books to read based off your favorite baked goods.”Followers: 78,000Why to follow: This bookfluencer’s series of book pet peeves is a highlight (one is when fans get mad about the casting of a TV adaptation; another, when people get mad about breaking book spines). She also rounds up books that made her cry and that have major plot twists.Followers: 193,000Why to follow: Her page’s tagline is “shut up and read,” and its TikToks give you everything you need to do so. She has highlighted books with Middle Eastern and Southern Asian representation, and also made comical videos about her bookshelf organization obsession.Followers: 37,000Why to follow: This page works a bit like a 24-hour librarian who’s always around to help with a suggestion. Plus, the user gives advice on how to read multiple books at once and how to get a copy of a book before it’s released. One way to understand what had happened to her (what she had made happen, what she had insisted upon): It began with the house. It was the particular house, but it also was where the house was and where she discovered she wanted to be. It was a run-down, abandoned Arts and Crafts cottage in a neglected, once-vibrant neighborhood in the city of Syracuse.The house sat high on a tiny lot on Highland Street, which ran atop a hill that bordered a long expanse of grass and trees. It looked like a small, sloping park, but it was actually a cemetery, the old graves clustered in the southwest corner. Unless you were squeamish about graves—Sam wasn’t—the sloping green hill was quite pretty. Highland itself offered a wide view of downtown. You could see the steeples of churches, and you could see how the small city was in a valley surrounded by hills. You could even see the kidney shape of Onondaga Lake, although it was often partly obscured by low-hanging clouds. If you turned your head to the left, or if you looked out the side windows of the house, you could see Syracuse University up on another hill. You would locate it by the quilted low white bubble of the Carrier Dome (named for the nearly absent Carrier Corporation—all that remained were a handful of jobs, the dome, and Carrier Circle, a treacherous traffic roundabout that Sam hated). Soon after you spotted the dome you would notice the various spired and turreted campus buildings.The decision to leave her husband—the act of leaving, really—began the moment she made an offer on the house. It was a Sunday; Sam woke up at 5 a.m. She attributed this unnecessarily early waking to the approach of menopause. Her period still came each month, but odd things had started changing in her body, even her brain. One of which was suddenly becoming awake at 5 a.m. on a Sunday, her mind shaking off sleep with unnegotiable clarity, as if she had already drunk a cup of coffee. And just as with coffee, she felt alert, an adrenal burst, but she could also feel the fatigue underneath it all, the weariness. That morning the wood floor was cold against her bare feet, but she couldn’t find her slippers. It was still dark. She tried not to wake her husband. She used her phone to illuminate the way to the bathroom. She peed, flushed, washed. She brushed her teeth without looking in the mirror. She pushed up the blinds to peek outside. The sky was gradually lightening with the dawn, and half a foot of snow had fallen overnight. The sunrise that was creeping up now cast a pink and gold glimmer, and a little crust of ice on top of the snow glittered from the sky and from the streetlamps. The trees, the roofs of the houses, even the salt-crusted cars looked beautiful.Sam figured that she was the only person on earth who thought late-March snowstorms were wonderful, and this made her feel a bit proud of herself. Always she liked to imagine herself as subtly different from everyone else, enjoying the tension and mystique of being ordinary on the surface but with a radical, original interior life. For example, back when Sam used to shop the sales at the Talbots in DeWitt with the other suburban ladies of her class and age, she separated herself. Sure, Sam had discovered that the classic A-line or sheath dresses made of solid-colored ponte knits were so forgiving, so flattering (“flattering,” that tragic word) to a grotesque midlife misshapenness—a blurriness, a squareness, really. But despite shopping because of an “insider” email-blast notification of a super sale, Sam believed that she was different from the other women. Inside she was mocking the calibrated manipulations, mocking herself, noting the corporate branding and lifestyle implications of the preppy styles and colors. The classic plaids, the buttons on the sleeves, the ballerina flats evoking a tastefully understated sensibility. It even occurred to her that the other women could be having the same interior thoughts and that the idea of conformity—at least in modern America—was never consciously sought after. No one older than a teenager thought, I want this because everyone else has it. No, Sam knew that you were allowed to keep a vain and precious sense of agency. This was the very secret to consumerism working in a savvy, self-conscious culture. Her sense of resistance was as manufactured as her need to buy flattering clothing. Nevertheless (!), Sam also believed that her having such self-critical, self-reflexive thoughts as she shopped set her apart from the other women. Surely. So she still believed herself to be (however stealthily) an eccentric person, not suited to conventions of thought or sensibility.Lately this desire to be contrary to convention had taken on a new urgency well beyond clothes or matters of taste. An unruly, even perverse inclination animated her. It had been looking for a place to land, for something to fasten on. So now (not before), this odd inner state pushed her toward a highly destabilizing wildness (a recklessness) that she couldn’t suppress any longer.She pulled on the same clothes she had worn the day before: stretched-out jeans and a black cowl-neck sweater. She no longer wanted to open her closet full of clothes. Why did she need so many, so much? In the last few months, things that used to captivate her no longer did.She crept downstairs and made herself a coffee.It was Sam’s habit to check out the real estate listings online. She had the bored-housewife pastime of attending open houses. She knew many of the other people there also had no intention to buy but had come to snoop into other people’s lives or to calculate land values or to imagine a fantasy life brought on by the frame of fresh architecture. This last impulse made sense to her. She had even wanted, at one point, to study architecture (and history, and women’s studies, and literature), but she had talked herself out of it and she had gotten married and then pregnant instead. She settled for becoming an architectural amateur.Unusual old structures (Syracuse had many) excited her: They were a visible-but-secret code, the past rendered in materials that could be seen and touched. For example, the abandoned AME Zion Church on East Fayette Street. Its tiny perfect form sat on a sturdy, intact limestone foundation. Paint-peeled crumbling white brick rose into a bell tower next to a large Gothic-pointed stained-glass window. But the building was lost in the concrete dead zone around I-81, grown over with box-maple saplings and covered with graffiti, the windows long boarded up. It belonged to the oldest Black congregation in Syracuse, built 100 years ago to replace a structure at another site that dated to the 1840s, when it had been a part of the Underground Railroad. Now the church sat stranded and forgotten. Syracuse had so much history that it could neglect wide swathes of it. When Sam saw a building that no one else seemed to see anymore, she would stop her car, get out, walk around the perimeter, and even lay her hand on a brick as a form of communion and respect. Fascinating old buildings and houses, empty or still in use, called to her from all over the city. She sometimes drove out of her way just to glimpse one of her favorites. But open houses gave her the rare chance to go inside, which was a much more intimate experience. As soon as she crossed the threshold into a house’s space, she could feel it shape who she was—or would be—in some deep way. Whenever she had a chance to walk inside one, she did, which always worked as an act of imagination, an act she loved. What would it feel like to live here, wake up here, argue with your husband here?This open house intrigued her because it was cross-listed on an Instagram account for architecture nerds:Unique Arts and Crafts bungalow designed by Ward Wellington Ward in 1913. For sale for $38,000! Intrepid buyers only—needs complete rehab. Most original details intact. See link in bio for more #cheapoldhouses#saveoldstuff#bungalow#restoration#casementwindowsforthewinShe was the only fantasy lurker attending the open house at 110 Highland Street that Sunday morning.The house was falling apart. The house was beautiful.It had leaded-glass windows, built-in shelves, and hidden storage benches. Two of the benches were framed by wood-beamed closures (“the inglenook”) and sat at either end of (oh, what she longed for!) an elaborate tile-lined fireplace (“Mercer Moravian tiles”). Sam imagined sitting in the nook, gazing at the fire, reading a book. The tiles were dirty with layers of dust but still intact. She could pick out a narrative in the relief images. (“Saint George and the Dragon,” the agent said.) The clay finish was a rustic, uneven glaze, the colors pink, green, and white. She touched her fingertips to the tiles and felt an undeniable connection. Someone on some podcast had talked about “grounding.” It was when you walked outside with bare feet and let the earth connect with your body. It was supposed to right you, your circadian rhythms or something. Help you get over jet lag. Or maybe it was to mitigate the endocrine disruption of chronic toxic exposure. Or to counter EMF, the low level but constant electromagnetic waves from Wi-Fi and cellular towers. Or maybe all of that, grounding promoted as a systemic cure-all. Sam scoffed at the idea, even despised it as New Age crap, yet as her fingers touched the tiles, she felt grounded. There was no other word for it, as if a corrective current flowed from the house through the dusty tile and into her hand and, truly, her whole body. The tiles were set against patterned deep red brick topped by a mantel made of dark oak, also dirty but intact. Maybe it was Gustav Stickley or it was William Morris who wrote about the Arts and Crafts ideal, how the fireplace should be a work of everyday art. It looked handmade and warm, and its beauty was in its utility and simplicity: She was cold, she needed a fire. The hearth drew her in, invited her to sit. She now understood the fireplace as a form of secular worship. She imagined it would make her feel close to something elemental. (“Obviously, the chimney will have to be looked at.”) To keep her sanity over the long Syracuse winter, Sam needed this beautiful, old, heat-squandering open fire. At her house in the suburbs, they had a glass-fronted gas fireplace that gave off some regulated, efficient BTUs of heat and a low, exhausting fan hum. The gas flame had a cold blue at its center.“This house is on the historic register as the Garrett House. It even has a Wikipedia page. Designed in 1913 by the architect Ward Wellington Ward.”“Yes, I read that in the notice,” Sam said. “I’m familiar with him.”“Oh, good. So you know his houses are very special. Garrett had it built in 1913. After he and his wife died, it fell into neglectful hands, but none of the original details are ruined. Clearly it needs some TLC: a heating system, electrical updates, new roof, mold abatement. Possibly a chimney rebuild. Better drainage in the basement. Shore up the foundations. But it’s still a wonderful house, no?”“Yes,” Sam said.Later she drove to the big suburban Wegmans and bought some wild halibut, diced sweet potato, and triple-washed organic baby spinach for dinner. She also got her daughter’s favorite fruit, mango, and her husband’s favorite cereal, No-Grain Vanilla Granola, and several liter bottles of that German mineral water she liked. She took the groceries to their house. No one was home yet. And then, instead of cooking, she got in her car and drove back into the city. It was nearly six, and the sun was starting to go down. The sky was backlit, iridescent, spring bright, and as she drove she watched the clouds close to the horizon glow pink and orange. She drove back to the city because she had to see the house in this dusk light, this ridiculous, almost garish light. She crested the hill. She pulled into the house’s tiny driveway. The roofline was steep, and the shitty asphalt tiles were coming undone. But. The front and side windows faced the sunset. The city in all directions gleamed, and it looked as if an ocean lay beyond the clouds, some giant lake or shore. Ward Wellington Ward, this architect, he must have known. He thought of the sky and the trees as he designed his house; he knew how much you need those early-spring sunsets in Syracuse, even if they glisten off a foot of snow.She retrieved the business card from her coat pocket and called the real estate agent. “I want it,” the words coming up from some reptilian (perhaps paleomammalian, limbic, sublimbic) area of her brain, some part of her she never knew existed. “I want to make an offer, I mean. Can we do that today?” It felt easy. She signed the papers and wrote a check for the deposit. Inner life had spilled out and become outer life. She wrote an X in the box to waive the inspection. As is.What drew her to the house was its nature: The house was a paradox, both rustic and elegant. It felt hand-constructed, personal. Yet it reeked of artifice, “Arts and Crafts” meant to evoke home and nostalgia through cozy appropriations of English cottages and, oddly enough, some idea of a country church. Also, the state of the house. Dirty, falling apart, empty for too long.It was wrecked. It was hers.She got in her car, and she looked back once more at the house, maybe to imprint its image in her heart, the way you might look at a departing loved one, and only then did she realize, as she drove, that she was leaving her husband. Matt. That she would go live in the broken-down house in the city, the unloved, forgotten house with the view of the unloved, forgotten city. Why? Because she alone could see the beauty. It was meant for her. She couldn’t—shouldn’t—resist. And saying yes to this version of her life would mean saying no to another version of her life.Excerpted from Wayward by Dana Spiotta, copyright © 2021. Excerpted by permission of Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Penguin Random House LLC. For longer than I care to my remember, my relationship with my body was a war of attrition. I’ve been small enough to fit into sample-size jeans and big enough to qualify for the COVID-19 vaccine based on my BMI, but the one constant that followed me up and down the scale was fear; fear that I’d gain weight, fear that I’d stop losing weight, fear that I’d get—or stay—fat, and thus, to my mind, unlovable. I knew I was being unnecessarily cruel to myself, but still, I couldn’t seem to stop.These days, my attitude toward food, exercise, and my weight is healthier than it’s ever been, largely thanks to my recent breakup up with diet culture and focus on pursuing physical activity that actually makes me feel good; that said, I still wake up some days (okay, a lot of days) hating my body. When that happens, though, I have plenty of tools at my disposal, from therapy to running to cooking, that help me to anchor myself in the wider world. And if I’m really struggling in my ongoing quest for body peace, I tend to reach for a book.Of course, reading isn’t a total cure-all for body dysmorphia, but in the face of societally ingrained fatphobia, it’s always helpful to be reminded that I’m far from the only person doing their best to be okay with themselves. Below, find a list of the nine books I’ve turned to—from memoirs to novels and guides—for encouragement to stop hating my body, and instead strive for self-acceptance. If you’ve grown to hate dieting, but can’t imagine a way of eating (or, more broadly, existing) that doesn’t revolve around restriction, this might be the book for you. Harding and Kirby’s focus on establishing a “truce” with your body—rather than shooting for 100%, 24/7 self-love—is key; their book is comprised of essays offering practical advice for those seeking to make peace with their physical forms, including “Stop Judging Other Women” and “Read Up on Fat Acceptance and the Science of Fat.”Gay takes care to explain that her best-selling memoir isn’t a “success story” of weight loss, instead grounding her adolescent weight gain within a context of of sexual abuse, loneliness, and vulnerability. In doing so, she boldly presents a vision of fatness as self-conceived protection against a world that would seek to destroy her. It’s undeniably painful to watch Gay revisit old traumas, but it’s also incredibly gratifying to follow along as she begins to heal and slowly learns to give her body what it’s really asking for.Broder is uniquely skilled at diving into the psychological makeup of self-hatred, and she does so with aplomb in this fictional exploration of a young queer Jewish woman’s struggle with disordered eating in present-day Los Angeles. Fatness isn’t solely presented as something to be feared in Milk Fed; a fat woman is also portrayed as an object of lust, love, and desire, and hunger itself—for food, for sex, for faith, and for connection—is depicted in its most essential and inherently human forms.In this memoir-nonfiction hybrid, Meltzer skillfully blends her own extensive dieting history with the life story of Jean Nidetch, the Queens housewife who founded Weight Watchers in 1963 and helped to create “diet culture” as we know it today. This Is Big doesn’t overtly make a case for or against Weight Watchers, or any other diet; rather, it tells the story of two very different women who each spent much of their lives trying to conform to an idealized body type, and in doing so, presents a potential script for living your life outside the confines of restriction.This collection of essays by writers including Sonya Renee Taylor, Alexis Pauline Gumbs, Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha, and brown herself span an incredibly wide array of topics that all come back to a central question: What is pleasure, and who has been structurally discouraged from pursuing it? brown’s liberated approach to food, sex, drugs, and a long list of other so-called “vices” encourages the reader to determine for themselves what brings them joy, rather than adhering to guilt and shame-driven narratives of worth and enjoyment.Jennifer Weiner is best known for her long history of writing fiction that places plus-sized protagonists squarely in the foreground, but this memoir charts her own personal experiences with weight, food, insecurity, loss, love, parenthood and self-acceptance, adding up to a life story that feels as intimate as if Weiner were recounting it to you over a cup of coffee herself.“I used to believe that I was afraid of food and of being fat, but now I know that the fear was of a deeply troubled culture that would not allow me to thrive. A culture that was, in fact, invested in my degradation,” writes author, activist, and body-image expert Virgie Tovar in this searing excoriation of a diet culture that has forced generations of fat people to focus their anger at their own bodies, rather than at a society that refuses to let them live freely and happily at any size.This memoir might be best known as the source material for Hulu’s first-rate, Aidy Bryant-led series of the same name, but revisiting West’s lyrical and often hilarious prose—which touches on everything from body hatred to abortion to grief to romantic love—is a necessary reminder that the lives of fat people can, and do, contain multitudes.Even if you’re not really into contorting yourself physically, there’s still so much to be learned from this illustrated guide by yoga teacher and body-positive activist Jessamyn Stanley. The book offers 50 easy-to-follow yoga poses with clear instructions, but it also presents a vision of exercise that is guided by the still-revolutionary desire to feel, rather than look, your best. Product detail for this product: Fashion field involves the best minds to carefully craft the design. The t-shirt industry is a very competitive field and involves many risks. The cost per t-shirt varies proportionally to the total quantity of t-shirts. We are manufacturing exceptional-quality t-shirts at a very competitive price. We use only the best DTG printers available to produce the finest-quality images possible that won’t wash out of the shirts. Custom orders are always welcome. We can customize all of our designs to your needs! Please feel free to contact us if you have any questions. We accept all major credit cards (Visa, Mastercard, American Express, Discover), PayPal, or prepayment by Check, Money Order, or Bank Wire. 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But there’s another space on TikTok that’s also taking off—let’s call it BookTok.Digital book clubs are increasing in popularity on the app. Various “bookfluencers” are creating content around their favorite reads, and developing accounts that are strictly devoted to book talk. There’s a page for virtually everyone’s tastes—whether you’re a mystery lover or diehard rom-com reader—and each is the perfect place to find a review on a book you’ve been eyeing, or maybe even rediscover some favorites. The power of #BookTok is not to be underestimated: Some TikTok book accounts, like @alifeofliterature, have featured old books and propelled them back onto best-seller lists; proving that Gen Z’s appetite for books is very much alive. Navigating the app can be a tiresome feat—there’s so much to discover!—but fear not: we at Vogue have rounded up a selection of BookTok pages that are well worth a follow. Spring is the perfect time to pick up a new book, after all—there are tons of new releases this season—so what are you waiting for? Below, the 8 bookfluencers to know.Followers: 212,000Why to follow: This page has a fun, curated take on book recommendations. Videos are broken down into categories like “books that will give you major flashbacks,” “books that made my world stop,” and “oh, you haven’t read the classics yet.” There’s a book suggestion for everything, no matter what you’re in the market for.Followers: 209,000Why to follow: This bookfluencer’s quick-fire book reviews are entertaining and honest. She’ll take a book like Angeline Boulley’s Firekeeper’s Daughter and entice you to pick it up. She also offers handy tips on how to save money when buying books.Followers: 82,000Why to follow: This BookTok page is less service-based, and more about funny takes on being a book lover in general (including the anti-social tendencies). The user also rates book covers by “how many shots it would take” for her to hook up with them.Followers: 288,000Why to follow: This book devotee frequently offers her recommendations, and makes funny TikToks about trying to find comfortable positions to read in and what happens after she’s done with a novel (hint: fan art is involved).Followers: 49,000 followersWhy to follow: This page’s tagline is “I like big books and I cannot lie,” need we say more? Its TikToks are broken down by categories such as “books with a strong female lead,” “books for true crime podcast fans,” and cheekier ones like “books to read based off your favorite baked goods.”Followers: 78,000Why to follow: This bookfluencer’s series of book pet peeves is a highlight (one is when fans get mad about the casting of a TV adaptation; another, when people get mad about breaking book spines). She also rounds up books that made her cry and that have major plot twists.Followers: 193,000Why to follow: Her page’s tagline is “shut up and read,” and its TikToks give you everything you need to do so. She has highlighted books with Middle Eastern and Southern Asian representation, and also made comical videos about her bookshelf organization obsession.Followers: 37,000Why to follow: This page works a bit like a 24-hour librarian who’s always around to help with a suggestion. Plus, the user gives advice on how to read multiple books at once and how to get a copy of a book before it’s released. One way to understand what had happened to her (what she had made happen, what she had insisted upon): It began with the house. It was the particular house, but it also was where the house was and where she discovered she wanted to be. It was a run-down, abandoned Arts and Crafts cottage in a neglected, once-vibrant neighborhood in the city of Syracuse.The house sat high on a tiny lot on Highland Street, which ran atop a hill that bordered a long expanse of grass and trees. It looked like a small, sloping park, but it was actually a cemetery, the old graves clustered in the southwest corner. Unless you were squeamish about graves—Sam wasn’t—the sloping green hill was quite pretty. Highland itself offered a wide view of downtown. You could see the steeples of churches, and you could see how the small city was in a valley surrounded by hills. You could even see the kidney shape of Onondaga Lake, although it was often partly obscured by low-hanging clouds. If you turned your head to the left, or if you looked out the side windows of the house, you could see Syracuse University up on another hill. You would locate it by the quilted low white bubble of the Carrier Dome (named for the nearly absent Carrier Corporation—all that remained were a handful of jobs, the dome, and Carrier Circle, a treacherous traffic roundabout that Sam hated). Soon after you spotted the dome you would notice the various spired and turreted campus buildings.The decision to leave her husband—the act of leaving, really—began the moment she made an offer on the house. It was a Sunday; Sam woke up at 5 a.m. She attributed this unnecessarily early waking to the approach of menopause. Her period still came each month, but odd things had started changing in her body, even her brain. One of which was suddenly becoming awake at 5 a.m. on a Sunday, her mind shaking off sleep with unnegotiable clarity, as if she had already drunk a cup of coffee. And just as with coffee, she felt alert, an adrenal burst, but she could also feel the fatigue underneath it all, the weariness. That morning the wood floor was cold against her bare feet, but she couldn’t find her slippers. It was still dark. She tried not to wake her husband. She used her phone to illuminate the way to the bathroom. She peed, flushed, washed. She brushed her teeth without looking in the mirror. She pushed up the blinds to peek outside. The sky was gradually lightening with the dawn, and half a foot of snow had fallen overnight. The sunrise that was creeping up now cast a pink and gold glimmer, and a little crust of ice on top of the snow glittered from the sky and from the streetlamps. The trees, the roofs of the houses, even the salt-crusted cars looked beautiful.Sam figured that she was the only person on earth who thought late-March snowstorms were wonderful, and this made her feel a bit proud of herself. Always she liked to imagine herself as subtly different from everyone else, enjoying the tension and mystique of being ordinary on the surface but with a radical, original interior life. For example, back when Sam used to shop the sales at the Talbots in DeWitt with the other suburban ladies of her class and age, she separated herself. Sure, Sam had discovered that the classic A-line or sheath dresses made of solid-colored ponte knits were so forgiving, so flattering (“flattering,” that tragic word) to a grotesque midlife misshapenness—a blurriness, a squareness, really. But despite shopping because of an “insider” email-blast notification of a super sale, Sam believed that she was different from the other women. Inside she was mocking the calibrated manipulations, mocking herself, noting the corporate branding and lifestyle implications of the preppy styles and colors. The classic plaids, the buttons on the sleeves, the ballerina flats evoking a tastefully understated sensibility. It even occurred to her that the other women could be having the same interior thoughts and that the idea of conformity—at least in modern America—was never consciously sought after. No one older than a teenager thought, I want this because everyone else has it. No, Sam knew that you were allowed to keep a vain and precious sense of agency. This was the very secret to consumerism working in a savvy, self-conscious culture. Her sense of resistance was as manufactured as her need to buy flattering clothing. Nevertheless (!), Sam also believed that her having such self-critical, self-reflexive thoughts as she shopped set her apart from the other women. Surely. So she still believed herself to be (however stealthily) an eccentric person, not suited to conventions of thought or sensibility.Lately this desire to be contrary to convention had taken on a new urgency well beyond clothes or matters of taste. An unruly, even perverse inclination animated her. It had been looking for a place to land, for something to fasten on. So now (not before), this odd inner state pushed her toward a highly destabilizing wildness (a recklessness) that she couldn’t suppress any longer.She pulled on the same clothes she had worn the day before: stretched-out jeans and a black cowl-neck sweater. She no longer wanted to open her closet full of clothes. Why did she need so many, so much? In the last few months, things that used to captivate her no longer did.She crept downstairs and made herself a coffee.It was Sam’s habit to check out the real estate listings online. She had the bored-housewife pastime of attending open houses. She knew many of the other people there also had no intention to buy but had come to snoop into other people’s lives or to calculate land values or to imagine a fantasy life brought on by the frame of fresh architecture. This last impulse made sense to her. She had even wanted, at one point, to study architecture (and history, and women’s studies, and literature), but she had talked herself out of it and she had gotten married and then pregnant instead. She settled for becoming an architectural amateur.Unusual old structures (Syracuse had many) excited her: They were a visible-but-secret code, the past rendered in materials that could be seen and touched. For example, the abandoned AME Zion Church on East Fayette Street. Its tiny perfect form sat on a sturdy, intact limestone foundation. Paint-peeled crumbling white brick rose into a bell tower next to a large Gothic-pointed stained-glass window. But the building was lost in the concrete dead zone around I-81, grown over with box-maple saplings and covered with graffiti, the windows long boarded up. It belonged to the oldest Black congregation in Syracuse, built 100 years ago to replace a structure at another site that dated to the 1840s, when it had been a part of the Underground Railroad. Now the church sat stranded and forgotten. Syracuse had so much history that it could neglect wide swathes of it. When Sam saw a building that no one else seemed to see anymore, she would stop her car, get out, walk around the perimeter, and even lay her hand on a brick as a form of communion and respect. Fascinating old buildings and houses, empty or still in use, called to her from all over the city. She sometimes drove out of her way just to glimpse one of her favorites. But open houses gave her the rare chance to go inside, which was a much more intimate experience. As soon as she crossed the threshold into a house’s space, she could feel it shape who she was—or would be—in some deep way. Whenever she had a chance to walk inside one, she did, which always worked as an act of imagination, an act she loved. What would it feel like to live here, wake up here, argue with your husband here?This open house intrigued her because it was cross-listed on an Instagram account for architecture nerds:Unique Arts and Crafts bungalow designed by Ward Wellington Ward in 1913. For sale for $38,000! Intrepid buyers only—needs complete rehab. Most original details intact. See link in bio for more #cheapoldhouses#saveoldstuff#bungalow#restoration#casementwindowsforthewinShe was the only fantasy lurker attending the open house at 110 Highland Street that Sunday morning.The house was falling apart. The house was beautiful.It had leaded-glass windows, built-in shelves, and hidden storage benches. Two of the benches were framed by wood-beamed closures (“the inglenook”) and sat at either end of (oh, what she longed for!) an elaborate tile-lined fireplace (“Mercer Moravian tiles”). Sam imagined sitting in the nook, gazing at the fire, reading a book. The tiles were dirty with layers of dust but still intact. She could pick out a narrative in the relief images. (“Saint George and the Dragon,” the agent said.) The clay finish was a rustic, uneven glaze, the colors pink, green, and white. She touched her fingertips to the tiles and felt an undeniable connection. Someone on some podcast had talked about “grounding.” It was when you walked outside with bare feet and let the earth connect with your body. It was supposed to right you, your circadian rhythms or something. Help you get over jet lag. Or maybe it was to mitigate the endocrine disruption of chronic toxic exposure. Or to counter EMF, the low level but constant electromagnetic waves from Wi-Fi and cellular towers. Or maybe all of that, grounding promoted as a systemic cure-all. Sam scoffed at the idea, even despised it as New Age crap, yet as her fingers touched the tiles, she felt grounded. There was no other word for it, as if a corrective current flowed from the house through the dusty tile and into her hand and, truly, her whole body. The tiles were set against patterned deep red brick topped by a mantel made of dark oak, also dirty but intact. Maybe it was Gustav Stickley or it was William Morris who wrote about the Arts and Crafts ideal, how the fireplace should be a work of everyday art. It looked handmade and warm, and its beauty was in its utility and simplicity: She was cold, she needed a fire. The hearth drew her in, invited her to sit. She now understood the fireplace as a form of secular worship. She imagined it would make her feel close to something elemental. (“Obviously, the chimney will have to be looked at.”) To keep her sanity over the long Syracuse winter, Sam needed this beautiful, old, heat-squandering open fire. At her house in the suburbs, they had a glass-fronted gas fireplace that gave off some regulated, efficient BTUs of heat and a low, exhausting fan hum. The gas flame had a cold blue at its center.“This house is on the historic register as the Garrett House. It even has a Wikipedia page. Designed in 1913 by the architect Ward Wellington Ward.”“Yes, I read that in the notice,” Sam said. “I’m familiar with him.”“Oh, good. So you know his houses are very special. Garrett had it built in 1913. After he and his wife died, it fell into neglectful hands, but none of the original details are ruined. Clearly it needs some TLC: a heating system, electrical updates, new roof, mold abatement. Possibly a chimney rebuild. Better drainage in the basement. Shore up the foundations. But it’s still a wonderful house, no?”“Yes,” Sam said.Later she drove to the big suburban Wegmans and bought some wild halibut, diced sweet potato, and triple-washed organic baby spinach for dinner. She also got her daughter’s favorite fruit, mango, and her husband’s favorite cereal, No-Grain Vanilla Granola, and several liter bottles of that German mineral water she liked. She took the groceries to their house. No one was home yet. And then, instead of cooking, she got in her car and drove back into the city. It was nearly six, and the sun was starting to go down. The sky was backlit, iridescent, spring bright, and as she drove she watched the clouds close to the horizon glow pink and orange. She drove back to the city because she had to see the house in this dusk light, this ridiculous, almost garish light. She crested the hill. She pulled into the house’s tiny driveway. The roofline was steep, and the shitty asphalt tiles were coming undone. But. The front and side windows faced the sunset. The city in all directions gleamed, and it looked as if an ocean lay beyond the clouds, some giant lake or shore. Ward Wellington Ward, this architect, he must have known. He thought of the sky and the trees as he designed his house; he knew how much you need those early-spring sunsets in Syracuse, even if they glisten off a foot of snow.She retrieved the business card from her coat pocket and called the real estate agent. “I want it,” the words coming up from some reptilian (perhaps paleomammalian, limbic, sublimbic) area of her brain, some part of her she never knew existed. “I want to make an offer, I mean. Can we do that today?” It felt easy. She signed the papers and wrote a check for the deposit. Inner life had spilled out and become outer life. She wrote an X in the box to waive the inspection. As is.What drew her to the house was its nature: The house was a paradox, both rustic and elegant. It felt hand-constructed, personal. Yet it reeked of artifice, “Arts and Crafts” meant to evoke home and nostalgia through cozy appropriations of English cottages and, oddly enough, some idea of a country church. Also, the state of the house. Dirty, falling apart, empty for too long.It was wrecked. It was hers.She got in her car, and she looked back once more at the house, maybe to imprint its image in her heart, the way you might look at a departing loved one, and only then did she realize, as she drove, that she was leaving her husband. Matt. That she would go live in the broken-down house in the city, the unloved, forgotten house with the view of the unloved, forgotten city. Why? Because she alone could see the beauty. It was meant for her. She couldn’t—shouldn’t—resist. And saying yes to this version of her life would mean saying no to another version of her life.Excerpted from Wayward by Dana Spiotta, copyright © 2021. Excerpted by permission of Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Penguin Random House LLC. For longer than I care to my remember, my relationship with my body was a war of attrition. I’ve been small enough to fit into sample-size jeans and big enough to qualify for the COVID-19 vaccine based on my BMI, but the one constant that followed me up and down the scale was fear; fear that I’d gain weight, fear that I’d stop losing weight, fear that I’d get—or stay—fat, and thus, to my mind, unlovable. I knew I was being unnecessarily cruel to myself, but still, I couldn’t seem to stop.These days, my attitude toward food, exercise, and my weight is healthier than it’s ever been, largely thanks to my recent breakup up with diet culture and focus on pursuing physical activity that actually makes me feel good; that said, I still wake up some days (okay, a lot of days) hating my body. When that happens, though, I have plenty of tools at my disposal, from therapy to running to cooking, that help me to anchor myself in the wider world. And if I’m really struggling in my ongoing quest for body peace, I tend to reach for a book.Of course, reading isn’t a total cure-all for body dysmorphia, but in the face of societally ingrained fatphobia, it’s always helpful to be reminded that I’m far from the only person doing their best to be okay with themselves. Below, find a list of the nine books I’ve turned to—from memoirs to novels and guides—for encouragement to stop hating my body, and instead strive for self-acceptance. If you’ve grown to hate dieting, but can’t imagine a way of eating (or, more broadly, existing) that doesn’t revolve around restriction, this might be the book for you. Harding and Kirby’s focus on establishing a “truce” with your body—rather than shooting for 100%, 24/7 self-love—is key; their book is comprised of essays offering practical advice for those seeking to make peace with their physical forms, including “Stop Judging Other Women” and “Read Up on Fat Acceptance and the Science of Fat.”Gay takes care to explain that her best-selling memoir isn’t a “success story” of weight loss, instead grounding her adolescent weight gain within a context of of sexual abuse, loneliness, and vulnerability. In doing so, she boldly presents a vision of fatness as self-conceived protection against a world that would seek to destroy her. It’s undeniably painful to watch Gay revisit old traumas, but it’s also incredibly gratifying to follow along as she begins to heal and slowly learns to give her body what it’s really asking for.Broder is uniquely skilled at diving into the psychological makeup of self-hatred, and she does so with aplomb in this fictional exploration of a young queer Jewish woman’s struggle with disordered eating in present-day Los Angeles. Fatness isn’t solely presented as something to be feared in Milk Fed; a fat woman is also portrayed as an object of lust, love, and desire, and hunger itself—for food, for sex, for faith, and for connection—is depicted in its most essential and inherently human forms.In this memoir-nonfiction hybrid, Meltzer skillfully blends her own extensive dieting history with the life story of Jean Nidetch, the Queens housewife who founded Weight Watchers in 1963 and helped to create “diet culture” as we know it today. This Is Big doesn’t overtly make a case for or against Weight Watchers, or any other diet; rather, it tells the story of two very different women who each spent much of their lives trying to conform to an idealized body type, and in doing so, presents a potential script for living your life outside the confines of restriction.This collection of essays by writers including Sonya Renee Taylor, Alexis Pauline Gumbs, Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha, and brown herself span an incredibly wide array of topics that all come back to a central question: What is pleasure, and who has been structurally discouraged from pursuing it? brown’s liberated approach to food, sex, drugs, and a long list of other so-called “vices” encourages the reader to determine for themselves what brings them joy, rather than adhering to guilt and shame-driven narratives of worth and enjoyment.Jennifer Weiner is best known for her long history of writing fiction that places plus-sized protagonists squarely in the foreground, but this memoir charts her own personal experiences with weight, food, insecurity, loss, love, parenthood and self-acceptance, adding up to a life story that feels as intimate as if Weiner were recounting it to you over a cup of coffee herself.“I used to believe that I was afraid of food and of being fat, but now I know that the fear was of a deeply troubled culture that would not allow me to thrive. A culture that was, in fact, invested in my degradation,” writes author, activist, and body-image expert Virgie Tovar in this searing excoriation of a diet culture that has forced generations of fat people to focus their anger at their own bodies, rather than at a society that refuses to let them live freely and happily at any size.This memoir might be best known as the source material for Hulu’s first-rate, Aidy Bryant-led series of the same name, but revisiting West’s lyrical and often hilarious prose—which touches on everything from body hatred to abortion to grief to romantic love—is a necessary reminder that the lives of fat people can, and do, contain multitudes.Even if you’re not really into contorting yourself physically, there’s still so much to be learned from this illustrated guide by yoga teacher and body-positive activist Jessamyn Stanley. The book offers 50 easy-to-follow yoga poses with clear instructions, but it also presents a vision of exercise that is guided by the still-revolutionary desire to feel, rather than look, your best. Product detail for this product: Fashion field involves the best minds to carefully craft the design. The t-shirt industry is a very competitive field and involves many risks. The cost per t-shirt varies proportionally to the total quantity of t-shirts. We are manufacturing exceptional-quality t-shirts at a very competitive price. We use only the best DTG printers available to produce the finest-quality images possible that won’t wash out of the shirts. Custom orders are always welcome. We can customize all of our designs to your needs! Please feel free to contact us if you have any questions. We accept all major credit cards (Visa, Mastercard, American Express, Discover), PayPal, or prepayment by Check, Money Order, or Bank Wire. 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AliensDesignTshirt Kansas City Chiefs And Kansas City Royals Heart T-shirt Premium Customize Digital Printing design also available multi colors black white blue orange redgrey silver yellow green forest brown multi sizes S M L XL 2XL 3XL 4XL Buy product AliensDesignTshirt Kansas City Chiefs And Kansas City Royals Heart T-shirt You can gift it for mom dad papa mommy daddy mama boyfriend girlfriend grandpa grandma grandfather grandmother husband wife family teacher Its also casual enough to wear for working out shopping running jogging hiking biking or hanging out with friends Unique design personalized design for Valentines day St Patricks day Mothers day Fathers day Birthday More info 53 oz ? pre-shrunk cotton Double-needle stitched neckline bottom hem and sleeves Quarter turned Seven-eighths inch seamless collar Shoulder-to-shoulder taping TikTok, an app dominated by Gen Z, is the place for a lot of things: You can discover emerging designers, partake in dance challenges, watch beauty tutorials, and even stream fashion shows. But there’s another space on TikTok that’s also taking off—let’s call it BookTok.Digital book clubs are increasing in popularity on the app. Various “bookfluencers” are creating content around their favorite reads, and developing accounts that are strictly devoted to book talk. There’s a page for virtually everyone’s tastes—whether you’re a mystery lover or diehard rom-com reader—and each is the perfect place to find a review on a book you’ve been eyeing, or maybe even rediscover some favorites. The power of #BookTok is not to be underestimated: Some TikTok book accounts, like @alifeofliterature, have featured old books and propelled them back onto best-seller lists; proving that Gen Z’s appetite for books is very much alive. Navigating the app can be a tiresome feat—there’s so much to discover!—but fear not: we at Vogue have rounded up a selection of BookTok pages that are well worth a follow. Spring is the perfect time to pick up a new book, after all—there are tons of new releases this season—so what are you waiting for? Below, the 8 bookfluencers to know.Followers: 212,000Why to follow: This page has a fun, curated take on book recommendations. Videos are broken down into categories like “books that will give you major flashbacks,” “books that made my world stop,” and “oh, you haven’t read the classics yet.” There’s a book suggestion for everything, no matter what you’re in the market for.Followers: 209,000Why to follow: This bookfluencer’s quick-fire book reviews are entertaining and honest. She’ll take a book like Angeline Boulley’s Firekeeper’s Daughter and entice you to pick it up. She also offers handy tips on how to save money when buying books.Followers: 82,000Why to follow: This BookTok page is less service-based, and more about funny takes on being a book lover in general (including the anti-social tendencies). The user also rates book covers by “how many shots it would take” for her to hook up with them.Followers: 288,000Why to follow: This book devotee frequently offers her recommendations, and makes funny TikToks about trying to find comfortable positions to read in and what happens after she’s done with a novel (hint: fan art is involved).Followers: 49,000 followersWhy to follow: This page’s tagline is “I like big books and I cannot lie,” need we say more? Its TikToks are broken down by categories such as “books with a strong female lead,” “books for true crime podcast fans,” and cheekier ones like “books to read based off your favorite baked goods.”Followers: 78,000Why to follow: This bookfluencer’s series of book pet peeves is a highlight (one is when fans get mad about the casting of a TV adaptation; another, when people get mad about breaking book spines). She also rounds up books that made her cry and that have major plot twists.Followers: 193,000Why to follow: Her page’s tagline is “shut up and read,” and its TikToks give you everything you need to do so. She has highlighted books with Middle Eastern and Southern Asian representation, and also made comical videos about her bookshelf organization obsession.Followers: 37,000Why to follow: This page works a bit like a 24-hour librarian who’s always around to help with a suggestion. Plus, the user gives advice on how to read multiple books at once and how to get a copy of a book before it’s released. One way to understand what had happened to her (what she had made happen, what she had insisted upon): It began with the house. It was the particular house, but it also was where the house was and where she discovered she wanted to be. It was a run-down, abandoned Arts and Crafts cottage in a neglected, once-vibrant neighborhood in the city of Syracuse.The house sat high on a tiny lot on Highland Street, which ran atop a hill that bordered a long expanse of grass and trees. It looked like a small, sloping park, but it was actually a cemetery, the old graves clustered in the southwest corner. Unless you were squeamish about graves—Sam wasn’t—the sloping green hill was quite pretty. Highland itself offered a wide view of downtown. You could see the steeples of churches, and you could see how the small city was in a valley surrounded by hills. You could even see the kidney shape of Onondaga Lake, although it was often partly obscured by low-hanging clouds. If you turned your head to the left, or if you looked out the side windows of the house, you could see Syracuse University up on another hill. You would locate it by the quilted low white bubble of the Carrier Dome (named for the nearly absent Carrier Corporation—all that remained were a handful of jobs, the dome, and Carrier Circle, a treacherous traffic roundabout that Sam hated). Soon after you spotted the dome you would notice the various spired and turreted campus buildings.The decision to leave her husband—the act of leaving, really—began the moment she made an offer on the house. It was a Sunday; Sam woke up at 5 a.m. She attributed this unnecessarily early waking to the approach of menopause. Her period still came each month, but odd things had started changing in her body, even her brain. One of which was suddenly becoming awake at 5 a.m. on a Sunday, her mind shaking off sleep with unnegotiable clarity, as if she had already drunk a cup of coffee. And just as with coffee, she felt alert, an adrenal burst, but she could also feel the fatigue underneath it all, the weariness. That morning the wood floor was cold against her bare feet, but she couldn’t find her slippers. It was still dark. She tried not to wake her husband. She used her phone to illuminate the way to the bathroom. She peed, flushed, washed. She brushed her teeth without looking in the mirror. She pushed up the blinds to peek outside. The sky was gradually lightening with the dawn, and half a foot of snow had fallen overnight. The sunrise that was creeping up now cast a pink and gold glimmer, and a little crust of ice on top of the snow glittered from the sky and from the streetlamps. The trees, the roofs of the houses, even the salt-crusted cars looked beautiful.Sam figured that she was the only person on earth who thought late-March snowstorms were wonderful, and this made her feel a bit proud of herself. Always she liked to imagine herself as subtly different from everyone else, enjoying the tension and mystique of being ordinary on the surface but with a radical, original interior life. For example, back when Sam used to shop the sales at the Talbots in DeWitt with the other suburban ladies of her class and age, she separated herself. Sure, Sam had discovered that the classic A-line or sheath dresses made of solid-colored ponte knits were so forgiving, so flattering (“flattering,” that tragic word) to a grotesque midlife misshapenness—a blurriness, a squareness, really. But despite shopping because of an “insider” email-blast notification of a super sale, Sam believed that she was different from the other women. Inside she was mocking the calibrated manipulations, mocking herself, noting the corporate branding and lifestyle implications of the preppy styles and colors. The classic plaids, the buttons on the sleeves, the ballerina flats evoking a tastefully understated sensibility. It even occurred to her that the other women could be having the same interior thoughts and that the idea of conformity—at least in modern America—was never consciously sought after. No one older than a teenager thought, I want this because everyone else has it. No, Sam knew that you were allowed to keep a vain and precious sense of agency. This was the very secret to consumerism working in a savvy, self-conscious culture. Her sense of resistance was as manufactured as her need to buy flattering clothing. Nevertheless (!), Sam also believed that her having such self-critical, self-reflexive thoughts as she shopped set her apart from the other women. Surely. So she still believed herself to be (however stealthily) an eccentric person, not suited to conventions of thought or sensibility.Lately this desire to be contrary to convention had taken on a new urgency well beyond clothes or matters of taste. An unruly, even perverse inclination animated her. It had been looking for a place to land, for something to fasten on. So now (not before), this odd inner state pushed her toward a highly destabilizing wildness (a recklessness) that she couldn’t suppress any longer.She pulled on the same clothes she had worn the day before: stretched-out jeans and a black cowl-neck sweater. She no longer wanted to open her closet full of clothes. Why did she need so many, so much? In the last few months, things that used to captivate her no longer did.She crept downstairs and made herself a coffee.It was Sam’s habit to check out the real estate listings online. She had the bored-housewife pastime of attending open houses. She knew many of the other people there also had no intention to buy but had come to snoop into other people’s lives or to calculate land values or to imagine a fantasy life brought on by the frame of fresh architecture. This last impulse made sense to her. She had even wanted, at one point, to study architecture (and history, and women’s studies, and literature), but she had talked herself out of it and she had gotten married and then pregnant instead. She settled for becoming an architectural amateur.Unusual old structures (Syracuse had many) excited her: They were a visible-but-secret code, the past rendered in materials that could be seen and touched. For example, the abandoned AME Zion Church on East Fayette Street. Its tiny perfect form sat on a sturdy, intact limestone foundation. Paint-peeled crumbling white brick rose into a bell tower next to a large Gothic-pointed stained-glass window. But the building was lost in the concrete dead zone around I-81, grown over with box-maple saplings and covered with graffiti, the windows long boarded up. It belonged to the oldest Black congregation in Syracuse, built 100 years ago to replace a structure at another site that dated to the 1840s, when it had been a part of the Underground Railroad. Now the church sat stranded and forgotten. Syracuse had so much history that it could neglect wide swathes of it. When Sam saw a building that no one else seemed to see anymore, she would stop her car, get out, walk around the perimeter, and even lay her hand on a brick as a form of communion and respect. Fascinating old buildings and houses, empty or still in use, called to her from all over the city. She sometimes drove out of her way just to glimpse one of her favorites. But open houses gave her the rare chance to go inside, which was a much more intimate experience. As soon as she crossed the threshold into a house’s space, she could feel it shape who she was—or would be—in some deep way. Whenever she had a chance to walk inside one, she did, which always worked as an act of imagination, an act she loved. What would it feel like to live here, wake up here, argue with your husband here?This open house intrigued her because it was cross-listed on an Instagram account for architecture nerds:Unique Arts and Crafts bungalow designed by Ward Wellington Ward in 1913. For sale for $38,000! Intrepid buyers only—needs complete rehab. Most original details intact. See link in bio for more #cheapoldhouses#saveoldstuff#bungalow#restoration#casementwindowsforthewinShe was the only fantasy lurker attending the open house at 110 Highland Street that Sunday morning.The house was falling apart. The house was beautiful.It had leaded-glass windows, built-in shelves, and hidden storage benches. Two of the benches were framed by wood-beamed closures (“the inglenook”) and sat at either end of (oh, what she longed for!) an elaborate tile-lined fireplace (“Mercer Moravian tiles”). Sam imagined sitting in the nook, gazing at the fire, reading a book. The tiles were dirty with layers of dust but still intact. She could pick out a narrative in the relief images. (“Saint George and the Dragon,” the agent said.) The clay finish was a rustic, uneven glaze, the colors pink, green, and white. She touched her fingertips to the tiles and felt an undeniable connection. Someone on some podcast had talked about “grounding.” It was when you walked outside with bare feet and let the earth connect with your body. It was supposed to right you, your circadian rhythms or something. Help you get over jet lag. Or maybe it was to mitigate the endocrine disruption of chronic toxic exposure. Or to counter EMF, the low level but constant electromagnetic waves from Wi-Fi and cellular towers. Or maybe all of that, grounding promoted as a systemic cure-all. Sam scoffed at the idea, even despised it as New Age crap, yet as her fingers touched the tiles, she felt grounded. There was no other word for it, as if a corrective current flowed from the house through the dusty tile and into her hand and, truly, her whole body. The tiles were set against patterned deep red brick topped by a mantel made of dark oak, also dirty but intact. Maybe it was Gustav Stickley or it was William Morris who wrote about the Arts and Crafts ideal, how the fireplace should be a work of everyday art. It looked handmade and warm, and its beauty was in its utility and simplicity: She was cold, she needed a fire. The hearth drew her in, invited her to sit. She now understood the fireplace as a form of secular worship. She imagined it would make her feel close to something elemental. (“Obviously, the chimney will have to be looked at.”) To keep her sanity over the long Syracuse winter, Sam needed this beautiful, old, heat-squandering open fire. At her house in the suburbs, they had a glass-fronted gas fireplace that gave off some regulated, efficient BTUs of heat and a low, exhausting fan hum. The gas flame had a cold blue at its center.“This house is on the historic register as the Garrett House. It even has a Wikipedia page. Designed in 1913 by the architect Ward Wellington Ward.”“Yes, I read that in the notice,” Sam said. “I’m familiar with him.”“Oh, good. So you know his houses are very special. Garrett had it built in 1913. After he and his wife died, it fell into neglectful hands, but none of the original details are ruined. Clearly it needs some TLC: a heating system, electrical updates, new roof, mold abatement. Possibly a chimney rebuild. Better drainage in the basement. Shore up the foundations. But it’s still a wonderful house, no?”“Yes,” Sam said.Later she drove to the big suburban Wegmans and bought some wild halibut, diced sweet potato, and triple-washed organic baby spinach for dinner. She also got her daughter’s favorite fruit, mango, and her husband’s favorite cereal, No-Grain Vanilla Granola, and several liter bottles of that German mineral water she liked. She took the groceries to their house. No one was home yet. And then, instead of cooking, she got in her car and drove back into the city. It was nearly six, and the sun was starting to go down. The sky was backlit, iridescent, spring bright, and as she drove she watched the clouds close to the horizon glow pink and orange. She drove back to the city because she had to see the house in this dusk light, this ridiculous, almost garish light. She crested the hill. She pulled into the house’s tiny driveway. The roofline was steep, and the shitty asphalt tiles were coming undone. But. The front and side windows faced the sunset. The city in all directions gleamed, and it looked as if an ocean lay beyond the clouds, some giant lake or shore. Ward Wellington Ward, this architect, he must have known. He thought of the sky and the trees as he designed his house; he knew how much you need those early-spring sunsets in Syracuse, even if they glisten off a foot of snow.She retrieved the business card from her coat pocket and called the real estate agent. “I want it,” the words coming up from some reptilian (perhaps paleomammalian, limbic, sublimbic) area of her brain, some part of her she never knew existed. “I want to make an offer, I mean. Can we do that today?” It felt easy. She signed the papers and wrote a check for the deposit. Inner life had spilled out and become outer life. She wrote an X in the box to waive the inspection. As is.What drew her to the house was its nature: The house was a paradox, both rustic and elegant. It felt hand-constructed, personal. Yet it reeked of artifice, “Arts and Crafts” meant to evoke home and nostalgia through cozy appropriations of English cottages and, oddly enough, some idea of a country church. Also, the state of the house. Dirty, falling apart, empty for too long.It was wrecked. It was hers.She got in her car, and she looked back once more at the house, maybe to imprint its image in her heart, the way you might look at a departing loved one, and only then did she realize, as she drove, that she was leaving her husband. Matt. That she would go live in the broken-down house in the city, the unloved, forgotten house with the view of the unloved, forgotten city. Why? Because she alone could see the beauty. It was meant for her. She couldn’t—shouldn’t—resist. And saying yes to this version of her life would mean saying no to another version of her life.Excerpted from Wayward by Dana Spiotta, copyright © 2021. Excerpted by permission of Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Penguin Random House LLC. For longer than I care to my remember, my relationship with my body was a war of attrition. I’ve been small enough to fit into sample-size jeans and big enough to qualify for the COVID-19 vaccine based on my BMI, but the one constant that followed me up and down the scale was fear; fear that I’d gain weight, fear that I’d stop losing weight, fear that I’d get—or stay—fat, and thus, to my mind, unlovable. I knew I was being unnecessarily cruel to myself, but still, I couldn’t seem to stop.These days, my attitude toward food, exercise, and my weight is healthier than it’s ever been, largely thanks to my recent breakup up with diet culture and focus on pursuing physical activity that actually makes me feel good; that said, I still wake up some days (okay, a lot of days) hating my body. When that happens, though, I have plenty of tools at my disposal, from therapy to running to cooking, that help me to anchor myself in the wider world. And if I’m really struggling in my ongoing quest for body peace, I tend to reach for a book.Of course, reading isn’t a total cure-all for body dysmorphia, but in the face of societally ingrained fatphobia, it’s always helpful to be reminded that I’m far from the only person doing their best to be okay with themselves. Below, find a list of the nine books I’ve turned to—from memoirs to novels and guides—for encouragement to stop hating my body, and instead strive for self-acceptance. If you’ve grown to hate dieting, but can’t imagine a way of eating (or, more broadly, existing) that doesn’t revolve around restriction, this might be the book for you. Harding and Kirby’s focus on establishing a “truce” with your body—rather than shooting for 100%, 24/7 self-love—is key; their book is comprised of essays offering practical advice for those seeking to make peace with their physical forms, including “Stop Judging Other Women” and “Read Up on Fat Acceptance and the Science of Fat.”Gay takes care to explain that her best-selling memoir isn’t a “success story” of weight loss, instead grounding her adolescent weight gain within a context of of sexual abuse, loneliness, and vulnerability. In doing so, she boldly presents a vision of fatness as self-conceived protection against a world that would seek to destroy her. It’s undeniably painful to watch Gay revisit old traumas, but it’s also incredibly gratifying to follow along as she begins to heal and slowly learns to give her body what it’s really asking for.Broder is uniquely skilled at diving into the psychological makeup of self-hatred, and she does so with aplomb in this fictional exploration of a young queer Jewish woman’s struggle with disordered eating in present-day Los Angeles. Fatness isn’t solely presented as something to be feared in Milk Fed; a fat woman is also portrayed as an object of lust, love, and desire, and hunger itself—for food, for sex, for faith, and for connection—is depicted in its most essential and inherently human forms.In this memoir-nonfiction hybrid, Meltzer skillfully blends her own extensive dieting history with the life story of Jean Nidetch, the Queens housewife who founded Weight Watchers in 1963 and helped to create “diet culture” as we know it today. This Is Big doesn’t overtly make a case for or against Weight Watchers, or any other diet; rather, it tells the story of two very different women who each spent much of their lives trying to conform to an idealized body type, and in doing so, presents a potential script for living your life outside the confines of restriction.This collection of essays by writers including Sonya Renee Taylor, Alexis Pauline Gumbs, Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha, and brown herself span an incredibly wide array of topics that all come back to a central question: What is pleasure, and who has been structurally discouraged from pursuing it? brown’s liberated approach to food, sex, drugs, and a long list of other so-called “vices” encourages the reader to determine for themselves what brings them joy, rather than adhering to guilt and shame-driven narratives of worth and enjoyment.Jennifer Weiner is best known for her long history of writing fiction that places plus-sized protagonists squarely in the foreground, but this memoir charts her own personal experiences with weight, food, insecurity, loss, love, parenthood and self-acceptance, adding up to a life story that feels as intimate as if Weiner were recounting it to you over a cup of coffee herself.“I used to believe that I was afraid of food and of being fat, but now I know that the fear was of a deeply troubled culture that would not allow me to thrive. A culture that was, in fact, invested in my degradation,” writes author, activist, and body-image expert Virgie Tovar in this searing excoriation of a diet culture that has forced generations of fat people to focus their anger at their own bodies, rather than at a society that refuses to let them live freely and happily at any size.This memoir might be best known as the source material for Hulu’s first-rate, Aidy Bryant-led series of the same name, but revisiting West’s lyrical and often hilarious prose—which touches on everything from body hatred to abortion to grief to romantic love—is a necessary reminder that the lives of fat people can, and do, contain multitudes.Even if you’re not really into contorting yourself physically, there’s still so much to be learned from this illustrated guide by yoga teacher and body-positive activist Jessamyn Stanley. 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