California Gurl

Written by Ella Mordarski

Art by Isabella Castello

I’ve hated my body for as long as I can remember—until this year.

As a 2003 baby, my whole childhood was surrounded by Today show weight loss segments, crazy infomercial diets, Victoria’s Secret bombshell bras, and photoshopped magazine covers. I ate Skinny Cow ice cream bars and read tabloids that shamed women for having cellulite. Some of my more horrifying memories include the 4th grade boys “rating” the girls as they walked to the restroom during class and spending an afternoon in middle school figuring out which girl had the slimmest collar bone via how many quarters could fit in its notch without falling out.

While society has very slowly become more “body positive,” these principles stick with you forever, and taunt you every single day. In a 2015 study, it was found that about 50% of preadolescent girls dislike their body. I would have been 12 years old when this study was released, making me part of that statistic. I’ve always loved fashion (duh, I’m style editor) and dreamed for almost two decades of having a skinny body like the runway models, wishing on birthday candles and buying clothes multiple sizes too small in hopes of one day fitting into them.

One of the first CDs I owned in the 2000s was Katy Perry’s Teenage Dream. Perry is naked on the cover, while a cloud of cotton candy helps to hide some of the more scandalous areas. I idolized her…and her body. Because of this album, I have always imagined Los Angeles to be just like the song “California Gurls”: a city filled with glittery beaches, sweet candy, constant sex, bright sun, and, of course, skinny bikini-clad women with perky boobs. I can still remember the first time I ever watched the music video. Perry squirting whipped cream from her bra will always be a cultural touchstone in my zeitgeist.

So, when I found out I would be spending a semester in Los Angeles, I was both excited and terrified. How was I going to cover up my body around all the skinny people in such warm weather? I put off shopping and packing for so long just to avoid the body dysmorphia demons in my head. I decided my uniform would be long flowy dresses (covering the stomach) and a thin cardigan (to cover my arms). Promising myself that I would only wear tight clothing in desperate cases…like a $50 yoga class. My whole plan was golden.

Well, turns out my semester spent in Los Angeles was nothing close to the Eve Babitz-like dream I had constructed in my head. There was no Hollywood magic or young hot actors looking for a date, and job opportunities were certainly not raining down on me. Instead, my time was spent crying in my cement walled room, etching names into my enemy list, and accidentally taking the bus 45 minutes in the opposite direction.

It wasn’t all bad though. In fact, I actually miss those chilly desert nights and The Grove’s AMC. In retrospect, the experience was worth it, and despite the fountain of tears, it was actually one of the happier times in my life so far. I found a couple good friends, enjoyed the sun, and got to see the inner workings of the entertainment industry. Oh, and I met Jake Shane—that was really the highlight for me. Although all of these adventures shocked me to some extent, one epiphany truly left me speechless: I liked my body in Los Angeles.

When I hopped off the plane at LAX with a dream and a cardigan, I immediately felt…new. Like someone had dramatically wiped everything off my very messy desk. As I began actually living, the city began to slowly strip away my emotions and polyester protection. Sometimes I took off my sweater because it was too warm, or put on jeans at night to shield my legs from the wind, and even wore gym shorts for my weekly walk to Trader Joe’s. At one point, I even purchased a Reformation top that was both tight and sheer. It still had long sleeves, but baby steps. I began looking in the dorm mirror thinking I looked…kinda…nice.

I returned back to Boston in December, and walked straight off the plane into dirty snow and the bitter cold. That night, for the first time in months, I bundled up in thick layers, oversized coats, and scarves meant to block out the world. As the new semester began, I felta familiar feeling of dread for my body return with every zipper of my winter jacket. I longed for the feeling of content I had in Los Angeles. As I slipped my way around Boston on black ice, I began to put the pieces together as to why I liked my body more on the West Coast. In Los Angeles, I had to wear less out of necessity for the weather, and over time, I got used to seeing my body. My hems got shorter, sizes were tighter, and straps became thinner. I wasn’t forced to pack on layers of clothing or pick a coat that a sweatshirt could fit underneath. The city pushed me outside my comfort zone, acting almost as exposure therapy for my base skin, stretch marks, and fat rolls. Did I run naked down Melrose? Definitely not. That’s illegal and my worst nightmare. However, I left the semester having learned that hiding your body doesn’t actually make you feel better about yourself, it just helps you avoid thinking about it.

Do I love my body? No. Even the most confident person I know, who grew up in Los Angeles, dislikes a thing or two about their body. But that’s normal! It’s how you grow from that realization that counts. 7-year-old Ella dancing in her room would be shocked at simply the idea of living in Los Angeles for any small period of time, much less adding it to her potential post-grad moving locations list.

Who knew that California would have such an impact on me? Well, actually…I guess Katy Perry did. As she says in the song, “You could travel the world / But nothing comes close to the golden coast/ Once you party with us / You’ll be fallin’ in love.”