OCT–25–2024
Words by: Ally Watkinson
Graphic by: Midjourney
Graphic by: Midjourney
Gay, a niche celebrity, is not the first in the public eye to talk about her use of weight loss drugs. Oprah hosted a special in March celebrating GLP-1 drugs such as Ozempic, which lower blood sugar levels, slowing down the body’s digestive tract. In April, Barbra Streisand asked Melissa McCarthy in her Instagram comments if she was taking Ozempic. Celebrities are getting smaller, and this seemingly miracle drug is to thank.
This progression didn’t appear out of nowhere. In 2022, the Kardashians stopped getting BBL top-ups, with Kim bragging about losing 16 pounds to fit into Marilyn Monroe’s “Happy Birthday Mr. President” dress.
The cultural capital of reality stars like the Kardashians cannot be overstated. When they got BBLs, other women wanted them, and some went to foreign countries to get them cheaply. Now that they’re abandoning the aesthetics that they stole from black women, so are others. Khloe, who was always bigger than her sisters, has lost considerable weight (without GLP-1s to boot).
But what factors have led us here — to a culture that praises a drug like Ozempic, and praises weight loss overall? Celebrities losing weight is one, but the fashion industry is another.
Fashion and cultural conceptions of the body are intertwined and tangled together — it's no wonder we are seeing the resurgence of 2000s fashion alongside the rise of drugs like Ozempic. As low-rise jeans and mini skirts have come back into vogue, fat shaming has come with it.
Think back to iconic movies from that period. Think Bridget Jones’s Diary, Mean Girls or The Devil Wears Prada. I remember being 13 years old, watching all these movies for the first time. I remember thinking to myself that a size six was too big when watching The Devil Wears Prada, thinking that I needed to stay small and control my hunger so I would never be a disgusting six. Shockingly, that’s not what happened.
Throughout my young life, sizes and weights were thrown around like goalposts to be met: 115, 136, 143, 165, 170. At 13, I would look up the average American woman’s weight and try to devise a plan so I could get to that level. I was taught to hate my body by the world around me. I was set up to fail. Even at my smallest, I wanted to be smaller.
There is a certain level of ignorance that comes with the idea that fatphobia went away when the body positivity movement became popular. Because fatphobia doesn’t just affect fat people. It’s in the comments on a celebrity’s Instagram post. It’s in the speculation that someone might be pregnant. It’s in the way doctors say to watch your weight. It’s the microexpressions on someone’s face at the store when you ask if they have a bigger size. It’s the way men’s eyes glaze over when you’re near them or the stares of strangers as you move through a crowded bar. It’s the feeling that eating is disgusting, that you’re disgusting, that you don’t deserve to eat. It’s the fear of sweating, the fear of smelling bad, the fear of not being as perfect as your thin counterparts. It’s the way people thinner than you talk about gaining weight, like their biggest fear is being you.
That’s not even getting into how fatness, viewed as a marker of laziness in the past, is now equated to low socioeconomic status. This doesn’t even get into the statistics that say that fat women are more likely to be sexually assaulted than their thin counterparts. Fatphobia runs rampant through Western society. Celebrities like Adele and Rebel Wilson losing weight doesn’t help, it results in people taking off-brand Ozempic from Hims.
Kourtney Kardashian’s brand Lemme recently dropped a natural GLP-1 supplement for $90 a bottle. I can’t lie: it’s appealing. If Heather Gay is any indicator, losing weight will make other people like you. For the low price of $90 (or $72 if you pay for a monthly subscription), you too could be deserving of love and respect. Don’t you want in?