As I sat on the 190 on my way to York on a Monday morning, I did a little people watching and, most unsurprisingly, it seemed everyone under the age of 25 had some technological appendage glued to their fingers or plugged into their ears. Finger tips flew across Blackberry keys and over iPhone touch screens. Music pounded out of several pairs of earphones, creating an unmelodious medley. Sing-songy chirps and the buzz of vibration added to the melee, notifying owners of text messages, BBMs, and Twitter and Facebook updates. I myself typed up this observation on my Blackberry as The Weeknd crooned through my ear buds. It’s a marked characteristic of Generation Y: we are one with our technology.

Surely we’ve all heard the rising complaints from the more aged and wise about technological dependence. They’re either warning us that our earphones will deafen us, our screens will blind us, our entertainment will numb us or our social networking will destroy our people skills. Essentially, the perspective of our parents and grandparents seems to be that the technology we’re so fond of will turn our brains to mush and have it leaking out of our ears onto our pillows.

As a woman, if you are any sort of attractive, you expect to be stared at. Whether you’ve got a cute face, a nice figure or the full package, men, and some women, are going to look at you. Intensely. Awkardly. Even creepily. No it’s not fun, but it’s part of life. People stare at things they find pretty. That’s why we sit and watch the sunset.

Most of us have learned to avert our eyes from those of our creepy admirers, ignore the eyes on our breasts and butts and just pretend that the dude’s eyes aren’t locked onto us like heat tracking missiles. All we can do is hope that the guy doesn’t muster up the courage to come talk to you, because it’s already awkward enough, thank you very much.

But lo and behold, he’s found his balls, and kudos to him, because we all know rejection is a wretched thing. He comes over, asks for your name and number, you aren’t interested and you let him know and he leaves with his head hung and his ego just slightly deflated – or completely flat depending on how fragile his self-esteem is.

Beauty comes in all sizes. Security should too.

I can’t count the amount of times I’ve had to listen to people comment on how skinny I am, always with some little twist of negativity. Either it’s, “I wish I was as skinny as you!” or “Girl you need to put some meat on those bones!” And heaven forbid I should make a complaint about my body of any sort in front of anyone with more inches than myself. Then I get, “What are you complaining about?! You’re perfect.”

Let’s just clarify a few things. Firstly, there is no such thing as perfect. Secondly, those folks telling me to eat have clearly never had a meal with me, because anyone who has knows I have the appetite of a man. Thirdly, and the whole point of my rambling thus far, it’s not always easy being skinny and every time someone of larger proportions has the audacity to tell me otherwise, my blood boils.