Let’s be honest, though; I can’t imagine Lady Gaga losing sleep over a handful of "Fuck me sideways that woman is minuscule"-type editorials. The damage is done in the real world, to those of us without 67 million Twitter followers or a stash of Olympic medals to waggle in the faces of our belittlers. I may be the eldest of three children, with a job and an apartment and a demonstrable ability to keep out of trouble but, around my family, I revert to impractical, head-in-the-clouds liability. My mother visibly crumpled with relief when I arrived in Australia for my brother’s wedding earlier this year, having traveled out alone. “Did you know what to do?” she asked, as we discussed the flight. As if I hadn’t been on a plane before… Increasingly I wonder whether years of bear hugs and being told "I do worry about you, Katy, you’re so tiny" has colored not just my mother’s impression of me but my impression of myself. Tell someone something often enough and they’ll start to believe it.