“my summer wish list”

1. 10 grand
2. new wardrobe
3. clear skin
4. Ozempic Allegations.

Young women across TikTok have taken to the platform to express their summer wishes. Whether they’re realistic or not, there is one consistent factor amongst almost all of these posts. They seek to either lose weight or appear to fit a certain standard, many of them using the phrase “ozempic allegations” to express these desires. The sensationalization of rapid weight-loss has shifted away from admiration of both figure and effort and towards the wealth-associated implications of ease. In the era of convenience, Ozempic is king, and in an era where thin is beautiful and beauty is power, ozempic might as well be God.

Everyone who even vaguely follows a popular mainstream influencer knows about Erewhon. Its the home of the Hailey Bieber smoothie, and twenty-five dollar strawberries, and models are obsessed with it. Gone are the days that Victorias Secret Angels pretended to eat McDonald’s every meal to seem “relatable”. It’s not longer about how they can relate to you, its about getting you to relate to them, and food is the easiest way to do it.

None of this is to say that class disparities’ impact on food is a new phenomenon. We’ve seen it since the beginning of written literature, with Henry VIII using lavish banquets as a display of power. Stephen Mennell references medieval food disparities, particularly in relation to meat, in his book “All manners of food : eating and taste in England and France from the Middle Ages to the present”. Mennell cites the introduction of spices as impacting meat consumption even further. While already an expensive commodity, meat was reserved for the wealthy, but combined with the price of spice imports, it became an even greater symbol of the class divide. Extending into the 20th century, food remained a symbol of socioeconomic status. During the American Great Depression, those who remained wealthy found no struggle in feeding themselves, while the poorer masses were forced to reinvent the foods they had access to. This innovation brought us fan favorites, like Campbells Soup and Kraft Mac and Cheese — both of which are still associated with lower and middle class families. Food has always been a luxury, and as an extension, so is health.

It’s no secret that America has a healthcare accessibility problem, but even further than that, we are collectively unable to break away from our obsession with thinness. Whether it is 90s “waif-thin” or 2010s “slim-thick”, women must always be skinny. Thinness possesses an internal hierarchy, with natural, “desirable” thinness reigning above obtained thinness. Women who lose weight can do so in one (or more) of three ways. The first, which used to hold the second place rank, is the classic diet and exercise. Having access to quality foods and consistent exercise gave a woman a sort of status, having validated the pervasive social thought that all you need is to eat less and exercise more. This woman was the best kind of thin you could be. The third, and previously least desirable option, was to lose weight medically. Whether it be a plastic surgery procedure or ozempic, this was considered the “cop-out” method. But instead of remaining at the bottom of the pyramid, it has replaced the aforementioned “diet and exercise” method. No longer is suffering for the sake of being skinny popular. Being thin will likely always be a flex — but being thin without putting in the work is worth more, and if you aren’t born that way, then ozempic is the next best thing.

I personally don’t believe in demonizing anyone who uses ozempic as a method of weight loss. However, I do think the method deserves criticism due to the initial nature of the drug. Ozempic was designed as a diabetic medication, and in a society where there is a shortage of both medication and adequate healthcare, an alternative use of a life-saving drug is grounds for examination. Unfortunately, the most prominent users of Ozempic for weight loss are celebrities, and the overuse of the drug has only led to scarcity, driving up the price, and making it inaccessible for middle and low-class diabetics. My primary issue lies within the lack of accessibility for its genuine, life-preserving purpose. I quite honestly don’t care what other people do with their bodies, but anyone with influence has an obligation to publicly promote socially beneficial practices, and taking ozempic for the sake of weight loss isn’t one.