Kids, never take your bowels for granted. And that’s all I have to say about that.
In the past week as I’ve been ill and looking for comfort reads and pretty things to look at, I have bought In Style, Vogue and today, Vanity Fair. Don’t judge. I rarely break down and read Harper’s Bazaar because while all magazines are Fattist Dillholes, HB comes right out and admits it. And I really prefer my fashion magazines to lie to me, frankly.
Anyway, I bought this month’s Vanity Fair today, the one with Tom Ford on the cover trying to stick his tongue into the ear of a naked Keira Knightly while Scarlett Johanssen lounges nekkid across the bottom of the shot. You can see her butt. Seriously, does this child have parents? Would you ever do that pose knowing your mother would see it? Oh, what, I’m the only one whose parents ever shamed her? Fine. Keira Knightly’s body looks so airbrushed I had to smile. But there’s something about looking at this that made me feel, I don’t know, I guess a little irritable in general. Because all the bras at the website www.figleaves.com, recommended by In Style were all very beautiful, if you’re a 32B. If you’re Keira and Scarlett’s size. Which I believe we have well and truly established that I’m not. Jealous, not because I want to look like them, I honestly don’t, but because these women don’t have to worry about their bodies or their health or the ability to get around or fit comfortably into an airplane seat. They can just wear whatever they want, shop wherever they want, their bodies will not fail them. They are free to concentrate on other things. Free to be judged on their minds and not their packaging. Free to wear cow print without fear! Free to wear purple without having to ask someone if it makes them look like Barney! Free to oh dear god I’m all of a sudden starving. Seriously. How is that? I just ate a freakin’ apple. Isn’t roughage supposed to fill you up? Stupid roughage. Fuck roughage! Supposed to fill you up? Doesn’t. Supposed to make you poop? Doesn’t. Wait, am I sounding like my mother’s mother? No, I’m not. If I were, I’d be chiding you for touching my collection of Avon perfume collectible bottles and coaching the cowboys in the westerns appearing round the clock on my t.v. But do you ever find yourself, those of you in your 30s anyway, sitting around talking to close friends or family about your health and your bowel movements? Telling them “I’ve got this thing…” or “Have you ever had…” or “Does this look bad to you?” Oh shut up! You know you do, too!! Wait, what was I talking about? Look out Hondo! He’s hiding behind that rock! He’s got a gun!!!
Right. Actresses and their perrrrrfect little bodies.
But then, actresses do stress about their bodies, don’t they? Maybe more than any other women, anywhere. Their bodies are their jobs, after all. And as far as their bodies failing them, I read a story in Vogue last night about a model who was diagnosed at 25 with melanoma. Not delighting in that, I’m just saying. It can happen to anyone. And aren’t really beautiful women always complaining that people often don’t give them a chance to be smart or witty because of their looks? Are we all in this body obsessing thing together? I want to say that I truly admire women who genuinely love and fully accept their own bodies. It’s just that I’m not sure I’ve ever met any.
Perhaps dieting is the least of my worries. Maybe I have more important work to do elsewhere. Maybe a lot of people do.
But before I throw it all to the wind, let me give a little shout out to my less-fat ass that lost 3 pounds in the last week. Which gets me back down to my pre-holidays weight of
T minus 43 and counting.
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