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February 07, 2005
Like My Body?
In preparation for my 95th birthday celebration this weekend where I get to see my boyfriend that I haven’t seen in a whole month, I drank 24 ounces of this disgusting lemon and grade-B syrup and cayenne pepper concoction. In the stupidest move ever, I also happened to watch (and thoroughly enjoy in a masochistic way) a six hour marathon of that Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Model Search.
So badly, I’d love to discuss the social ramifications of this show, but I’m not quite ready to write a thesis. I mean, I could go on and on about how irrelevant (and boring) it is to showcase how Christian girls can be sexy. Hot Christian girls exist people, and they can talk about God and claim they’re virgins as much as they want while traipsing around in bikinis and still, nobody cares. I could get into some touchy race territory with a simple mention of the politics behind Betti’s afro, but hate mail from close-minded people who just don’t get it isn’t the most fun I’ve ever had on a lazy afternoon on the Internet. I could get really excited telling you I bet Jenna Porn Star Face Shit Talker wouldn’t be too happy if they asked her to – oh no, the shock of it all – dye her blonde hair brown or even crazier, cut it all off. But that’s never an issue, is it? Besides, all those girls are in denial. If I walked in as any of the other contestants and I saw Alicia in the corner whipping that heavenly mane about with her “smoky essence” and her beautiful eyes and her cruelly gorgeous face, I’d pack my little curlers and my bronzer and my little high heels right back up and take my ass right on back to Valrico. Shit yeah, that show is amazing.
Now, watching tall hot bitches in an effort to get skinnier by just sitting in front of the TV and drinking crazy juice is a pretty dumb ass idea. As of this morning, I have snapped completely out of it. Food is cool and I don’t know why I turned my back on it for even 24 hours. As a matter of fact, I have my kicks on and I’m ready to go to the gym any second now.
To be honest, my motivation for getting my shit together is entirely born out of consideration. My boyfriend bought me a really nice pair of jeans and one day, when I got back to LA after I ate up all the Krispy Kremes and all the Dunkin Donuts and all the diner food in all of Long Island, the jeans just didn’t fit. I couldn’t tell him the jeans didn’t fit. Not that he cares about my size. He thinks I’m the bomb any which way and I actually believe him. I just felt bad about the excessiveness of the jeans – price and designer-wise – how dare I not wear them. I have to wear them to my birthday! Wow, that so wasn't totally honest. Yes, the jeans matter but so does this jiggly thing here and this lumpy thing there and is it possible that my toes look fatter?
I really don’t need this. The last thing I need is to start getting all interested and freaked out about my weight. I don’t care about the number or the pounds. I don’t even know what the number of pounds is. I just care about the look and feel of it all. I really can’t and shouldn’t care about it on a public forum, anyway and especially. But you’re five feet tall, you’re little – what do you care? Because I’m a girl slash woman slash person and shit is moving and shaking. And not in a hustle-get-your-money-drink-the-cosmos-everything-is-peaches way. So maybe writing about it will make it less urgent? I don’t know. But I do know that getting older is taking some tolls I just don’t agree with.
I looked at my leg the other day and I was like, “What the fuck is that piece?” I switched the way I was sitting and it went away, but not really. It had only slid its way up to my hip. How could I have missed this? I live in my body every day. How did I not notice this growth? If my boobs got bigger, I’d notice. But how could I not see my thigh expanding?
It’s the suburbs. It’s Long Island! I visit for weeks at a time, man. That’s what it has to be. Everything is too close. In West Hollywood, there is exactly one McDonald’s and it’s in a shitty mini mall that’s hard to get in and out of, so I just don’t go. When the Taco Bell decided to be on a street with four lanes of traffic with no drive-thru, that shit changed my life. I’m a terrible driver. There’s no way a taco is good enough to get across all those lanes AND THEN I have to get out of the car? No. For the past five years, I’ve eaten very little fast food. I got used to eating the salmon that the delivery man brought from the Brasilian place. I got used to going to the dinner where I have the petite filet. It was a protein and greens and fish thing and I was feeling confident in my skin. Those days are gone. Long Island has all the pizzas and the donuts. Long Island found a way to make a hot dog taste good. How can I not eat it? And I say this as someone who doesn't normally like food with a seam on it.
And if it’s not the suburbs, it could be that my body is preparing for a baby or something! I’m not pregnant. Absolutely not. Don’t be crazy. But my sister said when she hit a certain age, her body just started going crazy. Against her almost! Slowed metabolism and hormones. I think that’s what it is. I’m scared!
I HAVE randomly taken more interest in commercials about babies. The baby on the swingset in the CitiBank commercial is adorable. I like to watch Super Nanny. Any show about bad ass children – I LOVE! And when you watch shows about bad children, all the commercials are about cleaning, being on the go and baby stuff. I happen to like all of it. The Amazing Broom, the Lysol, the soup in a Thermos, the Olay rejuvenation system, the Mulan dvd. I want it all. I even picked up some of that cocoa butter for pregnancy stretch marks. I’m trying to start a prevention regime now. Am I a bad person for noticing Roshumba’s stretch marks on her boobs during an episode of the model show?
Vanity and the occasional special day where I get to wear a slutty pair of stilettos are the only things keeping me from thinking obsessively about babies and home economics. I’m not Kelly Ripa. I can’t have it all, man. I don’t know why, but I just don’t think I can maintain my “confident body” post baby and suburbia. I won’t even care about abs when I have a screaming toddler putting his hands in the toilet behind my back. I have to pick one life and right now, I still like the option of having champagne in the morning, champagne in the afternoon, champagne in the evening and champagne in the bubble bath. That’s an Amanda Lepore quote, by the way. What am I talking about? I can't have no damn baby! I'm much too concerned with how dope my first ever Marc Jacobs piece is going to look on my shoulder in all of its leathery, pockety glory. These are not the concerns of a person ready to have a kid!
You see, that lemonade fast made me crazy. I’m talking about babies, quoting transsexuals and I didn’t even want to get into a political discussion about Sports Illustrated! Who have I become?
I’m really just rationalizing and procrastinating. I should be ashamed of myself. I’m so not being accountable for the fact that I ate so many donuts. And yes, it’s cool that I found someone who really doesn’t mind if my butt gets bigger. But to blame hormones and ageing for my inability to get off my ass and go to the gym? That’s terrible! I do get social anxiety at the gym though. Plus, I don’t really think I know what I’m doing and looking stupid in front of a bunch of sweaty gay guys does make me nervous. And the parking at the gym is out of control. One time I slipped on the Stairmaster and that was the last time I stepped foot in that gym. I really hate how big my feet look in these Nikes too. The sweat smell! What if someone starts to talk to me about Real World while I’m doing lunges? It always happens and then I have an unsolicited workout buddy all of a sudden. That does make me paranoid…
Posted by melissah at February 7, 2005 03:41 PM