I will admit that I'm not in the best shape. I have a slight Christmas Package (that's the fat that hangs out just under your abs), my thighs have the faint rippling of cellulite and my ass could use a serious overhaul. I wouldn't wear a bikini if you paid me a million bucks and promised me a weekend of passion with Vin Diesel and Jason Statham at a posh resort in the Caribbean. No way, no how, not happening.
Aside from that fact that fate dealt me a mean punch and choose not to bless me with bodacious Ta Ta's,(I got zip in that department) I feel pretty good about my body. I'm very strong. Freakishly strong. I enjoy "wowing" people with my strength. I'm also deceptionally heavy. Muscle weighs more than fat, right? Well, the next time you see me try to pick me up. You might just throw your back out. Big K scooped me up to carry me over the threshold on our wedding night and nearly slipped a disk. Densely packed. That's what I am.
I'm convinced that everything in Victoria's Secret is made for people who have big boobs, no shoulders and weigh under 100 pounds. Not only am I bitter that they never carry my bra size (36A is not that bizarre, Vicki) but all the fun outfits make me look like a ballerina on steroids. I was there this past weekend. After becoming thoroughly disgusted that they didn't even have one bra in my size (even the ugly cotton ones) I decided to check out the naughty section of the store. Every outfit I tried on made me hate my body. If I was TH and saw my wife dressed in that, my penis would curl up behind my balls and never come out. Thankfully, TH has a fetish for boy shorts and tiny tees. I look cute in those. Vicki, you're a big bitch. Why can't you make something that fits us big gals with little boobs.
I blame Hollywood for my body obsession. Sure, I want to look like Jennifer Aniston. But, I will need a personal trainer to come to my house everyday, a private yoga instructor, a chef, a trip to the spa every other week and a weekly body polish and facial. Not to mention a fabulous wardrobe.
Every time I open a Vogue, Cosmo or Vanity Fair I become more and more enraged. It's just not fair. I starve myself, work myself into a lather kickboxing and using the torture machines at the gym and I STILL can't come close to those women. It took this ad to make me feel better.
This is Jessica Alba in an ad for Campari. The picture on the left is real. The picture on the right is airbrush. Of course, they used the airbrushed one. The chick just had a baby and she looks unbelievable in the real picture. But, the assholes in the art department needed to make her waist impossibly small and her thighs impossibly slim. If I had just seen the doctored picture I would have thrown myself under a bus.
The motherfuckers need to stop fucking with us girls. Now if you will excuse me, I'm still going to throw myself under that bus.