I am a terrible feminist and probably an awful human being.
Everyone on board?
OK.
I definitely have my moments where I'm like, "Man, I'd kill to be built like Kerry Washington" or whoever.
But last night I watched Chicago again (for burlesque research!), and I realized, "Goddamn, I would much rather be built like me than like Super Thin Renée Zellweger any day."
I sincerely hope the most prominent feature of my chest is never the bones in it. (I can't even see those bones, I forgot there WERE bones there.)
I could floss with that woman.
I know, I KNOW. I shouldn't judge another woman. There's room for all of us (ahem -- especially her, she's basically vapor), and we're all snowflakes, blah blah, bliddy blah, sisterhood, traveling pants, etc. FINE. I'm an asshole. We've established that.
Also, while she's tiny, I'm sure she does crazy yogalates-ninja-reformer class or something and could kill me with her pinky finger. Plus, she's a floppity-bajillionaire mega-star who can sing AND dance AND act (I'm told), and I live in a studio apartment and have 45 Facebook followers, so who the hell am I? She gives no fucks what I think, and rightly so.
Now, don't get it twisted -- if you offered a trade of INCOME, I'd be on that shit like white on rice. (Not that she knows what rice is, but you get the idea.) But body-wise? I'm glad I'm me, is the point. Flat ass and all. I'm not a hater -- this was a self-esteem epiphany. So there.
Again, I have my own things to write, but it's been such a "Girl, PREACH" day on the Internet this morning. Just for the sake of brevity:
First, the new song from Adele, which...yes, as the article points out, please gut punch me right before the holidays. Bring it, Adele, I ain't scared. (It's got a li'l Lionel on it, but I'm not mad at it.)
Next, can we just talk again about Ashley Graham's FINE ass? I'm suddenly pretty proud of things I have that jiggle, even if they jiggle in a whiter, cottage-cheesier way than hers do.
And last, from last night's Scandal, Kerry Washington is my hero. I'm in the process of creating a "vision board" as one of the hippie-dippy elements of therapy (*eye roll*), and goddammit, I'm getting rid of everything I have and just building an altar to Kerry Washington, and obviously also to Shonda Rhimes. There will obviously be Scandles. (See what I did there?)
I read Self magazine because I applaud the bold, innovative way they've cleverly shortened the title from Self-Loathing.
But also, the latest cover model is Kerry Washington, who is my personal Jesus. And in the interview, she says she begins her day by drinking a liter of water with lemon and doing pilates. (Or, after a liter of water, pee-lates, I can only assume.)
Today I was thinking about how I started my morning:
"Well, Self, I swore out loud at the alarm clock and hit 'snooze' 86 times. I hoisted myself out of bed angrily and fumbled around naked looking for an outfit, anything that fits because I'm never sure anymore. And then I shoved Lexapro and two types of OTC drugs into my sinus-infection-addled face with a Dixie cup of tap water from the bathroom sink, followed by an enormous vat of coffee, and now I am finally, but still barely, able to face humanity."
This is why they don't let me talk to the media. And why Kerry Washington never returns my calls.
