Poisoned
Back when I had my own apartment, I didn’t have much of a social life (realistically, not much has changed in that respect), but I did have extended basic cable.
On the weekends I typically parked my derriere (and laptop) on the living room sofa and spent my afternoons lusting over Hal Sparks while loving the 80s, noting (and disregarding) fashion tips from Stacy and Clinton, and wondering if my sister’s hospital rotations were anything like Scrubs.
But, by far, my favorite idiot box entertainment was the America’s Next Top Model marathon.
ANTM was my heroin. Succumbing to the urge to watch super-thin women vying for the title of prettiest live mannequin violated most of the principles I claimed to hold dear. Yet I couldn’t tear myself away. I’d sit there bare-faced in jeans and a hoodie, completely mesmerized by underweight girls with long legs and amazing cheekbones. During commercial breaks I would make pouty faces in the mirror and imagine life as a model. Sure I had thick thighs, bad skin, a wicked overbite, crooked teeth, and a large nose that looks like it’s been broken a few times, but clearly my career as a Victoria’s Secret Angel failed to take off only because I was a mere five foot three and three quarters inches tall.
I was still perfecting my pout, waiting to be discovered, and nursing my ANTM addiction when I saw an episode where several plus-size girls joined the competition. I remember feeling such sympathy for those women because the skinny girls made them look and feel like heifers by comparison and Janice Dickinson was a real bitch about their curvy bodies.
God, I can’t imagine being them, I thought. It must be a constant battle just to maintain healthy self-esteem.
As I watched with rapt attention, one of the plus-size models broke down and started fretting about her shape. The lithe, svelte, traditional models blamed her lack of self control. They scolded her for eating too much and not exercising enough. Then they belittled her for letting herself go and being overweight.
“But I’m a size eight,” the girl cried.
[insert record scratch sound effect]
A size eight?! That’s not plus-size. That’s not even average. Christ, I’m a size eight, and that girl had to be a good head taller than me. She probably weighed less than me too. And she was the fat chick!
My entire sense of self-image shattered.
Like most women, I’m not always happy with the way I look. I dislike mirrors, and when obligated to stand before one, I usually feel a mix of disgust and shame. It doesn’t matter that I’m in ok shape, all I can focus on are my flaws. I hate that I can’t be comfortable in my own skin. I hate that a thorough search of my house would turn up at least one Glamour or In Style because I think I need advice on how to look more attractive. I hate that I feel guilty for wearing sneakers instead of stilettos. I hate that the total investment put into my makeup bag could probably fund dinner for an entire African village. And I hate that I can’t bring myself to just be done with it all.
When I exercise at the gym or avoid certain cuts of clothing or apply mascara, I try to tell myself that I’m doing it for me. I justify that I’m helping myself to look good and feel good. But as much as I live in a state of denial, I am aware that I’m doing these things just as much for the high school boys who rejected me, the optometrist who told me if I wore glasses I’d never get a date, and the models who think a size eight is equivalent to a fat ass. Yes, you’re one of my sources of motivation to look hot, Janice Dickinson, and for that honor you can go fuck yourself.
Hi. I just visited after seeing a funny comment you wrote on Steppin’ Over the Junk. Great blog. 
I’ll definitely be back. Oh and that ANTM- good lord!
What’s the point of being skinny anyway? So you can look like a bag of bones with a sheet draped over them? No thanks.
Made me think of my business ed. teacher back in high school. Several girls (who weren’t fat) were moaning and groaning that they needed to go on a diet. Ms. White, who had been married probably 4 times by that point, said (and I remember it exactly), “No man wants toothpicks wrapped around him in bed. He wants legs- WITH THIGHS.”. 
I’ll keep my fat ass any day over becoming like the “hot” models of today. Their lives are wayyyy too screwed up for them to be pointing a finger and making fun of anyone else.
I prefer to think of models as vapid, hungry moving sticks who get paid to let people take pictures of them. And that’s not good enough. THOSE pictures are lighted, altered and airbrushed because they STILL weren’t good enough. Bodies and butts can only get you so far. I’d take brains every time. Any brains. A lick of common sense would convince these bony biatches to the futility of their chosen lives. I mean by the time most of these gals reach 20 their career is coming to an end. Bad move. And its things like this that make those shows fun to watch…because it’s not you being the idiot. And we like to watch the idiots.
Jewelz, on one hand, I’m glad I’m going to the gym and getting in shape so I can be a healthier me. On the other, I’m really afraid that I’ll obsess over my body to the point that I become like one of those neurotic, stick-thin girls. And I’m worried no one will stop me from going over the edge.
180/360, thanks for dropping by! I swear I don’t use the “f” word in most posts.
Snigs, I’d really like to have an “athletic” body. I believe there’s such a thing as too thin, but I also think my cellulite is gross. I wouldn’t mind being less jiggly.
Maleesha, I’m with you on the brains over t&a. That’s why for as much time as I spend in the gym, I spend more with my nose in a book!
OH! AMEN! and can I say it again? AMEN!
First off….your description of your couch-potato activities? Completely identical to mine…right down to ignoring Stacey and Clinton and the ANTM marathons.
I’m 42 years old and I started having a ‘weight problem’ back when I was 13 and decided I needed to diet (because everyone else was doing it….major peer pressure). This obsession soon evolved into full fledged bulimia which I battled with for many years. Never did get skinny, but with bulimics it’s more about CONTROL issues.
I’m now a size 10/12, 5′4 (and three quarters), and I eat balanced meals and exercise, but I’m never ever ever going to be a “skinny girl”…just isn’t in the genetic cards for me. I remember seeing that same episode with the size 8 girl being considered a plus-size model. Unbelievable! And I berated myself for being even bigger than her! I spent waaay too much time while growing up trying to be a “pretty face” to make up for being such a fat-ass (or so I thought).
So, this post hit home for me….again I say, AMEN!