I’m sitting here, watching the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show (something I do every year), while stuffing my face with Chocolate Teddy Grahams. Yes, I’m trying to ignore my sorrow by masking my pain with chocolate. Shockingly enough, though, eating fistfuls of tiny bear-shaped cookies straight out of the box is not making me look any more like the 90-pound, 6’2 models I’m watching dance down the runway in 6-inch stilettos that cost more than my car. And they get wings. Come on, isn’t that just adding insult to injury, now?
When I look at a Victoria’s Secret catalogue, sure, I cry because I have no boobs, let alone Double D’s. Sure, I weep over the fact that they are a foot taller than me and weigh less. And, yes, I contemplate plastic surgery when I see how flawless their skin and features are. However (and this is a BIG, HUGE, GIGANTIC “however,” ladies), I also know that the catalogue has some of the best-paid Photoshoppers in the business. I can, there, lie to myself and say that they really aren’t that beautiful in real life. That it’s a computer making them stunning. That they’re actually ugly and fat and that’s Victoria’s REAL secret. And then I watch the annual Fashion Show and immediately reach for the Kleenex. Continue reading