Living / Weddings

The Curves

I learned some things today.

1) Either ghee makes bad chicken gravy, or I do.

2) Nine-year-olds are exceedingly difficult to pry from the backseat of a Jetta when they refuse to depart from it.

3) A wedding is a hell of an anxiety producing beast:

For example, take all your normal insecurities, however slight they may be, and then think about schlepping all those minor and major insecurities down an aisle toward the one person who accepts you completely despite the fact that you (in this case, me) have to pluck five pesky repeat offenders, however soft and benign they might think they are, from your right breast on a regular basis, thus coining the term and recognizing the possible need for “boobtrolosis” because under no circumstances will we be allowing ANY of that business all up on our girls.

Take your every little quirk, your not-so-perfect body, your lock-your-keys-in-the-trunk and where-the-hell-did-I-park-again? memory and walk that shit down an aisle lined with all the people you love that you know secretly talk about you behind your back and all the people your fiance loves who you know also talk about you behind your back, cross your fingers that it’s all generally nice-ish behind-the-back-talking, and then try not to trip over your own feet. Oh, and look pretty; dazzlingly so.

Pray for no acne.

But we’ve been performing this ritual since before sliced bread, which was definitely a better invention than it gets credit for. It’s always being compared to all the things that are better than it, or at least the best thing since sliced bread, which might make bread’s parent loaves a little bummed that no one sees how, without their offspring, the world would be void of a good sandwich.

So, I finally (because I’m perpetually behind the curve) started reading Bossypants. In it, Tina Fey compiled this current list of physical attributes that women must now strive to own, based on media-induced standards:

  • Caucasian blue eyes
  • full Spanish lips
  • a classic button nose
  • hairless Asian skin with a Californian tan
  • a Jamaican dance hall ass
  • long Swedish legs
  • small Japanese feet
  • the abs of a lesbian gym owner
  • the hips of a nine-year-old boy
  • the arms of Michelle Obama
  • and doll tits

“The person closest to actually achieving this look is Kim Kardashian, who, as we know, was made by Russian scientists to sabotage our athletes. Everyone else is struggling.”

I have, therefore, being reminded that every woman everywhere is in my boat, paddling along at an imperfect rate, with at least a few imperfect parts, resigned myself yet again (because it comes and goes) to being perfectly fine with my weird toes and my stretch marks from babies, and half-way-to-lunch-lady arms and the extra padding on my hips. Hey, what’s a little boobtrolosis, anyway?

The acne though, that shit needs to quit. I’m working on it. I just need to not eat dairy. Ever. Ghee makes shitty gravy anyway.


2 thoughts on “The Curves

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