I Know Victoria’s Secret

Ok, so I’ll get the negatives out of the way real quick. When it comes to this year’s Victoria’s Secret fashion show, there were plenty of things I could/should have been mad at: The cultural appropriation and not representation of, well a crap ton of cultures, the fact that Bruno Mars, while wearing a decidedly REAL fur coat, sang a song called “Chunky” while so NOT chunky women traipsed past him, the fact that I wasn’t the only one who noticed Nick Cannon wearing a bright pink turban…a turban…ultimately, the show is one of the many reasons terrorists hate us so I don’t need to list anymore of what was wrong with the show.

model

Here’s where things got a little surprising for me as I watched a few clips of the show this year.

Backstory: I watched a lot of fashion shows and Miss America pageants when I was little. Inevitably I’d throw a blanket over my shoulders and strut full steam at a very hefty weight through my living room. Then, I’d go to my room and cry. I know, me crying, no way (wink wink). But I did, I wept because I ached down to my atoms to be like those beautiful women. I’d stare at my little round belly and thighs and be so angry that fried pork chops tasted so, fucking, good. I always felt this seeping anger for those women. I hated them. I rationalized my hate, I told myself those gorgeous women were probably dumb, or mean or boring.

That hatred bled into how I felt about most other girls/women that crossed my path throughout life. I resented every other female I saw that seemed to have what I wanted. I watched women strut across stages and I would bawl because their legs were so long it literally hurt my heart.

This didn’t only count for beauty either. I’m not proud to admit this, but I once mocked a published writer online for one of her stories and wrote awful things in a comments section. I saw her author photo and of course she was attractive and she was becoming successful and I loathed her for it. She was a good writer, and I was jealous. Meanwhile, I was only getting a handful of likes on my stories and to this day, my most popular post only got 50 some likes because I had photos of me half naked in them…surprise!

I think this is where I went wrong in my outlook on life. I ultimately believed because someone else was who they where, and they were successful for it, it meant I was who I was and I wasn’t successful because they were taking away from me. I concluded my lack of everything was because of their prosperity.

Then it hit me. I was dead fucking wrong. Fortunately, the writer I attacked online graciously ignored my haterade, and I don’t even know if she ever even read my comments. But she shouldn’t have had to read them. I should have been congratulating her.

Seriously, go read "I Was Told There'd Be Cake," it's awesome.
Seriously, go read “I Was Told There’d Be Cake,” it’s awesome.

 

I was done. Done envying, done being angry, done hating other people simply because they were making life work for them. It was time for ME to work for MY life.

I could rant and rave all day that because models and actresses create unbelievably high beauty standards, I now have to hate myself. Nope, wrong, try another door. I don’t have to feel that ache anymore. Guess what, whining about it isn’t going to change anything.

So, I sat in my room and watched the spectacular runway show. Soon I found myself smiling. Those women were exquisite and I just enjoyed their beauty for once. There was no, “Oh, skinny bizitches, think they’re hot, GO EAT A POTATO!!!” I was just enjoying it. There was one shot of a model after she had just gotten done with her walk on the stage, and once she got backstage she pumped her fists like a little kid and jumped up and down in excitement. Look, I know most of this shit is staged, but that woman looked genuinely happy.

That’s the secret guys, happiness.

And neither Victoria nor her Angels have a monopoly on it.

If someone else is happy, I have no say in it. The sooner I’m happier FOR them, the easier and happier my life will be. End of story, no shortcuts and rarely any exceptions.

Sure, that happy model had to work out seven days a week, she probably hadn’t had bread in years, she was told what and when to eat, she was spray tanned, had fake hair and eyelashes, and generally probably had it pretty tough to be honest. But then I realized, she worked her everluvin fanny off literally, to be there at that moment and be that happy. Go do your thing gurl.

These past few weeks I decided I’m done competing with women or anyone else for that matter. I don’t know at what point someone told me I had to. For the longest time I only had a couple close friends. The thing with that is, sometimes they live in a different state than you, other times they are bravely fighting their own fight and they can’t be around at all hours and nights of the day. The friends I did have stood by me through my narcissistic and depressive episodes and loved me regardless, but I never let anyone else in or fostered deeper friendships. Maybe I just couldn’t face seeing other women close up, keeping it all together. I so wasn’t keeping it together.

This photo was taken in college...I have no idea who any of them are despite appearing to be friends with them at the time.
This photo was taken in college…I have no idea who any of them are despite appearing to be friends with them at the time.

So, I’ve reached out. I’ve literally told other women that I kind of sort of know, “Hey, want to be my real-life friend, like a real one, one I see in person, I would like to go on a girl date, we can wear sweatshirts and I’ll eat Mexican food with you and it’ll be awesome.” I even agreed to go to a baby shower next week. I’m sure these women think I’m a weirdo but, I.don’t.care. I want to see other women in my life shine and sparkle brighter than any $3 million dollar bra on a Victoria’s Secret runway.

Fingers crossed I don’t get stood up.

 

 

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