It's on Netflix, and there's nothing else remotely interesting there, tonight, and hubby is at band practice.
I would never watch this with him around...mostly because. Sigh. Judgment.
And he would be right to judge.
Cause...it is ridiculous.
Basically, it's about these soon to be married ladies who are so ridiculously uncomfortable with their appearance that they resort to thousands of dollars in plastic surgery on needless things...
"Like...Oh my gawd...my hairline is too high-my forehead is HUGE."
"Ugh...I'm a size two, but I had a baby and my stomach has some extra skin!"
"Eeks...I have dark circles under my eyes...and I need hundreds of hours of dermabrasion laser therapy to erase them!"
And all I can think while watching is-I'm fat.
Ok, here's the deal. I'm a chubby chick because I put myself here. My love for food and abject laziness far outweighs my love for looking hot.
I had years to look hot. I did, actually. I appreciate that.
My 20's were a blur of sexy clothes and heels and beauty.
(LOL) Yeah, right.
I was a little above average at best-but still far removed from my 46 year old self.
What used to be low cut cropped tops and low rise jeans with coiffed hair and piles of makeup-is now a local brewery tye dye, plus sized mom jeans and brown loafers-sans any makeup. I hate makeup. I was never good with it, and honestly-a lot of it never suited me. I always felt like a bad imitation of Tammy Faye Bakker with better hair when I wore it. It was all just...sigh...too complicated. And I'm lazy. I have always been...even when I was young. I never understood women who spent hours applying makeup-it's just so involved.
Here's the thing, though...
When I was a bride, I was two sizes smaller than I am now. I was chubby, sure. But nothing like the Jabba-esque woman you see before you. But, still...I never even considered plastic surgery to enhance or change myself. And like I said-above average looks at best, here.
I cannot imagine what makes a woman see herself in pieces like that.
Who worries about their forehead? I mean...unless you are the Bride of Frankenstein, or something. If there are no fucking bolts on the side of your neck and you can form full sentences...you are golden, in my book.
Size two...and you want a tummy tuck? And weeks before your wedding?
Are you serious?
Is this piecing apart of your natural looks necessary? Nope. You are all either-1. Insecure as hell. 2. Batshit. or 3. Shallow and Vain.
I mean, haven't you women ever heard of Instagram filters?
I can't see another way around it, folks.
My husband, bless his dark little heart, is truly a real man.
And I say this because-no matter what I look like, he's all in. There is no wishing I looked more like...
Or wanting me to lose like 5-10...
Or comparing me to his ex girlfriends-most of whom were vapid, skinny little assholes.
He loved me when we first got together, and I was just pushing a size 16.
He loved me when we got married and I was pushing a size 18.
And he loves me now...when I am pushing a size 20-22.
I still wear a size 16 dress. Don't ask me how that's possible. but I just bought one and it is in fact a size 16. Winning.
But jeans? (throws head back and laughs maniacally)
The most depressing shopping ever.
Ever.
Everrrrrr.
But this fat blob hanging from my mid section, while amorphous and sad...is mine. I earned that bitch. Carbs 101, and I am taking you to school, ladies.
And although I DO need to shape up and I know this...it is not for vanity's sake.
It's purely a health thing.
And, well, OK... while I would like to have a reason to buy that La Perla Chemise, and actually look...okay...in it, I'm not ever willing to go to the extreme of plastic surgery to take that amorphous little buddy away.
First of all...I AM batshit, we have already covered this.
And secondly, anxiety-I don't do sedation. Or General anesthesia (ugh...I hate that word, for two reasons...one I always have to spell check it and never spell it right-super annoying, and two-because, NO. There is no place on this planet where I feel comfortable with letting someone knock me out and cut me. Who does this?
Apparently...weirdos who go on reality shows who struggle with societal pressure of what's normal, or good?
I can't.
Look, you gotta come to grips with self. And you gotta love it. I do. Like I said...I worked hard for this body.
It's imperative.
In some way, you have to love your little buddies.
Your fat lumps, skin tags, sun freckles (not the cancer kind...go see a dermatologist, dumbass) and large, looming, hairlines.
You gotta work with what God gave you.
Weight can go away naturally. Meaning-no surgery needed. Diet, and exercise. The extra skin and even stretch marks are what make you a
bad ass. These things are a mark of battle...and you must wear them proudly.
Stay healthy, out of the tanning bed, and be happy with yourself...because if I have said it 1000 times, I'll keep saying it-anyone worth it, will love it too.
And stay. And he or she will be your little buddy too.
No, I am NOT comparing your significant others to a skin tag, although...I know some people who come pretty fuckin' close.
Now, Before I wrap up...Ill preface with this-YES. I too struggle with insecurity-every Goddamned day. But, I can usually shut my insecurity up with chocolate-and mirror-avoidance. And at the end of the day, my husband lays in bed with me-even on the hardest of days and tells me he loves my blob, loves my chunky thighs, and my HUGE ass. He usually makes a smart ass comment in complaint that he doesn't see enough of any of these things, but he knows what's up.
And to those ladies who may not have a significant other...and you struggle with these things on your own-remember this. I was 42 when I got married. I was fat, insecure, lonely, clingy, desperate, AND a single mother.
There's Hope for everyone of you.
Trust me.
If someone was willing to marry me...with all of this baggage, figuratively, and literally-then, well, there is someone for you.
Fat you.
Skinny you.
Forehead you could view a map on, you.
My point is-You don't have to mutilate what was given you to make any of it happen either-and when women stop caring and start thinking this way. The men will follow-because trust me, jerking off gets boring after awhile, and because calluses are a thing, I guess?
I mean, You spent decades fighting for equal rights and all of this feminism horseshit. Take advantage of that freedom for one second, and love thyself.
There is no greater love, afterall.
You just gotta figure that out.
Be you. Uniquely, and wonderfully you.
As for me, I'll just be over here avoiding mirrors and buying new spanx.
XOXO,
Jadedgirl.
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