I was skimming through the chapters of ads (I mean, seriously. They could've been an epic saga unto themselves) when I had to go back to see this one more closely. Weird, I thought. Why would they put a boy in a peacock costume?
Nope. That's a female. That's definitely a girl.
Then I realized, no. This is Vogue. My girls aren't the target - I am. This is the image my grown up, post three babies, life's not been a dream, barely enough "free time" to paint my toenails self is supposed to aspire to.
The thighs of a gawky nine year old boy. The flawless, porcelain skin of a... well, I don't even know a single living thing I could compare.
Why? Because if you can't be one of these forty something women who still look 24 then you must be a fourteen year old who has to show id before trying to exit the 1st grade hall?
No. Because, for some people, you're never enough the way you are. You could have the rock hard abs you're constantly told to crunch yourself into; but if you don't also have a thigh gap wide enough to drop the pizza you should never eat through, you're a waste. You could buy the giant perky breasts all real women should hoist around; but if they don't have a set of matching protruding hip bones, get ready to die alone covered in cat hair.
Work harder at being someone else because no one will ever want you as you are.
The true success stories play on the 8th grade jv boys basketball team.
By the way, that's an ugly coat.
No comments:
Post a Comment