Apparently I have a lot of thoughts on the Victoria's Secret 2011 Holiday Fashion Show
Before I dive into today’s post, let me just get pleasantries out the way by wishing you and yours a very merry NATIONAL CUPCAKE DAY! Our country devoted a holiday to cake. This is definitely a world I want to live in. Trust me—I am treating today’s holiday with the utmost respect and am embodying the same level of festive spirit in which I celebrate Christmas (if not more).
Should I mention that I have a Pinterest board dedicated entirely to cake?
Anyway, talking about cupcakes makes today’s blog topic kind of ironic and hilarious … to me, anyway.
Last night I made the unfortunate mistake of eating half of a DiGiorno’s pizza while I watched the Victoria’s Secret 2011 Holiday Fashion Show on TV. I love VS and have a total obsession with any and all things in the PINK collection (my closet is a shrine to colorful undergarments), but being completely devoted to a line of lingerie is immediately put into perspective when you watch 6-foot tall gazelles who weigh 90 pounds and some change parade the sexy undies that you so clearly will never look that good in right in front of your face.
There I was, eating more pizza in one sitting than they have probably eaten in their entire lifetimes. And there they were, looking better half naked than most people look completely clothed.
I hate that I couldn’t enjoy the fashion show because I was too wrapped up in my own insecurities and saw each model as a walking threat in bedazzled stilettos. Clayton claims he's not into chicks built like that, but I think it's a blatant lie because even I'm into chicks built like that.
Never mind that earlier that evening I logged over 6 miles running up and down parking garage ramps.
Never mind that during my post-run shower I looked down at my body and was, dare I say it, satisfied with what God gave me.
Never mind any semblance of self-confidence I was feeling at all that night—just drop a few stick-skinny models in my living room whose lot in life is to be ridiculously gorgeous, and I’m right back to square one.
And yet, I never changed the channel. I watched, like a mesmerized idiot.
Whenever Miranda Kerr jiggled down the sparkly runway, the cameras immediately panned to Orlando Bloom who was sitting in the front row, clapping and smiling at her as she walked past. This happened EVERY.SINGLE.TRIP.SHE.MADE.DOWN.THE.RUNWAY. We get it, Orlando—she’s your wife. You and the 5 cameramen working the fashion show made that abundantly clear to the baby Jesus and everyone watching at home. But honestly, does it even really make a difference? Did any dude that didn’t star in Pirates of the Caribbean or rocks a magical mane of blonde hair in Lord of the Rings ever stand a chance with her? I think you’re safe, dude. Chill.
Adding further insult to injury, in between trips down the runway, the fashion show provided its viewers with a segment of mini bios so we could learn all about the Victoria’s Secret Angels (dreams really DO come true!). However, instead of just talking about themselves, the models were filmed talking about each other, candidly describing their BFFs’ sparkling personalities and fascinating interests (even though I’m pretty sure 99% of the straight male population’s level of interest stops at “boobs”.).
One of the models, in an adorable English/British/Australian/I-didn’t-pay-enough-attention-to-figure-out-where-she’s-from accent: “Bahati is an adrenaline junkie. She loves hang gliding and going on adventures.”
So this girl is unnaturally hot AND she does extreme sports? I might as well just kill myself now. Game over.
But honestly, even though Nikki Minaj was dressed like Lisa Frank on an acid trip at Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory, I couldn’t help but notice that her body is ten times sexier than any of the waifs strutting down the runway next to her. She’s shaped like Jessica Rabbit for Pete’s sake! Why isn’t she sportin’ a tie-dye thong for VS? Why do we let women whose body type represents approximately 1% of the entire world population’s model our mass-produced sexy lingerie? I don’t get it. Surely no woman is delusional enough to believe that if she buys that diamond-encrusted Brazilian g-string she will look anything remotely close to Candice Swanepoel? And why would she want to? Aside from a handful of women who were lucky enough to be born with the same DNA as Olive Oil, nobody looks like that. So how and why did that body shape become the coveted holy grail of sexiness in the first place?
Her waist isn’t even natural. It’s has to be some sort of voodoo magic.
Watching that fashion show tempted me to run upstairs and dig out all of my gender studies books from college so I could try and rationalize why I simultaneously felt both disgust and jealously over everything that was parading around on my TV screen.
I need more pizza.