Thank you very much for all your virtual high-fives and attagirls on my bikini-ed hawtness. You all are very, very kind, and made a skeeny, poochy-tummied, hairy girl feel very loved... even those of you who downloaded my photo and sent it to What Not To Wear as a case study for next season's producers.
And please believe me when I say that the post was not a backhanded self-tribute to some false modesty.
In real life, yes, I is truly slender in places. However, in real life, I is not Guassian blurred as much as I would prefer, even with the full understanding and acknowledgment that this preference is driven entirely by my weak-spined kowtowing to Madison Avenue.
Even though I know I shouldn't feel bad about my pocky skin and wibbly elbows.
Even though I know that I'm a healthy weight, and even though I enjoy being a bit curvy after spending most of my life playing body double for a 9-year-old Little League shortstop.
One day, I'm all like, "Long live Gloria Steinem! Kiss me on the mouth, Camille Paglia! No more bikini waxes and martinis for me, Jean Kilbourne!" and raising my fist and burning my bras and then buying new demi-cups with lacey cutouts shaped like Kate Chopin's inkwell.
The next day, I'm concerned about my crooked teeth.
Well...maybe not concerned.
My crooked teeth don't drive me to such distraction that I find myself paralyzed with self-consciousness and unable to continue my important work toward world peace, wider environmental consciousness, and a decluttered basement.
I'm not quite that guy on the beach in the Speedo who couldn't care less that everyone else on the beach thinks that he shouldn't be on the beach in a Speedo. And I don't care what Jean Kilbourne says, stirrup pants with ballet flats are just...just...so detrimental to world peace. I'm sorry, I have to draw the bright line of self-consciousness right there. I'm usually not so judgmental in this blog, and I'm sorry if this offends anyone and if I'm playing into the hands of Madison Avenue, but stirrup pants with ballet flats just look so painful. Seeing them makes the sole of my foot itch.
There. I've said it. I hope that I didn't lose half my readership.
A while back, I wrote a letter to the editor of our local newspaper thanking him...her?...thanking the editor for using less-than-sticklike models in the summer swimsuit spread. I wrote something profound and insightful like, "Thank you for giving me back my milkshakes!"
I wrote something like, "Yippee for non-stereotypical definitions of 'beauty' making it into print!"
And I meant it.
Because even though I am teh lovely and teh smarty girl; even though a few of my friends wondered why a skinny beeyotch like myself would care about whether or not rounder women with wibblier elbows made it into swimsuit ads; even though I'm sorta, kinda winning my own struggle against the headgame realities and mirages of Photoshopped pretty bits, well... it's still a struggle.
And it's going to be a struggle for my daughters.
Like Jean Kilbourne says:
"Parents can talk to their children, make these messages conscious. We can educate ourselves and become media literate. But primarily we need to realize that this is not something we can fight purely on an individual basis.
Corporations are forever telling us that if we don't like what's on TV we should just turn it off, not let our kids watch tobacco ads or violent movies. We constantly hear that if parents would just talk to their kids there would be no problem. But that really is like saying, 'If your children are breathing poisoned air, don't let them breathe.'"
Now, I don't know if my bikini-ed de-grooviness and public bemoaning of my foresty thighs has now added to the general toxicity (me being a member of the media and all...erem), or if by baring all(most), I have, in fact, made some small step forward in busting the myth that only scarless, hairless women should bare all on the beach.
I'll let you decide.
In the meantime and in other news, I have made headway in battling another deeply held and possibly baseless fear: the fear of being
stalked exploited on the Internet.
It seems that Black Hockey Jesus has downloaded the photo of me dressed as an infamous alcoholic soul singer in an bikini and has posted it on his blog.
I believe that this was done in some misguided attempt to cajole me into recanting my detraction of a certain Muppet ...and yet I am unmoved.
Wibbly elbows and all.
You see, just last week, a far more devious and wily blogger with a heart of lead and a soul as black as pitch - a blogger whose search engine hijinx has earned him the ignominious title of The Unabomber of Googling - has found a far more damning Internet record of Yours Truly and has used the foul fruits of his bitter labor to weasle $50.00 from me in the form a past due payment to our neighborhood civic association.
And so, you see, the worst has been realized.
And yet I feel fine.
Pass the milkshakes.
Now, I may have to take both photos down before my kids get to high school and begin their own blogs and Google investigations.
On the other hand, it may be like the time that you first learn what sex is, and then you immediately realize that, yikes! this is something that your parents did, and then, no thanks, you just don't want to ever think about your parents doing "that" ever again. And if you even hint about my parents doing "that" I'm going to slug you in study hall.
In a few year, that's what the Internet is going to be like for the kids of blogging parents.
"Don't tell me about my mom's blog and her 'skeeny beeyotch' post."
I don't want to know.Don't make me slug you in study hall.