So, along with at least half of the female population, I have made it my New Years Resolution to get back in shape (assuming I was ever really in shape to begin with...) and slim down to a size that I feel comfortable at. Actually, being "fit" and "in shape" has nothing to do with it. Slimming down to a size I feel comfortable at is bullshit, too. I'm not trying to run a marathon. And lets face it, people, nobody is 100% comfortable at any size. In a nutshell - I just want to look smokin' hot when I'm naked.
Being naked is a weird thing. As an American female, we are literally thrust out of the womb with the idea that we cannot show our naked bodies unless Hugh Hefner sends us a personal invitation. This is annoying to me for several reasons, but the main reason that sums it all up is this: I want to be able to walk around without my clothes on (obviously I'd use some discretion and not go to the supermarket naked or anything) without feeling bad about it and having to worry about what other people are saying.
Okay, before you start with the name calling - I am not a tree hugging nudist, nor do I ever plan to be. And in all honesty, if I felt comfortable being naked, I probably would still wear some clothes. I just want the choice, you feel me? People are always going to talk, though. Humans will be humans. Bodies will never be "perfect" and what even defines perfect anyway? I was thinking about all of this today while on the treadmill at the gym...running my ass off (literally) instead of sitting at home eating vegan cupcakes. Actually, for the first 10 minutes of running, I was cursing all of the skinny women who actually DO sit at home and eat cupcakes, never gaining a pound and hoping that someday - by the hands of fate - they will know what it feels like to have to worry about shit like this. Then I turned the page of O Magazine (hey - free reading material is free reading material and yes, I was jogging on the treadmill and reading a magazine at the same time) to find this: The You-Q Test.
I'm thinking, okay, I'll bite. I fold the corner of the page to bookmark it and continue on my journey to slimming down, toning up, and endless hours of walking around the house with no pants on.
So when I get home, I take out the magazine, my pen, and start the discovery of my "You-Q". Don't think for one second that I actually fall for this shit. Sometimes we do things simply because they are amusing to us, not because we really believe the outcome is going to be true or even valid. I mean, I see adults who STILL throw pennies into a fountain and make wishes and c'mon...we both know what a crock that is. How many of your "fountain wishes" have come true? Yeah...thats what I thought.
Back to the test. The first part is a series of questions related to the subject of "looking beautiful". So there are 9 little drawings of women in their underwear, starting from the skinniest (who looks like this girl I saw on "Intervenion" for severe anorexia) and goes all the way through the healthy girls, to the chubby ones, to the last - the massive blimpo fatty. Following the instructions, I circle the 7th drawing (on the fatty side of the spectrum) because I felt it "most closely corresponds to my body". Then, I circled the middle drawing to represent the body I want. I don't think thats too far out of reach.
The second part of the test was a series of 4 questions all regarding the face. I answered them truthfully - and put the highest possible number on every answer because I love my face. There is nothing about my face I would change. I like my skin, I like my hair, not interested in plastic surgery...I'm totally confident in the face department. Then, you are supposed to add up the numbers and your score from the body-circling bullshit and read your Beauty You-Q from the list of 3 explanations. Mine read:
"Frankfly, we're surprised you had time to fill out this survey between modeling gigs. All we can say is, stay out of the sun, wear your seatbelt, and keep your feet on the ground."
Are you kidding me? THAT is my result? What about the insecurities regarding cellulite, flabby arms, bulging gut from all the booze I've drank to not think about the insecurities regarding cellulite and flabby arms?!
I closed my magazine and threw it down. Oli (my boyfriend - who happens to be a freelance writer in his spare time) looks over and asks whats wrong. I explain my utter disgust, to which he replies, "You have to remember, those things are written by people like me, who get paid to sit at a desk and write bollocks all day."
What a fucking pile of shit. I scarfed down a vegan cupcake in 2 bites after that. I'll go back to the gym tomorrow, though, because worrying about my weight is just the wretched hand that life has dealt me. And hopefully, someday, my mind will rest at ease and I'll just learn to shut the hell up and stop sweating it so much. Literally.