When I die and get reincarnated, I want to come back with a body like Pamela Anderson had in the nineties.
I want to know what it feels like to be adored by a standard of beauty that is completely unattainable and unrealistic for ninety nine percent of the female population… without a major plastic surgery overhaul. Which brings me to the other night in Hollywood; a person that had a knock-out body with unreal proportions walked by me in a green bikini and little else.
It was about 60 degrees outside and I was impressed by her ability to handle the cold (and the stares and snide remarks). I guess having a great body makes you do things few of us regulars can. For instance, I always wanted to be a full-on slut, but wouldn’t, because I could never live up to the expectation naked.
At first, I was certain this person in the green bikini was a woman, but after careful inspection (no, not that careful) I discovered she was a man… or a previous man. Yes, there was an Adam’s apple and unusually broad shoulders, but holy crap, the rest of her was amazing: Gravity-defying, luscious, extraordinary!
I’m all for becoming whomever and whatever you want to become, so more power to her. She looked fucking great, plastic surgery and all, and it made me feel like, if a man can do it, so can I! Except, I don’t want to go under the knife. Never have, never will. Probably. Look, my mom always told me “Never say never”, and she was right, because as soon as I do, I turn around and do the exact thing I said I’d never do.
Except for the following never
I never had that type of body and never will. Being a full-on slut is still an option though.
I have the type of body that was more appreciated during times like the Renaissance or Cretaceous period, so I’m a few hundred (or million) years out of style. I’m more suited to be carved out of marble and put in a museum to be adored, than to walk Sunset Blvd. in a green bikini and drooled over.
Hey, maybe that should be my next career move! No, not Wonder Woman, a statue.
I do have a few things going for me that I can appreciate though: I have good hair, I’m somewhat tall, somewhat proportionately constructed, long legged, nice hands, and I’m funny and can talk in complete sentences.
Want my number?
But sometimes I wish I had things I don’t have now, and never will. It’s not that I don’t appreciate myself or what I do have, but I think about having something else from time to time. I dream about what it would be like to fit into this idea society has falsely created: That to be skinny with big tits makes you better than other woman… more desirable, and more beautiful, which I know is a complete waste of time and does nothing for cultivating the gratitude I’m supposed to have.
Comparing yourself to someone else is the kiss of death, this I know. So how come it’s so difficult to stop doing? That’s a rhetorical question, by the way… I don’t want to get a bunch of comments giving me advice on how to stop doing it: “Just focus on yourself and don’t worry about other people”, or “There’ll always be people that wish they had what you have” or this one, which has got to be the most fucking annoying of all: “Just do you!”
I already “do” me, every single day of my life. You do me, see how you like it. Okay, you’d probably like it. I mean, hey, it’s not that bad being me. It’s society that has made me bad because I have flesh, curves, meat on the bones… and some stretch marks. Oooh, how fucking horrible, you have that?! Yeah, I do… so I should be a self-loathing recluse then. Wait, I am a self-loathing recluse.
No, not really
I just want to look in the mirror and say “Hey gorgeous, you have an awesome body.” No, that’s not all I want, I want the world to say it too. Is that too much to ask?!