Not All Angels Have Wings.
So there I am pulling wit out my ass to keep this text conversation with Mr. Handsome going, when the annual Victoria’s Secret fashion show comes on TV. Let me tell you, about the only thing that would distract me from a handsome man, is a bunch of beautiful bitches with angel wings and obscene amounts of bronzer. I begin to ignore the *pings* from my phone and descend into this magical world where all of life’s problems can be solved with body glitter, and a push-up bra.
While watching the show, several things come to mind. Who the fuck is Neon Jungle? Is that an Asian girl in Neon Jungle? Why Taylor Swift? Katy Perry would’ve been more fitting. Ooh, she has short hair. Damn, Adam Levine is so hot it hurts. I should really check my phone. I would absolutely LOVE to be the costume designer for this show.
And of course, the usual her legs are longer than my entire body. Holy tits Batman! Her stomach is so flat, I bet you could tell if she ate a grape. I wish my lips were as full as hers. That hair though! FUCKING ADRIANA LIMA! FUCKING LAIS RUBEIRO! Jesus Christ, is there not ONE ugly Brazilian alive? Not one?!
Yet despite all my 9-year-old-Asian-boy-body angst, not once did I feel the need to throw-up what I ate for dinner. Or get breast implants. Or hate myself in the mirror. In spite of one of the most anticipated television shows of the year showcasing 5’9″ models that weighed less than me, I never felt that the media was to blame for any insecurities I may have had. People like to point fingers with dirty hands, and use everyone else in society as a scape goat for their own issues. Shame on the media? Shame on you!
Many tend to think that the media is responsible for every fucking problem on Earth. While there is no escaping the pressures of what the media deems as beautiful, you did not come out of an E! Network camera’s vagina and Victoria’s Secret didn’t raise you growing up. I hate to break it to you, but if you’re blaming the media for your child’s self-hate, you may need to step your parenting up. I fucking said it. OMG, I fucking said it. Granted, there are factors you just can’t control that may affect a child’s upbringing, but for the most part it starts at home.
I watched Rated R movies, played graphic video games, and read the Enquirer growing up, and follow dozens of Instagram accounts belonging to models. However, I know that they’re just actors, that you shouldn’t pick up prostitutes then light them on fire, OJ Simpson is NOT Khloe Kardashian’s father, and “Instagram models” aren’t really models (I’m kidding about the last part, I just felt like being an asshole). Because I grew up with a mother that bragged about how beautiful I was, just as much as she bragged about all the awards I received at school. While the point isn’t to brag about your children, it is about recognizing that beauty isn’t only equivalent your measurements as written here.
This is the reason why I can admire slim, tall, curvy women with flawless skin without hating the fact that I’ll never be able to look like them. Because as beautiful as those Victoria’s Secret angels are, I know what makes me beautiful and what makes me fabulously flawed. What makes Abigail Abigail, Chanel Chanel, and Giselle Giselle.
Besides, there is no fucking way Alessandra Amrbosio is funnier than me.