I just spent $275 on bikinis from Victoria Secret.
Here’s how they got me – seeing as we don’t actually have Victoria Secret in my fair country Canada, I have to order these bikinis online. Which means one thing and one thing only: Due to the fact I can’t try them on, when I buy them I naturally assume I’m going to look like Adriana Lima when I put them on.
Newsflash, peeps. I don’t look anything like Adriana Lima.
So lately, I’ve been trying to channel her fierceness by looking at lots and lots and lots (it’s reached obsession levels) of photos and videos of her. Looking at skinny bitches makes me wanna be a skinny bitch, what can I say. But then this little devil bird put a bug in my ear that went something like this:
girl, you never gonna look that dat, you short and chunky
It’s true. I’m like Snookie, plus 4 inches. I can be skinny, sure, but i’ll never look like a popsicle stick. I just don’t have the gams. So I decided to toss the Victoria Secret Model Model and find something that would work for me. One old-fashioned “what’s your body type” quiz later and my world began to implode.
“Athletic.”
Pardone moi? No no no. You must be mistaken. I am not “athletic”. Awkwardly proportioned and the anti-Kardashian, maybe, but not athletic. Anything but.
Computer says no. Computer says “you’re athletic, work it.”
Fine. I have an ‘athletic’ body shape. Something about being an inverted triangle or whatever. What does this even mean?
It means your body was built for physical success.
Physical success? Oh jeeeeeeeeeze.
So, I did what any normal person would do. I googled as many Nike and Gatorade commercials as I could, bought a new pair of running shoes, made a playlist full of ‘the top 100 pump up songs ever’ and tried to channel my inner 12-13-14 year old who actually was athletic as shit. Mom still says I could have been an Olympic swimmer. I think she’s full of it, but I know I at least could have hooked up with Michael Phelps had I kept it up.
Okay, sure, whatever, I was 12. But that shit is my new goal! I ran for an hour straight… FAST… and was all “THIS IS WHAT YOU WERE MADE FOR!!!!!!” ”RUN! PUSH! TRAIN! RUUUNNNN!” and felt fan-freaking-tastic.
So I got home and was totally jacked, obviously. And I started asking myself some really weird questions. Like, when did pushing myself stop being enjoyable? Probably around the same time I discovered good wine and better cheese. But why? That’s a rhetorical question. I know exactly why. I discovered boys and decided that I didn’t want to be “the icebox” from Little Giants any more. Sure, she got Devon Sawa in the end, but it would have been WAY easier to be the cheerleader.
But here’s the thing, I don’t really care about boys any more. I mean, obviously if a cute one walks by I might walk into a telephone pole, but I’m not interested in changing myself to impress them. So why am I still playing the ‘girls don’t sweat’ game?
Well, lazy Barbie no longer! This body was made for PHYSICAL SUCCESS, DAMMIT! Move over, Lima. I have training to do and you’re walking your breakable ass on my treadmill.
xo & yw
