The subject is fat. Nary a chick amongst us is immune. Exchanging dimes for every conversation had with girlfriends concerning weight gain, weight loss (wait–that doesn’t happen) I would never worry over lack of insurance funding for life’s remainder. Instead I could mull over what champagne to sip and in which European country to make my summer home.
The French country side is intriguing to be sure, with all those open air markets and fresh vegetables. But Tuscany beckons with its blatant romanticism and Baby Chicken is dying to spend time in Venice. Supposedly the smell is not the problem it used to be. Hmmm.
The subject of fat reared its’ head again this week on the drive to work. A dear girl called as she heard rumor that I used a certain weight loss wonder to shed pounds a few years ago. ‘Tis true. ‘Tis true. I touted the method’s success. Yes, you do not exercise. Yes, the weight just falls off. Yes, it is very fast. I thought to myself–does this doll need to lose weight? Not once in all the years I’ve known girlfriend has it crossed my mind that she needs to trim. Isn’t it funny what we see when we look in the mirror?
I see fat at every turn. My ass is a traitor. My arm flab has a life of its own. The other day, in downward dog, my knees and lower thighs crinkled in a new and different way; an old lady way. I decide then and there I need never buy another bathing suit. I also wonder, what exactly is the proper exercise for saggy skin above the knees when one is in downward dog? Not that I plan to indulge. I just think it’s a good idea to be informed. Downward dog was more than enough exercise and look how that turned out. Pfft.
Sisterella visits and laments to Baby Chicken and me her hatred of her middle. Baby Chicken, all of nineteen years old, chats about weight loss and firming as a summer goal. Baby Chicken is the size of, well, a baby chicken. Sisterella and I, as we dance about the room, exclaim outrage at the thought that Baby Chicken should lose poundage. Why are we dancing you say? No clue. Sometimes you just have to jump up from your perch and dance with your best friend while you watch Silver Linings Playbook. Go figure. Baby Chicken films said dance and sends it along to Middle Chicken, taunting that she has yet to return to the roost and join the crazy.
Crazy? Brings us to our dear Betty, as in Draper. Speaking of fat. It was the question on everyone’s lips as the glorious return of Mad Men approached. Will Betty spend another season fat? Evidently so. Poor girl–a chick who gets all her self worth from her looks. Evidently, Matthew Weiner decided to punish her for yet another season. Asshat. Not only are you giving Don Draper a conscience but you are torturing Betty the Ice Queen as well? Not happy.
Part of the reason Betty can gaze down her nose and carry herself into a room ala the Queen of England is her beauty isn’t just her face. Her beauty is her lithe model frame as well. Is it painful for anyone else watching her move with less grace as if we spy pieces of her self esteem falling as she shuffles about that ugly dark mansion with a man no where near as good in bed as Don and a hateful mother-in-law. Have you noticed she even started to look a bit like her? Is it in the water of the haunted mansion? Does anyone else want Betty back with Don? Does anyone else hate Megan and her silly Zou Bisou slinky weirdness? Not to mention her skinny-minnie ass? Bitch.
No one likes Betty. They never have. She is neither warm nor sweet. She isn’t a loving, huggy mom. Her chickens don’t move her to tears. They instead frustrate her and remind her of all she’s given up. The truth is most mothers feel this at one time or another whether they admit it or not. Being a mother is amazing, wonderful and a gift. It is also, at times, staggeringly boring, dirty, round the clock, thankless work that society labels as “she stays at home.” Not pretty but true. That Betty wears her secret motherhood feelings on the outside instead of the inside makes her unlikable. And now she is fat.
In the media world, this makes her no longer pretty. She is no longer worthy of gorgeous dresses. Somehow her exquisite taste in shoes and pearls and dresses and bags has disappeared. She has more money, more freedom, more love, more public prestige but committed the cardinal sin. She became fat. All her talents must exit left. Matthew Weiner–creator and head writer–Asshat. In real life, the man is bald. To do him the same service he’s done our dear Betty, he needs to be stripped wordless as his hair fell out. He need be rendered unable to string stories together until his hair grows back. As we will undoubtedly see Betty gain her esteem, both personally and socially, as she loses weight. Men, however, go unpunished for loss of hair, gain of weight and less than perfect upkeep.
Point being Mr. Weiner, give Miss Betty back her beautiful dresses and extraordinary taste or make her skinny again. It’s that simple. You don’t get to openly punish a women for gaining weight. If we remember, this was, in fact, brought on by January Jones real life pregnancy. Instead of shooting round the pregnancy or writing it in, the brilliant and bald Mr. Weiner made her fat and relegated her to the dismal place the media believes all fat women live. Umbrage is mine Mr. Weiner. Umbrage is mine.
Besides, some of us get more kickass as we get fatter. ‘Tis true. Most of my best dolls carry a little extra. They are beautiful stunning, gorgeous women who make a difference every day and make the world a better place indeed. Myself, I just get better the fatter my ass gets. So you can kiss it anytime you like Matthew Weiner.
The Duchess Diaries 