I have a salad. I also eat enough fresh baked crusty bread for five women. A girl’s gotta compensate while watching the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show. Pfft.
Even in my best days, The Norwegian would bring home some little pretty from the store and my ass didn’t make the cut. Always a good sport and a believer in anything to keep the marriage hot, I stuffed myself, sausage like, into some corseted contraption. And there my ass would be, poking around from the rear, laughing. “You look ridiculous,” the mirror whispered.
There came a time when I said no more cinches. “How about I’ll just wear my pumps and pearls and we’ll call it a day?” And, basically, being a guy, he was fine to not have to work the fasteners. Or dodge the rebound as fasteners let loose.
VS girls, Doutzen, Alessandra, Adrianna and their cohorts, ready themselves much like prizefighters and it shows. I tell Baby Chicken, “I bet afterward they just stuff a cheeseburger down their gullet.”
“Not if you work that hard for it,” she deadpans. She’s probably right. It’s remains a mystery to this old gal that there is no ass or thigh jiggle; that a grown woman can walk full tilt with no independently moving body parts. And their butts are so high. How does that happen? Is it genetics?
Baby Pea, in possession of that brand of buttock, points out that many of them have had children, and recently. “Bitches,” I say under my breath and slather more butter on my bread. And fill another glass of wine.
During the Fairy Tale segment, I think I need bras that are prettier, less utilitarian in nature. Not that those of us in the B cup family really need utilitarian. We only wear a bra to disguise where our nipples actually fall when left to their own devices. It occurs to me that pretty bras are something I may be neglecting now that no one spies me in a state of undress.
Another thought. Who could imagine prancing about in your panties could make you a millionaire and it wouldn’t be porn? And in the vicinity of Buckingham Palace.
It’s simply too much for this girl. I have to color my hair and find the right bra. Tonight is the Fleetwood Mac concert with Baby Chicken. Stevie Nicks is my daughter’s spirit animal. Imagine that? Baby Chicken’s hero is older than her own mother. Seems Stevie is no VS model either. She recently told an interviewer she sees herself as fat.
Well, Ms. Nicks, how about you join me for some crusty bread, a foreign cheese and a few bottles of wine. We’ll toast to the VS girls and our tiny asses of yore. Rock on.