I can understand why runway models are skinny. That’s an aesthetic, an art form, that I don’t think applies to daily life. Objectification is in the job description for fashion models. I blame neither the supermodels nor the designers for trying to create a clothes-hanger look, because those women are clothes-hangers. I’m not condoning the obvious health-risks of pursuing a 3-inch bicep, I’m just saying that models are static, and I don’t feel so bad that I do not, could not ever look like them.

I’m not going to go on and on about the Beauty Myth because (a) I’ve done that enough in this journal, and (b) you guys know all that stuff, so it’s probably a given. But the Attack of the Shrinking Woman in Hollywood alarms me.

In movies and on TV, women have become so skinny that they’re no longer pretty. It’s obvious when you look at many of these women, most of whom really are quite beautiful, that they weigh far less than they should. It’s like they’re competing amongst themselves to see whose collarbones can collect the most rainwater. Their jawbones stick out further than their ears. Some of them, e.g. Debra Messing, have lost an unnecessary amount of weight since their careers took off. It’s especially scary when you consider that this brittleness is obvious even with the ten pounds added by the camera. Even actresses who aren’t as skinny, J.Lo for instance, are striving to keep their bodies in a state that is not natural for them. This goes beyond career and asthetic and becomes a lifestyle in and of itself. I feel for these women. I know they’re rich and pretty and successful, and that they can afford personal trainers and professional chefs and all that bullshit, but that doesn’t negate the fact that thinking that you are not ALLOWED to eat what you want drives you a little crazy. I know.

See, the other night, I watched I Heart Huckabees. I loved it, but I couldn’t help but notice how painfully skinny Naomi Watts is. She’s beautiful, yes, as well as incredibly talented and amazingly sympathetic. But dear God, is she planning to serve cocktail olives from the gap created by her shoulder blades? Yuck.

We’re supposed to relate with leading ladies in some way. Yeah, there’s always the Pretty Girl archetype to contend with, which can make a person feel kind of ugly and powerless, but hey, I like pretty. Are you pretty? Yay. I’d probably like to look at you, because pretty is pleasing. Generally, though, I don’t give a fuck what you look like. I’ll have some opinions on it, sure, but in the long run, I don’t give a rat’s ass.

Other people’s skinniness no longer makes me jealous. Can’t help but think, though, that boning someone as skinny as Naomi Watts would hurt, like skull-fucking the eye socket of a Georgia O’keefe still-life.

Hot.
Don’t forget the lube.

I have it on good authority, from men who have fucked very skinny women, that it is, indeed, a bit painful. Maybe I’m wrong, maybe pelvic bones are actually feather-soft, and having them thwap repeatedly against you is quite a soothing sensation, like Swedish massage. I’m sure no one minds in the heat of the moment, and I’m not saying that being skinny precludes being talented in bed, or that skinny people are unattractive. I’m just … saying. When did attractiveness become directly proportional to rib-visibility?

I know, there’s more to it than that. I know. Blah. I’m lazy. Let’s move on.

(By the way, anyone who makes reference to liking more “cushion for their pushin’” loses a knob. I fucking hate that expression, even more than I hate the phrase “tight little package.” I’m no shrinking violet, there’s just something about those phrases that calls to mind all sorts of unsexy sound effects, reminiscent of hoisting a piano up an elevator shaft.)

In college, when we noticed a particularly skeletal actress in movies or on TV, my girlfriends and I would call attention to her unwarranted skinniness by saying, “Someone get her a donut.” I’m pretty sure we stole that from somewhere, but whatever.

Since movie/TV-watching was a common pastime for us, and skinny women popped up every few frames, saying “Someone get her a donut” proved to take too long, and eventually devolved into us barking “DONUT!! DONUT!!!” at the screen in Muppety voices, between mouthfuls of takeout and swigs of beer.

We even took the subversive donut retaliation to the streets, yo. The people were starving (ha) for our brand of social subversion. Our college campus, like so many college campuses, was well-populated by cookie-cutter Gap girls, tiny blond coeds among whom low-slung black pants were so ubiquitous you’d think that ass-crack was an accessory and Plumbing was a major. Many a time, I was tempted to surreptitiously stick something down those cracks, like a pencil, or a flag, or a little cocktail parasol, peeking out above the thongal region.

Anyway, my friends and I, when encountered by an uberwaif in the dining hall or on the quad or whatever, would quietly insist upon the young woman’s dire need for fried pastry. (“Donut … Donut … Donut.”) We weren’t mean; we didn’t openly mock people for appearing to be ill. We were just doing what we always did: make light of situations that made us feel like crap, because it was FUN, and we were good at it.

Yeah, it should be noted that while we were all smart women, and all well aware of the conflicts between the teachings of Naomi Watts and Naomi Wolf, we weren’t without our sour grapes when it came to food issues. Among us was Katy, who could have kept all of Texas economically aloft with her love of babyback ribs; Jen, who at one point became frighteningly emaciated on a steady diet of rice krispies and vodka; and Trisha and I, who spent an immeasurable amount of private time seeking out unguarded university bathrooms where we could purge. Awesome.

I’ve mostly gotten over that, enough to say that, in general, I really. Don’t care. What you look like. (Though, if someone could please explain to me the appeal of the asscrack pants, I’d appreciate it.) Not as much, anyway.

These days, I got booty pride that verges so close to assploitation that y’all should call me Foxy Brown.

Because this entry isn’t disjointed enough, here’s another anecdote to file under “Kelly and Her Friends are Dicks:”

My aforementioned friend, Katy, came to visit me in Chicago, right? On our way to the Art Institute, we found ourselves behind a hippie. We trailed him down Michigan Avenue, chanting, “Hemp … hemp, hemp, hemp … hemphemphemphemphemp … ” in weird Peter Lorre voices.

That still makes me giggle.

~ Last Five Entries ~

Arm-in-Arm Down Burgundy - 09.05.05

Motivated! - 08.25.05

Moths, and Relative Nonsense - 08.18.05

I Finally Have Internet Access in my Bedroom. But, No Ashtray. - 08.09.05

Here I Am - 08.02.05

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BUY JEN'S BOOK! BUY IT! DO IT!

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BUY DEAN'S BOOK, TOO! YOU KNOW YOU WANNA! SERIOUSLY.

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