Most of you that know me, are well aware of the amount of shit talking I do. Be it, fruity drinking guys or that fucking anorexic bitch over there, there’s always a plethora of excrement flying out of my mouth. And I guess it’s payback time. Because lately I’m having to swallow heaping spoonfuls of my own sarcastic comments. And Mother Karma is not letting me up from the table till I’m finished with dinner.
The first course of this meal was prepared by the Rican. Last week when getting the mail, he couldn’t help but notice a package from Victoria’s secret arrive at our apartment. He brought it over to me, hoping I'd open it immediately. But me excitedly tearing it open was only prelude to his disappointment. Because he gave the contents one condescending look and then turned his nose, announcing he liked nothing.
“Fine.” I said, throwing the catalogue at him. “Why don’t you go through this and Art Direct me some underwear.” Not one to turn down the chance to peruse the scantily clad, he agreed.
“What about that one?” I asked, pointing at a thong I think most guys would agree with. “That one’s cute.”
“Yeah,” he said. “It’s okay. But there’s no point in getting it cause it wont look like that on you.”
My face dropped. To the floor.
He, to my disbelief, continued. “What? You know you don’t look like that. I know you don’t look like that. Everyone knows.”
My face was practically fucking the floor.
…and on. “I mean no one looks like that except for a Victoria’s Secret Model. You don’t. So what’s the point of pretending you do and buying something even though it wont look as good on you.”
My face and the floor were now having post coital cigarettes.
All women are painfully aware that because we don’t have 36 hours an afternoon to spend in the gym, nor have the money to afford the microbiotics/coke diet, that we don’t look like Victoria’s Secret models. We don’t need to be reminded. Although I was too dumfounded to say it then, I should have replied with, “Yes, I’m well aware of my sub Victoria’s Secret Model looks. Because if I looked like a one, I WOULDN’T BE DATING YOU.”
During one of my half assed attempts to be a tenth as attractive as the model I’ll never be, I pulled on some sneakers and did my early morning visit to Crunch. Never having been one of those put-on-a-full-face-of-makeup-and-prance-around-the-gym-like-the-Victoria’s-Secret-Model-I ain’t types, I was more the pull-on-an-old-pair-of-Umbros-I’ve-had-since-I-was-fourteen-and-the-rest-of-you-can-just-fuck-yourself chick.
This particular morning I was in a body sculpting, Victoria’s Secret Model looks attempting class. Taught by the sort of perky cheerleader type, that, if I ever have kids, and my daughter turns out like her, then she will have to be taken out back and shot.
Miss sprightly gym class instructor came bubbling and bouncing over to me and pointed to my shorts.
“OMIGOD, LIKE, I TOTALLY USED TO HAVE THOSE!”
Great, I thought. Way to point out my ugly shorts.
“THOSE MUST BE SO OOOOOLD!!!!”
Yes. They’re old. Thanks for drawing the entire class’s attention to my circa 1994 gym short fashion sense. I realize that since you’re shamelessly playing Kelly Clarkson music, you must not mind revealing your incredibly embarrassing music tastes. But some of us and our ugly shorts, would rather go un-pointed out over the fucking microphone in the back of the class.
“I HAVEN’T SEEN THOSE IN LIKE SOOOOO LONG. THAT’S WHAT YOU WORE BACK IN THE DAAAAAAY. UMBROS AND A TANKTOP. THAT WAS SO COOL WAAAAY BACK IN THE DAAAAAY.”
I thought “back in the day” comments were still reserved for my dad. But apparently, kids, I have my own back in the day, and that was the day of the ugly Umbro. Which means I am officially old. No wonder I don’t look like a VS model.
So far I’ve had to swallow the fact that I’m Umbro wearing and sub VS model looking. But I can still write, right?
Lately it pains me to answer the “What do you do?” question. My ad friends get it. But questioned by anyone outside the complicated world of portfolios, and my answer may seem like a desperate string of excuses for why I don’t have a “real” job. Last week I was asked this question by an old man I was waiting on in the restaurant. While I should have stated the obvious (“I’m serving you your fucking foie gras, what the fuck does it look like I do?”) I decided to save my own face and give the short answer to my most dreaded question.
“I’m a writer.”
“Oh!” He clasped his hands together excitedly.
“What do you write? Novels? Theater? Screen plays?”
“No, sir. I write advertising.”
“Oh. His voice dropped to a nadir of disappointment.
“I thought you were a real writer.”
Fine. You got me. I’m the fucking unemployed pack of Splenda in the pastry shop. But you should see how I rock the runway in a pair of Umbros.