This week one of my friends was talking to me about her diet and weight and such and how she wanted to lose 10 pounds or so. You guys should know that all of my friends are super foxy, so it was really ridiculous to me that my beautiful friend wanted to lose unnecessary weight. I told her she was full of crap and that we should go get drunk and eat fried things, she didn't need to lose a damn thing (except her current state of sobriety). She grumbled something at me about how I didn't have to worry about things like weight because I was thin and obviously ate whatever I wanted. Half of that is true - I do eat whatever I want 99% of the time because it's food and I love food so much sometimes I wish I could transform the idea of food into a man and then marry him and bear his food-children. And then I would eat them, because they would probably be delicious. Hang on, someone brought in doughnuts to work and I gotta go get my glaze on.
Okay, so. I told her that was not true, it's genetically programmed in all women to give a shit about their weight. I do worry about it. Obviously I want to be attractive to the opposite sex because I really like the opposite sex, and magazines tell me I have to look a certain way to do it. (Don't yell at me about that, that's an issue for another day. Wait, I'll just take my tongue out of my cheek here before I continue...)
Anyway, I came clean with my foxy friend about why I gave up on stressing about diets and being thin and squeezing into smaller sizes several years ago and just decided to go with the flow ('the flow' in this case being the steady flow of delicious calories into my face) and let the gaining or losing of pounds happen on its own.
According to The Industry, I am already too fat for L.A., so there is not much else I have to be concerned about. Here's the skinny. (Pun very much intended!)
When I first moved to Los Angeles a few years ago, I secured an editorial internship at an ass-kicking alternative music/girlie magazine. Punk rock and tattooed pinups all over the glossy pages and the editorial freedom do bring my own ideas to the table - color me "tickled pink"! Through this internship, I met a lot of cool people and did a lot of awesome stuff. Through a rather random series of events, I even got to do a bit of modeling (it was all PG, don't get excited) and had a blast because they paid me in beers and I think that is darn near everyone's dream. Fast forward a few months and one of my friends that had worked on this particular shoot ended up showing my pictures to a casting person at Spike TV when they were casting babe-types for the show "1000 Ways To Die" and they needed a redhead, I guess. Since I was temporarily a redhead and apparently passed the "cute" test, I got a call from the show's producer.
I said it would be fun to be on a TV show, and he just thought that was swell so the stylist would be calling me later that day to get my sizes for my wardrobe. Super. I went in to work and waited. When the stylist called, I had the suspicious feeling that things were not going well.
Stylist: I need your shirt size, your bra size, your shoe size and your pant size.
Me: Uh. Medium?
Stylist: No, like numbers. What size jeans are you wearing right now?
Me: Oh! I don't know, hang on, I'll check my ass. These jeans say they're a size 9.
Stylist: (silence for a couple minutes) ...size 9? Really?
Me: Yep, that's what they say. Size 9.
Stylist: Are... are you sure?
Me: Yeah, size 9. The number between 8 and 10.
Stylist: Oh. Uh. Okay...
Me: Is something wrong?
Stylist: No... not really. So... size 9.
Me: Yep. My ass fits comfortably into my size 9 jeans.
Stylist: Oh, you know, I just remembered I have to ask Producer something. I'll call you back this afternoon.
Me: Word.
I definitely thought it was odd when she hung up. Was that weird? Huh. I didn't quite get it... they *had* my picture, they knew I wasn't a rail. I went home that day and told EM what had happened.
"I think she things my ass is too fat," I said, kind of giggling. EM agreed that it was weird. "I will seriously not be surprised if she calls me back and fires me." That's how showbiz is, you guys. Don't take it personally, but you are a heifer and we cannot even fit your blubbery butt in the frame. Thanks for playing. Later that evening, I did indeed get a call from Producer. He was very kind and said that he was disappointed, but they wouldn't be able to use me. Something about other babe-types on another Spike TV show being under contract and they had to be used instead of hiring new babe-types. That's how you get rejected in L.A. - they're super sweet about it because they don't want to be the ones to send you into a bulimic downward spiral into rehab. Fortunately, I am rather well-adjusted that way and laughed to Producer and told him that was fine, good luck with your show. He said he would keep me "on file" and I laughed again as I'm sure we both rolled our eyes.
That was my last foray into modeling and TV. Truthfully, I wasn't that invested in the project and at the time, I was perfectly happy with my shape, so the event passed rather humorously for me. These days it's a story I tell to people who come to me all worried about thick thighs and a beer belly, because it doesn't matter in the end. You're always going to be too fat or too short or too this or too that for someone, so don't you think it's a hell of a lot more productive to just accept the way you look and enjoy it?
Maybe I'm crazy. I probably don't belong in L.A. because saying such things is blasphemy in a town where everyone makes a living carving images. I suppose I'm guilty of carving my own image, as well... it's just that it has a size 9 ass.
Okay, so. I told her that was not true, it's genetically programmed in all women to give a shit about their weight. I do worry about it. Obviously I want to be attractive to the opposite sex because I really like the opposite sex, and magazines tell me I have to look a certain way to do it. (Don't yell at me about that, that's an issue for another day. Wait, I'll just take my tongue out of my cheek here before I continue...)
Anyway, I came clean with my foxy friend about why I gave up on stressing about diets and being thin and squeezing into smaller sizes several years ago and just decided to go with the flow ('the flow' in this case being the steady flow of delicious calories into my face) and let the gaining or losing of pounds happen on its own.
According to The Industry, I am already too fat for L.A., so there is not much else I have to be concerned about. Here's the skinny. (Pun very much intended!)
When I first moved to Los Angeles a few years ago, I secured an editorial internship at an ass-kicking alternative music/girlie magazine. Punk rock and tattooed pinups all over the glossy pages and the editorial freedom do bring my own ideas to the table - color me "tickled pink"! Through this internship, I met a lot of cool people and did a lot of awesome stuff. Through a rather random series of events, I even got to do a bit of modeling (it was all PG, don't get excited) and had a blast because they paid me in beers and I think that is darn near everyone's dream. Fast forward a few months and one of my friends that had worked on this particular shoot ended up showing my pictures to a casting person at Spike TV when they were casting babe-types for the show "1000 Ways To Die" and they needed a redhead, I guess. Since I was temporarily a redhead and apparently passed the "cute" test, I got a call from the show's producer.
I said it would be fun to be on a TV show, and he just thought that was swell so the stylist would be calling me later that day to get my sizes for my wardrobe. Super. I went in to work and waited. When the stylist called, I had the suspicious feeling that things were not going well.
Stylist: I need your shirt size, your bra size, your shoe size and your pant size.
Me: Uh. Medium?
Stylist: No, like numbers. What size jeans are you wearing right now?
Me: Oh! I don't know, hang on, I'll check my ass. These jeans say they're a size 9.
Stylist: (silence for a couple minutes) ...size 9? Really?
Me: Yep, that's what they say. Size 9.
Stylist: Are... are you sure?
Me: Yeah, size 9. The number between 8 and 10.
Stylist: Oh. Uh. Okay...
Me: Is something wrong?
Stylist: No... not really. So... size 9.
Me: Yep. My ass fits comfortably into my size 9 jeans.
Stylist: Oh, you know, I just remembered I have to ask Producer something. I'll call you back this afternoon.
Me: Word.
I definitely thought it was odd when she hung up. Was that weird? Huh. I didn't quite get it... they *had* my picture, they knew I wasn't a rail. I went home that day and told EM what had happened.
"I think she things my ass is too fat," I said, kind of giggling. EM agreed that it was weird. "I will seriously not be surprised if she calls me back and fires me." That's how showbiz is, you guys. Don't take it personally, but you are a heifer and we cannot even fit your blubbery butt in the frame. Thanks for playing. Later that evening, I did indeed get a call from Producer. He was very kind and said that he was disappointed, but they wouldn't be able to use me. Something about other babe-types on another Spike TV show being under contract and they had to be used instead of hiring new babe-types. That's how you get rejected in L.A. - they're super sweet about it because they don't want to be the ones to send you into a bulimic downward spiral into rehab. Fortunately, I am rather well-adjusted that way and laughed to Producer and told him that was fine, good luck with your show. He said he would keep me "on file" and I laughed again as I'm sure we both rolled our eyes.
That was my last foray into modeling and TV. Truthfully, I wasn't that invested in the project and at the time, I was perfectly happy with my shape, so the event passed rather humorously for me. These days it's a story I tell to people who come to me all worried about thick thighs and a beer belly, because it doesn't matter in the end. You're always going to be too fat or too short or too this or too that for someone, so don't you think it's a hell of a lot more productive to just accept the way you look and enjoy it?
Maybe I'm crazy. I probably don't belong in L.A. because saying such things is blasphemy in a town where everyone makes a living carving images. I suppose I'm guilty of carving my own image, as well... it's just that it has a size 9 ass.
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Plus, Average Broad, when you get old, you will look back at you 25 year old bod and think you were smokin' and be sad you did not appreciate the ass you had because the ass you NOW have is not only a little bigger, it is a bit droopier, too. Hypothetically.
ReplyDeleteKUDOS to you for posting this. It explains exactly what I've been trying to explain to people who don't live in LA: no matter what, it's not enough.
ReplyDeleteI'm 41. I think I look pretty decent for 41. I don't smoke, drink, or tan, so I'm not looking like a catcher's mit; no kids, so my boobs are basically still okay. However, I'm about 20lbs over what I should be to be healthy. Even if I lost 20 lbs, I would be ENORMOUSLY overweight for this town. And I couldn't get lower than that goal weight unless I literally forced myself into a seriously dysfunctional relationship with food. And as a Midwesterner raised by a Southern-cooking dad, it's not gonna happen.
But even if I did get to be Courtney Cox thin, it wouldn't be enough.
So eff it. I like bacon. Courtney can live a miserable salad eating life, while I will be content with pork products.