What do you call someone who's afraid of Santa Claus? Claustrophobic. * - Extracted with technological tweezers.
"But I thought real beauty is on the inside." Liar. Liar. That's just something ugly people say. We of the unsymmetrical, blemish-skinned, blubber-crammed, and incurably graceless bodies try to comfort each other by sniggering that if we had a personal trainer, thought only about our appearance, and had an entourage of makeup artists and costume designers, we would be stunning and squash everyone and everything in our path like an oliphaunt on the rampage. And don't forget the air-brushing. Those faces on the magazines are velvet smooth. They have no unseemly protrusions. They don't even have pores.
Our eating habits would make medieval tortures painless, indeed, a relief, in comparison, what with our measuring and counting and the interminable watching of our weights. I can argue that belly flab serves to distinguish between the upper and lower portions of the body, but that defense wears thin, while I certainly don't. I don't have to watch for weight. It's right there in front of me, bulging in doughy rolls. Lovely.
And at the bottom of the ladder, we laugh, or make some kind of strangled noise as we are in danger of being kicked right off. Because all these excuses are only that--pathetic defenses of the ultimate untenable position: being unattractive. Very close to us are model-beautiful people, the kind that simply disappear when they turn sideways. Their clothes are deliberately casual, their poses artfully unaffected. When the word "unbearably annoying" was created, God was thinking of them.
A pretty girl is talking to a cute boy. They talk about everything and nothing and the nothing of everything, all the while checking each other's hotness rating for compatibility. The girl will lean back against a wall with her hands clasped behind her back, hips swishing side-to-side like a broom in operation WIPE OUT, the position unconsciously bringing her assets into better view. Not that the guy's looking. He's busy constructing his own attitude. He's chatting on his cell-phone, cologne radiating from him in eye-watering fumes. He leans to one side, to all the world without a care and certainly not a book, occasionally pulling up his pants every now and again. They look at each other. Very groomed/very messy hair? Check. Very tight/very loose clothes? Check. Star. Underline. A match made in Tween heaven, probably to be smooched about on earth.
I sound bitter. But actually I'm really sweet, like fudge. Just a little nutty sometimes.
