“Can I bring you another size?”
“Yes, can I please see these in a zero?”
“No, but I can bring you a loaf of bread if you would like. How about a cookie?”
OK, if I had actually said that at the clothing store where I work, I would have been fired. If the Villanova student I was helping that particular day actually ate, she’d be a lovely size six.
This past weekend, I had an epiphany. Girls, we need to chill out. Big time.
After my roommate purchased a Jessica Simpson poster a few weeks ago, (Yes, we’re obsessed with her. She’s hot. Accept it.), I began to plan out the extensive diet that would eventually transform me into her body double.
Five minutes later, I was craving Wendy’s. And Cool Ranch Doritos. And SweeTarts.
I stared at Jess for a few moments longer, debating whether or not I was ready to commit to this grueling regimen that theoretically included two-hour gym sessions, one-hour track sessions and 800 calories a day. Freeeeench friieeessss.
In the midst of girly girls, fashion mags and models prancing around Villanova, it seems like a crime to eat three meals a day. Stumbling to A Plus the other night to satisfy our midnight munchies, my roommate and I discussed our issues with weight.
Why exactly do we all want to be so skinny? What does that help up accomplish? If we were as skinny as we wanted to be, would we be beautiful too? And what would we complain about then?
Still, for some reason, I psychologically yearned to be practically invisible from the side and almost emaciated-looking from the front and back. Butt? Who needs a butt? Just imagining my stick-figure older sister made me want to avoid the kitchen for a few weeks. Of course, she doesn’t eat junk, and she works out daily, and she measures out portions of food, and, and … I’m hungry.
We’ve all been led to believe that having the same weight as Jessica Simpson equals having the same face. And sex appeal. And popularity. Hellooo? I weighed about that much in ninth grade and I sure didn’t feel beautiful then. More like awkward and unable to fill out a bathing suit.
I think it’s time we come to terms with these issues because, quite frankly, no one cares about a girl with ridiculous and nonexistent self-esteem issues.
So, I decided to make a list of things that skinny girls can’t do.
They cannot make Wawa runs at 2 a.m. without hitting the gym with a hangover the next day.
They cannot eat fast food for dinner and Coldstone for dessert. It has to be one or the other.
They can’t shake it on the dance floor – there’s nothing to shake.
They cannot play sports without worrying about snapping one of their twig-like bones.
And last, and maybe most importantly, they cannot go outside on a windy day. They would blow away and that would be a horrible, crying shame.
My plans for after graduation include winning the Powerball. When that happens, I’ll gladly postpone my career aspirations and hire a personal trainer to whip my sorry abs into perfect, glorious shape.
Until then, I believe there’s hope for girls like me everywhere: elastic-waistband sweatpants.
With grease stains on them from potato chips, obviously.