I rag constantly on models, actresses, and skinny bitches in general, because, well, they’re skinny…and obviously disciplined (or neurotic, bulimic, or anorexic). But I’ve a newfound respect for them. I’ve come to learn it’s really hard to be a skinny bitch—especially after 40.

I have always been somewhat obsessed with my weight. Not to the point of compulsively dieting or working out, but always mentally obsessing. Because I despise exercise, a quick fix to lose a few pounds would be to just not eat. No biggie, since food doesn’t excite me all that much, and I’m not a stress eater. I much prefer to chew my nails and make other people’s lives miserable when I’m stressed out.

I’ve never had a weight problem per se, but I’ve never been a skinny bitch either. I’m half Italian and half Polish, which explains why excess carbs go straight to my ass. I grew hips at 16 when I went on the Pill and they’ve been with me ever since. I fell in love with my son’s father when he uttered those 3 words I always longed to hear: “You’re too skinny.” He liked thick women with big asses. Who wouldn’t love that in a man?

It wasn’t until my ex up and left me with a 1 year old and I started fantasizing about driving head-on into traffic that I began taking happy pills which packed on the pounds. I didn’t care—better to be fat and (somewhat) happy, rather than thin and batshit crazy. I did manage to eventually lose the 30 pounds I had accumulated from eating bagels drenched in butter, much to the delight of literally everyone around me, including the mailman. You never realize how fat you’ve gotten until you A. See yourself in photos and B. Receive congratulatory comments about how much weight you’ve lost from people whose name you don’t even know.

Weight management is like being bipolar—sometimes you’re up, sometimes you’re down, but there’s always fluctuation. So when I stopped working out regularly once again and began eating crap like salty snack mixes, Almond Joys, and pizza, the pounds crept back on. Here’s the frightening thing though. While I may have always had thighs, hips, and an ass, what I NEVER had before was a stomach. So when all of a sudden I had this fucking muffin top hanging over my waistband, I was horrified. According to my rules of karma, everyone should have 1 area of their body that doesn’t give them a problem no matter how much they eat or drink.

After a few months of whining and feeling sorry for myself, I started working out regularly again. No results. Then I started eating slightly smaller portions. Nothing. I cursed my 46-year-old metabolism, and saw myself turning into this flabby, middle-aged potato-shaped woman with a lot of cats. I became depressed. I napped a lot. I took the Why bother? approach. Summer crept closer and closer, which meant shorts and tank tops. I knew a burka just wouldn’t go over in my neighborhood.

So I finally, finally got my ass in gear and took charge. Made a goal, started getting B-12 shots in my ass for energy, bought some green detox powder that tastes like mowed grass, plus a high-quality meal replacement drink that becomes gluey paste if it sits too long. I started exercising and using little 5-pound weights. But I did not actually start noticing a distinct change in my body until I took drastic measures. What did I have to do? I had to go to Hell and stay there. In fact, I’m still there, because I’m 6 pounds away from my goal.

For the last month, I have been working out every. freaking. day. I have NEVER done that in my life. I drink that green crap for breakfast, a meal replacement for lunch, and have a salad with maybe some tuna in it for dinner. I dish out lasagna and pizza for my son while biting my fist in frustration, but I have not caved yet. I went to a 4th of July party and didn’t drink alcohol or eat dessert. I had guacamole without the chips, and chicken instead of beef.

Sure I may feel great, but are you kidding me? This is no way to live. How do the skinny bitches do it? I mean, yeah, I’ve lost weight, but I had cherry tomatoes for dessert last night when I was craving something sweet. Fucking cherry tomatoes! That’s insane to have to do that all the time. In order to be skinny, you have to omit carbs (the good ones, anyway) which means you can never eat a goddamn sandwich or a burger. Certainly no chips. Or tortillas. No to sugar. And steak. And pasta. And potatoes. And what you do eat has to be in minute amounts. Plus, you have to exercise like 2 hours a day!

I applaud all you skinny bitches, because it’s damn hard to stay skinny. The will power and discipline needed is enormous and commendable. I think it was Julia Roberts who once said that in order to be thin you have to say no a lot when it comes to food. Yeesh.

So Brava to all the skinny bitches out there! I’ve decided I don’t want to join your masochistic club (the dues and obligations are way too high), so I’ll be admiring you from afar, instead.

How many of you are skinny bitches? And how in the hell do you stay that way?


Victoria’s Secret model Adriana Lima had some ‘splaining to do
after she divulged her rather extreme pre-show diet. For nine days before the
show, she admitted to working out twice a day and drinking only protein shakes.
Twelve hours before having to strut her skinny stuff on the catwalk, she
ingests no food and “no liquids at all so (she) can dry out.”

Of course everyone was in an uproar over those comments. “Think
of all the prepubescent girls who will do the same unhealthy things to become
thin,” they cried. You mean the same ones who can access the How to become an anorexic websites with
just a tap of the fingers?

While frustrated, envious women (me, included) demand to know how these models stay so abnormally thin, we don’t really want to hear the answer. What we want to hear is the advice “normal” people get to maintain their average weight: Exercise at least 3x a week, and watch your portions, because then looking model-perfect will be within all our reaches.

Wake up, people! Models aren’t like you and me. They’re able
to subsist on three hundred calories a day, their self-discipline borders on
unbelievable (who else can control a PMS-craving?), and they get paid ridiculous
amounts of money to stay thin.

As I’m writing this, I’m snacking on pretzels and full-fat
string cheese. Why? Because no one’s paying me ten thousand dollars for my hip
bones to jut from my body.

What Adriana says she does is no different from what bodybuilders
do to prepare for a competition. Most of them begin dieting 6-12 weeks before a
show. How would you like to subsist on dry chicken breast, dry brown rice and
veggies? They remove water from their diet the day before also to look their best.

I mean, give the girl a break. She was just being honest. I
suppose a different response from her could have been, “I have a super-fast
metabolism. I can eat whatever I want without gaining weight,” which is code
for “I binge on whatever I want and then puke it all up in the toilet.” Or “I’m
really health-conscious. No red meat, dairy, bread, sweets or alcohol,” which
is code for “I’m anorexic, and pride myself on my self-control.”

What I’ve always wanted to know is how do models carry on
“normal” relationships with men? Men like to eat, don’t they? Men love a woman
who cooks for them, right? So, what does a model girlfriend do – cook their man
a steak, with a baked potato and salad on the side and watch them eat? Or
they’ll eat, but only three bites?

The restricted diet of models often results in constipation,
skin problems, bad breath. If their man takes them on vacation to Bora Bora,
how do they wear a bikini when they’re constipated? I feel like I swallowed a
pregnant elephant when I’m constipated. Are they continuously sucking on a tic
tac to mask their dragon breath? Wearing a thick layer of camouflage makeup to
bed to hide their acne? Models don’t talk about this stuff.

In an attempt to undo her verbal damage and appear like a
regular gal, Adriana proudly pointed out her backstage snacks which included
coffee, water and gasp, a piece of cake.
“After this show, I become normal again,” she said, which is code for “I
become a normal model again, so to undo the damage from eating this cake, I’ll
have to exercise for four hours straight and not eat for two days.”

The bottom line? Leave the poor models alone. They’re models
in the first place because they’re freakishly tall and have great bone
structure. They succeed as models because they’re willing to do what it takes
to maintain a size 0, unlike the rest of us. The sooner we stop trying to
emulate them, the better we’ll feel about ourselves.

No one wants to see a pale flabby, cellulite-ridden ass in a
thong sashaying down the runway. Or three rolls of fat hanging over the top of
a red lace garter belt in a catalog.

If out-of-shape models increased VS’s sales of
lingerie, don’t you think they would have figured that out by now? We have to
ask ourselves why we prefer to see Adriana Lima in a teddy than say, Ricki Lake.