This is still true.
Texting a friend about therapy:
Me: “We ended up talking about why I don’t consider myself ‘beautiful.’ She showed me a fucking Dove commercial. I’m never going back. (Kidding.)”
Friend: “No one should be forced to watch a Dove commercial.”
And by the way? I don’t consider myself beautiful, and I don’t see a problem with that, so fuck right off, Dove. But I am a middle-age American woman who mostly thinks I’m cute, sometimes pretty, so I do think I’m a goddamn miracle.
Besides, “beautiful” doesn’t even crack the top 100 on my list of issues. When I think about my last pseudo-breakup, my appearance isn’t what keeps my brain spiraling. He once got hard while we were taking a walk because I made a JOKE about wearing high heels during sex — it’s easy enough to believe he found me attractive. So can we focus on this weird haze I get into where I think I’m not smart or interesting enough to keep a dude around AFTER we have sex, even as a friend? That seems to be the dominating self-esteem weirdness here.
I just saw a YouTube ad encouraging women to wear a scented pantyliner EVERY day.
“Just a reminder, ladies: Your vagina is super gross and shouldn’t even come into contact with washable undergarments. Any of that ‘natural’ nonsense that happens in the region should be relegated to a disposable sliver of chemically scented fabric and thrown into the landfill where it belongs, never to be seen, smelled, or spoken of.”
Hmm… Wasn’t there some burger chain commercial with bikini-clad chicks who probably never ate burgers gyrating on cars and shoving the fast-food equivalents of “big dick” porn into their faces?
Ah. Yes, this covers it quite nicely: Via Jezebel, A History of Disgusting Carl’s Jr. Ads.
So I have a hard time being offended by this. Though I guess “slightly NSFW” in that, perhaps as a general life policy, maybe you shouldn’t have lingerie chicks lolling about on your work computer.
Via SELF magazine: This Body-Positive Lane Bryant Ad Was “Too Sexy” for TV.
Also, let us please continue my possibly-creepy worship of Ashley Graham.
Speaking of working past perfectly good elements of pop culture weighed down by the emotion I associate with them…
Last night I found myself caught off-guard when I saw this new Apple ad during Scandal, featuring an older song I’d been avoiding pretty successfully.
A million years ago, I teased a man in the most delicious way for the duration of this song after he told me it made him think of me.
“You gonna go your whole life scared of that song? It’s just a song. Don’t make it a monster.”*
I’m playing it in full now, because suck it, fuckface — it was my song first.
*Quote from Silver Linings Playbook
…Goddammit, I hate everything.
Man, bitches, though, amirite?
Have any of you ever been placated by a fucking frosted lemonade? Screw you, Chick-fil-A. Make it chocolate salted caramel and replace the wedding dress with the magically evasive unicorn of a tall boot that zips over my giant hamhock calves, and then MAYBE you’ll sell me something.
As readily as I will buy whatever Christina Hendricks tells me to (Johnnie Walker for life!), if this transformation was achieved with a DIY home hair color, I am a Christian supermodel.
Shut up and take my money.
Happy Valentine’s Day, my loves. May all your deepest desires be sated. ❤️