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Monday, January 19, 2009

It's all in how you sell it.

In a shocking development, I took my kids to see Paul Blart: Mall Cop today...and liked it. No, I didn't laugh as hysterically as they did (And not nearly as hysterically as that mutant two rows behind us. Why is there always one person with a laugh so freakish you have trouble concentrating? I hate that person. I don't care how happy they are.) I did, however, develop a crush on the protagonist. He was sweet, caring, loving, considerate...and a total stud.


He single-handedly destroyed every villain in the movie - I think there were ten - without ever being a smart-ass. It was hot. Not your typical heartthrob, Kevin James probably doesn't spend hours at the gym or in front of a mirror. Who wants that, anyway? If you spend your life with men who are better looking than you, you never get to relax. Paul Blatt - the character, because for all we know the actor might be a jerk - wouldn't love you less if you gained a pound or ten. He'd pass the pie and the peanut butter to spread on top of it. You wouldn't lose hot tamale status if you had a pimple or three. He wouldn't notice, because Paul Blatt respects humans. And a human being is not defined by an outer shell*. Think inner soul, y'all. For real. And pizza on the couch for dinner.

The outer shell matters, though, because some of us have trouble loving ourselves when we hate the way we look. And some of us hate the way we look more than others. Certain aspects of your shell can be manipulated. You can always "put on a little lipstick," which according to my mother comes pretty close to curing cancer. I don't know about cancer, but I'll admit to feeling perkier with a little color on my lips. You can go to the gym, but you won't go back if you're only going for your appearance. It's too hard. You have to love it for the other benefits; you have to love yourself enough to want to be healthy. But this is all excruciatingly patronizing and boring. I really wanted to talk about my boobs. Surprised?

The other day, I was in my friend Kristy's soon-to-be-closed-forever lingerie shop. I'm sad she closed it because that girl knows how to stop you from hating on yourself. I was in the shop so AnnaBelle, owner of store-next-door LaRoque, could clip some cups into a dress I'd bought. My saggy friends didn't want to cooperate with the flimsy dress and stay in the assigned area. Kristy insisted I try one of those NuBras. I insisted they were not for me...or the empty bags hanging from my chest.

"I've tried!" I whined. "I stick them on, hook them together and then they droop down and it looks like I have really, really big saggy boobs!"

Knowing how immodest I am, Kristy barreled into the dressing room for a smack-down and told me I was doing it wrong. It took three hands, but together we managed to contain my womanly assets and put the thing on. It worked, by golly, and the only thing that kept me from buying it was I didn't think TF could master the technique. Also, I don't want him to know just how much wrangling my bosom needs to look normal. And I didn't think I could explain why Kristy came over every time I wore certain outfits to help me get dressed. Plus, we can't afford to take her with us on trips and, um, she has a life and isn't looking for a position as my Official Bosom Wrangler. Or maybe she is, but that's really not in our budget.

I whined some more about my boobs. Aren't I a fun friend? Kristy got sick of it.

"There's nothing wrong with them," she said, in a desperate attempt to shut me up. As I opened my mouth to protest, she cut me off. She had heard all this before. "You have to stop thinking of them as saggy. They're cute, like 70's porn boobs!"

Once I started to think of them that way, they got cute, in the right light at least. Every time I take off my clothes, I hear bow-chicka-wow-WOW in my head. And I shimmy, just a little. It's all about the PR, y'all. Kind of like the time someone on FaceBook referred to the ugliest haircut I've ever had - the one that made me look like a weaselly little boy - as "Mia Farrow hair." I revisited the despised picture of myself at age six and was transformed. Suddenly, I was pretty, adorable even. Striking! And now I have 70's Porn Boobs! Hot!

So, whatever it is you hate about yourself, work on selling it. Bad skin? Amy Winehouse is a hot mess! Big calves? You are Julia Robert's body double in Pretty Woman! Messy, greasy hair? You modeled Marc Jacobs in the 90's! Bit of a belly? You are Paul Blart, hottest mall cop around! Work it.

Namasté, y'all!


The Girl with 70's Porn Boobs Who Used to Have a Mia Farrow Haircut

* I know this is funny considering my obsession with my hair. And clothes. And awesome beauty products. And shoes. But a girl has to have hobbies.


Don Mills Diva said...

I have a secret hankering to see Mall Cop: sometimes I just like my movies stupid...

Anonymous said...