Angels and Average Women

I promised myself I will try to stay away from ranting as much as possible because it means I am taking myself and life too seriously. While some people find ranting as a form of validation of their ego (like I have an opinion and therefor I disagree with everyone), I find it unnecessary waste of personal energy trying to be upset about trivial things like Whole Foods ran out of edamame beans and now I have to eat regular beans (speaking of first world problems), but this recent encounter with my own shadow side knocked me out. I had to set it free.

A little background story. Couple of weekends ago I went to Paris with a friend of mine who happens to run catering for the Victoria Secret ¬†fashion show 2014 in New York. It’s kind of a big deal for me because despite not owning a single Victoria Secret item, this pompastic celebration of ¬†female shape is probably the only thing that sends me straight to the gym without any inner debates. Personally, I would pay 10k to sit at the front row just so I can validate my belief that *paraphrase*¬†from ¬†The Sex and The City ‚Äď proximity to beauty makes me feel more beautiful. Unfortunately when you come too close to the light, chances are you will crash and burn. For me the light source was called my overdraft. So as a girl who recently had to get out a bunch of stuff onto e-bay just to pay her credit card minimum payment, I came to a conclusion that beauty won’t save the world, however, Victoria Secret angels will most certainly save¬†all regular girls from roaming male fantasy for the significant part of their waking hours.

A long time ago I made a promise to myself that I would not be intimidated by seemingly genetically superior bunch of women who can wear mom jeans and still look sexy as hell. I was doing great. That was until I found myself having a dinner in a group of three ‚Äúalmost‚ÄĚ single straight guys talking Victoria Secret Models. Verdict ‚Äď ¬†within first two seconds I accomplished the impossible – I became the invisible woman. ¬†20 minutes and 4 cigarettes latter, a faint outline of my figure has appeared to one of the guys when he asked me what my dream car was. Shocked by the emotional value of this conversation, I had to act fast in order not to tumble down the scale of self worth even more. As I was getting sucked into this male fantasy, dominated exclusively by Victoria Secret models, conversation¬†gained more depth¬†of unattainable – luxury car topic. I had a choice – cough on my own cigarette smoke or mention some bad ass vehicle just to keep the testosterone going. ¬†So I mentioned Mercedes SLR. I received a nod of approval.

Strange thing happened after we returned to the table. Although I was the only girl at the table, ironically I was transformed into “one of the guys”. ¬†I wasn’t sure whether I should be upset or flattered, however I knew between Miranda Kerr and SLR, I did not occupy any fantasy at that moment, except for my own fantasy –¬†being in bed with a bottle of vodka eating a cake.

As I snuck out yet for another fag after drinking the whole bottle of red tout seul, I stood staring at¬†my own reflection in the tea shop window. I knew it was a huge mistake, however being totally self indulgent on that particular day, I allowed myself a little self pity party ¬†(which I won’t lie later in the night turned into full blown emotional break down). I was looking at the person who was below average height, size 8 healthy looking ‚Äúyoungish‚ÄĚ woman with mild skin problems. And this wasn’t pure objective observation.

When you compare yourself to a perfect human being, observation can turn into self loathing. To add a philosophical shade of grey to my misery, I quietly admitted to myself ¬†that I‚Äôm not getting any younger. This drunken analysis of everything that was wrong with me escalated so far, my inner “know it all” voice confirmed it – I’ll end up forever alone.

How did Victoria Secret topic resulted in this? It was a work of mad evil genius, called my mindAlthough this sounds like a revelation of some self loathing, insecure and neurotic woman in her late late twenties, most of the time I would say I make rational decisions in life and I am not that easily intimidated by other women. However, can I jump the gun and suggest that many confident women are feeling this way time to time. Why is this bothering us? Despite the statistical evidence that physical attractiveness and sexuality do not guarantee happy marriage or successful career, why these women still make us feel inferior?

If Victoria Angels can awaken our inner demons, then I believe that media is doing a great job creating hell on earth by suggesting ¬†impossible standards of beauty or reality in general. Sadly while some men (even if it’s only 3 of them at that particular moment) out there think that a model strutting down the runway in sexy lingerie is a desirable standard for what woman should look like, the rest of us who aren’t 6 feet size 0 glamazone are reducing themselves to a set of physical features that stand somewhere on a scale of cuteness, at about 7. ¬†You can posses all the rationality in the world, however when it comes to self criticism, nobody can escape the feeling of not being good enough.

After giving it another though the next morning also equipped by a splitting hangover, I condemned my self for putting me in the victim’s position. I was so blindsided by my own episode of vanity while staring at that shop window that I forgot that none of it really matters to me that much anyway. One of the keys of succeeding in life is playing the game you can win, even if it means inventing it yourself. ¬†I knew perhaps I won’t occupy any man’s head today or tomorrow, but I was happy for being where I was – in Paris – country of cheese, wine, patisserie, carbs and gorgeous men, who despite of fantasising about Victoria Secret models before going to bed, still go out to fish for regular girls and drive¬†Citro√ęn cars. With this particular thought I ordered myself fattest chocolate eclair. I still knew I had to run it out on the treadmill, however I knew in the game called me vs. supermodel, i’d definitely win the patisserie eating round. Oui oui.


Angels and Average Women

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