So today, in approximately four hours, as of 12:02pm, I will be the mother of a freshman and a junior in high school. In HIGH SCHOOL! I am not exactly sure how this happened.
I do remember giving birth to two adorable babies. I can picture playpens and bouncy seats and car seats and doorway swings, and lots and lots of Legos.
I recall two little cuties running around in the sprinklers (probably naked) in our backyard for several summers, painting on the easel Dave made for them, chalking up the back patio--and themselves!
I have vivid memories of walking the kids to school each and every morning for seven years, and I believe I walked them home for a good many years as well, until at some point the walk home turned instead into me waiting anxiously on the front porch, watching them walk home, waiting (hoping) to hear the stories of the day.
I remember lots of names of friends who came and went (Mack, Trevor, Abby, Barrett) as well as those who stuck around for the long haul (Rebecca, Christopher, Jessica).
Somewhere in there I can picture school elections, carpools, swim meets, band concerts, cross-country meets, carpools, summer homework, birthday parties, carpools, and summer nights spent at "the court".
Somehow, driving lessons crept up on us. And tryouts for the JV cheer squad.
And just two nights ago I found myself at a college preparatory meeting with Steven. That's where things start to get a little fuzzy for me. How did I get THERE? And the next morning, as I was sitting at Olivia's eighth grade promotion, the principal kept referring to "The Class of 2015". I felt like Pavlov's dogs. Every time he said "the class of 2015", my eyes welled up. Every single time. There was nothing I could do to stop it.
There IS nothing I can do to stop it, I guess. I will admit I have tried. And failed. Telling your daughter you think the tankinis are cuter than the bikinis does not stop her from being a teenager and buying the bikini. Telling your son that Facebook will just suck up hours of his life will not stop him from making giddy little sounds with a giant smile on his face as he opens his Facebook page one hour after making it and finds he now has fifty friends.
In the blink of an eye, my kids grew up. I know I was there. I remember it all clearly, so many moments, big and small. But right now it all just feels like a blur. I was never very good at physics (there's a whole blog entry just waiting to be written on that subject), but right now, just when I want time to stand still, time seems instead to be accelerating at a ridiculous pace. I'm having a hard time keeping up.
Right now Steven is at school enjoying a "Calculus Breakfast Final", and Olivia is still asleep upstairs. I just looked at the clock. I still have a little over three hours until I officially am the mother of an upperclassman and a freshman. I think I may just go watch my daughter sleep for a few minutes...
Friday, May 20, 2011
Monday, May 2, 2011
...and furthermore, the wings look ridiculous!
You're killing me, Victoria's Secret. Seriously.
It's not enough for you to advertise your wares with models who have impossibly long legs, ridiculously perfect faces, and smoking hot bodies.
I understand why you do that. I really do. I get the marketing appeal. You are a business, after all.
Sure, you can tell us that your underwear will make us feel sexy. And you can imply that your bras will make our husbands crazy with desire. And frankly, we will believe you. We WILL feel sexy in your underwear. And those racy bras likely WILL drive our husbands nuts (probably actually more the taking off of those bras that will make them nuts, but I concede that their lace and demi-cups contribute to them coming off faster).
Yes, Victoria's Secret, I will concede that you can and have convinced me that when I am in your fashion-forward, ultra sexy merchandise I am indeed fashion-forward and ultra-sexy.
But you do realize, nameless advertising executives for VS, that you are selling products to masses of women who bear no actual resemblance to your "angels", don't you? You do realize that you have immense power over women of all ages, all body types, all outlooks, don't you? Don't you?
I don't think you do.
Today you, Victoria's Secret, made me feel like I'm not good enough. And I'm here to tell you, that's not an easy thing to do to me. I'm a pretty happy girl here. While I know I'm not Heidi Klum, I'm more than okay with the way I look.
I've got great hair! It's got body and a pretty color and I look awesome in a ponytail!
My eyes are two different colors (very different colors: chocolate brown and green)--quite unusual and attention grabbing. I think they're kind of stunning myself.
My husband tells me I have an arresting smile. Good enough for me!
I'm in relatively good shape. I'm forty-five, have run a half dozen half-marathons, and while my chance at being a Playboy Bunny is past (okay, really I never had the kind of bod that would have made that a possibility, but you know what I mean), gravity and I have made our peace. I'm good with where things have settled.
But then I went to your website to buy a few new bras. I don't usually buy bras from you as they are, in my opinion, stupidly expensive. But you were having a sale, so I thought I'd see what you had that might serve double-duty (no pun intended) by both supporting my girls and making me feel a little, in the words of the thesaurus on my computer's dashboard, "seductive, desirable, alluring, toothsome, sensual, sultry, slinky, provocative, tempting, tantalizing; nubile, voluptuous, luscious, lush, hot, beddable, foxy, cute; informal bootylicious." I really, really wanted to feel bootylicious.
And you, Victoria's Secret, made me feel inadequate. Which is a very, very long way from bootylicious.
I looked at all the beautiful bras. Dozens and dozens of them in all sorts of colors and styles--t-shirt bras, demi bras, strapless bras, push-up bras, support bras, cotton bras with no padding, underwires, etc.... It was a Wonderland of brassieres. To narrow down my options, I decided to search by size. So I entered my size, and clicked return. And up popped my seven choices. That's right. My seven choices. Out of the vast number of bras that Victoria's Secret markets, they make seven of them in my size. But wait. Here's the kicker.
All seven of them were push-up bras. There were no bras available for me to even look at that were not of the push-up variety.
So not only is my size not worthy of having all the sexy options available to those more amply endowed, apparently if you are a woman who wears a 36A, your breasts need help. You should not be content with the way they are. According to Victoria's Secret, there is no other option but to push them up to make them appear larger, to give you more cleavage, to create decolletage.
Small is not worthy or sufficient.
Honestly, I really don't care if there are women who want to wear push-up bras every day, regardless of the occasion or the natural size of their breasts. That's a choice for them to make. I'm not judging the validity of the choice. I'm simply wanting to be able to make the choice for myself.
I would like to be able to buy a bra that is pretty and does what I want it to do for my body, not one of seven bras that mold my body into a size and shape that Victoria's Secret purports to be more acceptable than the one I already have.
So, Victoria's Secret, the next time I see one of your commercials with all of the super model "angels" posing and pouting for the cameras, parading around with their breasts practically popping out of their various styles and sizes of bras (lucky bitches), I think I will just ignore your implications that bigger is better, and instead remind myself to count my size 36A blessings.
It's not enough for you to advertise your wares with models who have impossibly long legs, ridiculously perfect faces, and smoking hot bodies.
I understand why you do that. I really do. I get the marketing appeal. You are a business, after all.
Sure, you can tell us that your underwear will make us feel sexy. And you can imply that your bras will make our husbands crazy with desire. And frankly, we will believe you. We WILL feel sexy in your underwear. And those racy bras likely WILL drive our husbands nuts (probably actually more the taking off of those bras that will make them nuts, but I concede that their lace and demi-cups contribute to them coming off faster).
Yes, Victoria's Secret, I will concede that you can and have convinced me that when I am in your fashion-forward, ultra sexy merchandise I am indeed fashion-forward and ultra-sexy.
But you do realize, nameless advertising executives for VS, that you are selling products to masses of women who bear no actual resemblance to your "angels", don't you? You do realize that you have immense power over women of all ages, all body types, all outlooks, don't you? Don't you?
I don't think you do.
Today you, Victoria's Secret, made me feel like I'm not good enough. And I'm here to tell you, that's not an easy thing to do to me. I'm a pretty happy girl here. While I know I'm not Heidi Klum, I'm more than okay with the way I look.
I've got great hair! It's got body and a pretty color and I look awesome in a ponytail!
My eyes are two different colors (very different colors: chocolate brown and green)--quite unusual and attention grabbing. I think they're kind of stunning myself.
My husband tells me I have an arresting smile. Good enough for me!
I'm in relatively good shape. I'm forty-five, have run a half dozen half-marathons, and while my chance at being a Playboy Bunny is past (okay, really I never had the kind of bod that would have made that a possibility, but you know what I mean), gravity and I have made our peace. I'm good with where things have settled.
But then I went to your website to buy a few new bras. I don't usually buy bras from you as they are, in my opinion, stupidly expensive. But you were having a sale, so I thought I'd see what you had that might serve double-duty (no pun intended) by both supporting my girls and making me feel a little, in the words of the thesaurus on my computer's dashboard, "seductive, desirable, alluring, toothsome, sensual, sultry, slinky, provocative, tempting, tantalizing; nubile, voluptuous, luscious, lush, hot, beddable, foxy, cute; informal bootylicious." I really, really wanted to feel bootylicious.
And you, Victoria's Secret, made me feel inadequate. Which is a very, very long way from bootylicious.
I looked at all the beautiful bras. Dozens and dozens of them in all sorts of colors and styles--t-shirt bras, demi bras, strapless bras, push-up bras, support bras, cotton bras with no padding, underwires, etc.... It was a Wonderland of brassieres. To narrow down my options, I decided to search by size. So I entered my size, and clicked return. And up popped my seven choices. That's right. My seven choices. Out of the vast number of bras that Victoria's Secret markets, they make seven of them in my size. But wait. Here's the kicker.
All seven of them were push-up bras. There were no bras available for me to even look at that were not of the push-up variety.
So not only is my size not worthy of having all the sexy options available to those more amply endowed, apparently if you are a woman who wears a 36A, your breasts need help. You should not be content with the way they are. According to Victoria's Secret, there is no other option but to push them up to make them appear larger, to give you more cleavage, to create decolletage.
Small is not worthy or sufficient.
Honestly, I really don't care if there are women who want to wear push-up bras every day, regardless of the occasion or the natural size of their breasts. That's a choice for them to make. I'm not judging the validity of the choice. I'm simply wanting to be able to make the choice for myself.
I would like to be able to buy a bra that is pretty and does what I want it to do for my body, not one of seven bras that mold my body into a size and shape that Victoria's Secret purports to be more acceptable than the one I already have.
So, Victoria's Secret, the next time I see one of your commercials with all of the super model "angels" posing and pouting for the cameras, parading around with their breasts practically popping out of their various styles and sizes of bras (lucky bitches), I think I will just ignore your implications that bigger is better, and instead remind myself to count my size 36A blessings.
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