I knew I was having a bad day when the first email in my inbox was from Victoria’s Secret online catalogue, announcing “lacy push-up bras on sale.”
I pounced on the delete button as if I were resuscitating someone with a defibrillator. Pow. I hadn’t even changed out of my red flannel sheep jammies, so did I really need to see a size 0 model with the body of a goddess and plump, um, lace fixtures before I drank my morning coffee? No, I did not. As if I needed that kick to my self-esteem before breakfast.
Who is this Victoria, and if everything is such a secret, why doesn’t she keep her half-naked emails to herself? Oh sure, I know what you’re thinking: I could take myself off the mail list. Some of you are probably even more intrigued to know how I got on that list in the first place. I confess, I do own clothes from V.S.; two sweaters. Laugh all you want, but they are the only thing in that catalogue I could hope to wear.
Later, while driving in my car, my stream of music was interrupted by a radio commercial. A concerned woman’s voice asks, “Do you like your breasts? Do you wish they were larger, more firm? Are you like hundreds of woman who want a fuller, more rounded look?” Suddenly, I felt like one of those characters in a movie when they hear the voice of the narrator and realize they are living in a film. This woman was talking to me, I was sure of it. Victoria’s Secret must have called her to rat me out for deleting that email. This was a conspiracy and it was personal.
“Are you kidding me?” I shouted out to no one. “Is this for real?”
I admit, I was a little afraid the female announcer would respond, “Yes, Kelly, we are talking to you. Drive that car to our plastic surgery office right now. Victoria called. You need us.”
There was no reply. Still, I felt unsettled, sort of like when my daughter asked me, “What is Botox?” She’s in grade school and already chemical injections are in her lexicon. Great. Isn’t “age fighting” an oxymoron? I prefer age-living.
The ancient Egyptians would have loved Botox. I went to the AGO exhibit of King Tut recently. Now there is a culture where self-preservation was so delusional people wanted to take their earthly bodies to the afterlife. Crunchy is not cool. In hindsight, I think they’d want a makeover.
I should have been born in ancient Egypt. It was fashion to have almond shape eyes, high cheekbones, straight noses and full lips. Eyeliner was key, (someone would have applied mine). They loved big jewellery on small chests, shapely hips and yes, I saw rounded bottoms. Nobody wore high heeled shoes. Skirts were short and hair was straight. Hallelujah. I would have rocked those pyramids with my funky self.
In death, my mummy would have been a wrinkled corpse. Laugh lines would show that I understood that life was a paradox. My stretched skin would celebrate my capacity to love, so much so that I made room for it. Saggy bits? That’s what the gauze wrapping is for.
I would change one thing: in my afterlife, my mummy would be discarded and I’d get a do-over. I’d reincarnate as a Victoria’s Secret model. You betcha for sure.