The Plight of the "Real" Woman.

In a society that encourages 'perfect' bodies, seamlessly tanned skin, and bright, bleached smiles, I often find myself wondering where I missed the boat.

I once complained to a boyfriend as we passed a 6 ft blonde in hip huggers and a tight halter that showed her toned midriff, "ugh. Even if I broke myself trying, I could never look like that."

To which he replied without a second thought, "It's alright honey. I like 'real' women anyway."

Pardon me if I'm being oversensitive, but I'm *quite* sure that the voluptuous bombshell that had strutted by us was in no way a mechanical life form from another planet. She was flesh on bones and I'm relatively positive she would have bled just like me if I'd ripped that 6 inch boot off her foot and beaten her with it.

Which brings me to my dilemma as a woman.

You see, the partial untruth is, I probably could slightly resemble Barbie if I worked at it, and I might not actually break myself doing it. I could wake up before the birds and huff and puff and sweat until I actually had abs worth not hiding under sweatshirts all the time.

My issue is, I just have so many things I'd rather do with my time. Like sleep, for example.


I am, ladies and gentlemen, the epitome of a woman who just lacks the ambition to feel good in a bikini anymore.


I'd rather have a cigarette and write my daily blog.
(that was a joke, by the way. sort of.)


I just finished a conversation with a woman who was telling me how she works out 5-6 days a week, runs at least 4 miles, and is frustrated because she is still not losing weight.

Well, Hellllllooo.

While she's dreaming of hot fudge sundays and grunting like an ape as she does 100 crunches, I'm probably eating a fudge sunday and propping my feet up on my yoga ball to watch tv. (it really does make a great footstool.)

And the funny thing is, I'm not overweight. I kind of like that I actually have a butt to speak of. My husband is not repulsed by me. I whine a bit at times, but really, I would whine even with a body like Cindy Crawford; I just like to whine sometimes.

I guess what I'm trying to say is, that even in this day and age where you see 12 year olds in short shirts and lipstick, every magazine features a tiny, perky bosomed woman in heels and big shiny smile, and they brainwash every female into thinking that size 2 is "the" size we all wanna be:

This girl is pretty damn content not caring what society says she isn't, doesn't contemplate barfing up her carb-filled dinners, and doesn't really care that she shifts between a size 6 and 8.

I still turn heads in my own way. I don't stop traffic, unless of course I run into the street and start waving my arms like a crazy woman.

But I don't feel like a reject in society just because every woman I pass doesn't want to kill me with my six inch heels when their significant other glances at me.

I don't think any woman (or man for that matter, roles reversed) should.

So I guess my old boyfriend was right. I'm just 'real' like that.