As if feelings of inadequacy weren't already at an all-time high. Raise your arm waddle if Pink's performance on last night's Grammy Awards left you feeling somewhat awestruck, for lack of a better word.Bewildered. Marveled. Envious. Amused.
What word could possibly do justice to a petite woman in a bedazzled, flesh-toned unitard and 7-inch heels, who morphed into an airborne, Cirque du Soliel lawn sprinkler, all the while belting out "Glitter in the Air" without missing a beat. All I kept thinking, as she was spinning upside down in a sheet, clutching a microphone was – fuck, she must be great in bed.
February is Spunky Old Broads month, as declared by self-proclaimed S.O.B. and professional speaker, Dr. Gayle Carson. At 70-something Dr. Gayle claims "Despite 12 surgeries, the loss of my husband and son, breast cancer three times, and daily pain, I'm getting such a kick out life. Complaining won't make things any better so why bother?"
Christ, just when I was about to complain about tucking into the little bastard's Christmas money to pay the mortgage, I have to go read something like that.
Self-loathing is my specialty, but I am far from alone. I found myself flipping from the undecipherable rap portions of the Grammy's to my new best friend – W Network's How to Look Good Naked. Every episode rips the sweatpants off a self-loathing, 40-something woman who drinks herself to sleep every night – alone – with a bowl of popcorn and a couple of mangy dogs curled at her feet. The ever-so-gay host then proceeds to help her out of her frump slump with body-image-revealing mind games, and a trip to the hair salon – all culminating in a semi-naked photo shoot. What's interesting to me – although perhaps dull as shit to those who have stuck with me thus far – is I thought the women looked beautiful, even before the gay guy started fluffing their pillows.
With Valentine's Day fast approaching, I have to stop the self-loathing and self-pity for a moment to remind myself that February is also Heart and Stroke Month. And, since the odds of me having a stroke are far higher than ever receiving a fucking Valentine again, I have to get my priorities, my affairs, and my ass in order.
As I begin Week Four of my own personal U Weight journey toward not vomiting when I look in the mirror, I do so with reinforced determination. I'm not saying I'll ever be spunky, or look good naked or upside down – but goddamn it – I'm doing something other than complaining about it.
Think Pink.
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