Living in Los Angeles comes with its perks (warm weather, beach, sexy men) and its pitfalls (Hollywood, celebrity drama, being far away from home), but one thing I was not expecting after living in New York City is the immense pressure to be thin. I assumed that after living in the fashion capital of America and seeing the emaciated models walking around all the time (freezing their asses off because they have 0% body fat), I would have definitely felt like throwing up everything I ate. Fortunately (or unfortunately?), I love food way too much to see it all mashed up in the toilet.
Coming to L.A., however, has made me want to be thin more than ever. The difference between skinny people in New York and skinny people in L.A. is that the skinny people in New York don’t TALK about being skinny. They just don’t eat and drink like two vodka sodas and end up on the ground somewhere. In L.A., everyone is talking about what they didn’t eat last night, and hold the bread on that sandwich, and vodka on the rocks please because I need to lose 5 pounds by Friday for that premiere I’m going to with the lyricist for Justin Timberlake. When I show up at a club in Hollywood (approximately once every six months), I literally want to cry in the bathroom. And last time I went to Playhouse, I actually did.
After about three tears, I realized that I didn’t want my ass to look like a 12 year old boy’s. I realized that WANTED to have to wear a bra because my boobs are more than just mosquito bites. And I want men to have something more than bones to grab on to when they do me from behind. And I want to be able to indulge in booze and fried food.
The truth is, I want to lose 8 pounds. And I want my arms to not jiggle when I raise them in the air. And I want my thighs not to touch. And I want to be toned and lean and comfortable being on top with my shirt off.
But the real truth is, I want to be more than a pretty, skinny, petty Hollywood bitch. I want a man to be attracted to me for my charm and my lips, not my designer clothes that fall off my body because I have no shape. I want a man to drown in my curves and to kiss every inch of my soft skin after a dinner of fine wine, a bite of everything on the menu, and a chocolately, warm, gooey dessert.
Since my genes won’t allow me to eat what I want and NOT work out for at least an hour a day, I’ll have to settle for my 5′ 7″ 143 pound frame. Or I’ll have to find someone to have sex with me for an hour each night since I HATE the gym. Takers?