The fashion show

There is one night a year where I really just let myself go. I sit, eat, and wallow in my own self destruction in regards to the genes I was never given.  I usually am really accepting of my looks, and know that no one in the world is perfect.
 
Except for that one night, when obviously I realize, that there are, to my dismay, displays of utter perfection.
 
Last night….. was the Victoria’s Secret fashion show.  
 
First off, watching it when I was single was much more enjoyable. I would be able to sit on my couch, glass of wine in hand, other hand in a bowl of peanut M&Ms. Then, during commercials, stand up, on tip toes of course, and look sideways in my full length mirror. Then facing front wards. Then facing backwards, fully extending my neck so that I could get the full picture of my backside that is no way comparable to Adriana Lima’s
 
Last night was different. I had to watch the fashion show with Bobby. Obviously he didn’t protest. He even suggested we tape it and start watching it 30 minutes late so that we could fast forward the commercials. Typical man… can’t wait until the half-naked ladies come back.
 
As soon as it came on, I knew that it would be a problem watching it together. It started and literally, you could tell that Bobby was salivating, like a fresh porter house steak was in front of him.
 
“She’s hot”
 
“She’s from St. Louis”
 
“She’s got nice legs”
 
“Damn”
 
“That sucks! They blurred out her backside!”
 
This was going to be a long hour. Well, technically 45 minutes without the commercials.
 
At one point, Miranda Kerr was walking in the $2.5 million dollar bra and her husband stood up, giving her a standing ovation! Not once, have I walked in the door after dealing with hundreds of sick, angry people and gotten a standing ovation.
 
When I come home, the only expression I get are looks that say “What are we having for dinner?”
 
Even during the Pink portion of the fashion show where they are wearing HOODIES, he was in complete awe. I wear a hoodie every day after work and Bobby usually only notices it if there happens to be some kind of salsa stain on it.
After it was over, I was in our room, doing my usual ritual. Standing, twirling, critiquing, and completely regretting the Monterey Jack cream cheese dip I had an hour before.  
 
I knew Bobby was coming in, as I could feel the earthquake of the thundering herd that is Barley, our lab.
 
“Alright, this is your one shot; give me your best model walk”
 
Even though I was in baggy pajamas, and didn’t have time to grab my six inch heels, I tried my best, even using my arms as wings, for emphasis.
 
“Where are you flying to?”
 
“Shut up, this is what they do. You can give me my standing ovation now”
 
 
Today is the morning after.
 
I woke up the same 5’6”, brown eyed, big eared, socially awkward girl that I was last night. I can’t wear pink, it’s not really in my color wheel and I don’t like push up bras because I think that they make everyone, including myself, chunkier than they actually are.  
 
I woke up next to Bob, (and Barles, of course) who I know, that despite the one night of the year when he is treated to truly amazing feat of impeccable genes, the other 364 days of the year, he appreciates and loves me for who I am.
 
I think, and I hope, most men are like Bob. He loves that I can put back a few Rolling Rock fatty’s, eat hot wings and bask in my 122-125 pound (depending on the day, and if Chipotle was involved ) glory. Try having Chanel or Bhavinaila or whatever their names are over for happy hour. Enjoy your organic celery and cleansing enemas. I’ll take the extra 15 pounds, and one night of hating my body, for the other 364 days of pure, wonderful and gluttonous life. I’m glad I can share those days with a guy who really doesn’t give a damn that the only six pack I have on a regular basis, is that of Boulevard Wheat beer.