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Perfect Body, Perfect Soul

by ELIZABETH BARBEE

My gym has several TVs that provide a constant source of nuisance, primarily because I am already angry that I am exercising. The treadmill has a way of turning things which would otherwise be mildly irritating (Kelly Ripa) into personal offenses. A few nights ago my workout session coincided with the Victoria's Secret Fashion Show.

Unfortunately I had not dressed for the occasion. My shirt, a freebie from my college dorm, was decorated in chili stains and sported the ironic words “Ellsworth Hall- We're Bringing Sexy Back!” I had chosen the stationary bike next to a full length mirror for reasons unclear to me now, and my iPod had just run out of battery. Not since middle school had I found myself in an environment so conducive to self-loathing. With a mind set on masochism and nothing to distract me, I peddled away and zeroed in on Cara Delevigne's thighs.

Thighs, I think, attract envious female eyes the same way that breasts attract lustful male eyes. They are the things that most dramatically separate supermodels from the rest of us, the parts of the body that are the most difficult to tone and virtually impossible to buy. The Victoria's Secret runway was full of long, lithe pairs like Delevigne's, each tanned set virtually indistinguishable from the next. The models' bodies were so uniform I might have forgotten other physiques existed if not for my own reflection in the mirror and Taylor Swift, who started bellowing near the middle of the show.

Don't be deceived by my use of “bellowing.” I love Tay-Tay. Her lanky, Gumby-like presence was a welcome relief. Although  appropriately dressed, she seemed just as victimized by the festivities as I did. Unlike the other acts that night who performed on a discreet platform, Swift was forced (I presume) to share the runway with the models. She served as both sound system and foil. Next to her stick straight hair the Angels' manes looked even more bouncy. Her much discussed virginity only amplified the naughty nature of the show.

She first sang a particularly vengeful version of “Trouble” in a sequined mini-dress and then joined Fall Out Boy in this sort of Union Jack/Ring Master getup. Both performances involved exaggerated arm movements and heavy footsteps as though she was determined to take up as much space as possible, which I respect. Periodically she bowed down to the models, pointed at them in a way that was supposed to be meaningful, or slapped them on their rumps.

I got the sense that all of this was very embarrassing for Swift, that the minimal but dramatic choreography was someone else's idea. The hilarious thing about her is that she always looks as though she thinks her grandma is watching. She is willing to capitalize on her looks but not her sexuality. That's why she was only sort of in underwear that night. She's modest.

Although Victoria's Secret is a company that depends upon women for its survival, it seemed like only men were enjoying the show. The camera cut several of times to a smug Adam Levine who, after lending his brave story to those Proactiv infomercials, makes so much more sense as a person. I imagine for him the night was a sort of retrospective of all the women he has dated, his presence in the front row a fuck you to the kids who made fun of him for having the occasional pimple.

Dehydrated and breathless, I transferred all of my feelings about the runway onto the only other person in the gym – a twenty something boy working the night shift. “I bet you think you're really something,” I thought as he played with his phone. Paranoia and leg cramps convinced me that he had intentionally programmed the TV to this station to whip me into shape. “Oh, you think I'm fat, do you,” I thought, burning another couple calories, while he remained disinterested. “I will show you!”

My anger eventually subsided but my feelings of inadequacy did not. I have downloaded calorie counting apps, taken to weighing myself daily, and vowed to never buy Victoria's Secret underwear again. I am proud only of the last point but feel compelled to mention all three, because I am unabashedly looking for pity. I probably need to work on that more than I need to work on my figure.

Elizabeth Barbee is a contributor to This Recording. This is her first appearance in these pages. She is a writer, graduate student, and adjunct professor living in Dallas, Texas.

"To Be Young, Gifted and Black" - Donny Hathaway (mp3)

"Just Another Reason" - Donny Hathaway & June Conquest (mp3)

Comments

[Sean]

Hilarious post. I'll think twice the next time I see a girl working out at my gym. You poor things are so hard on yourselves. Bear in mind -- we can't all look like Victoria Secret underwear models..