This One's For You, Abercrombie & Fitch

Better looking than MJ

In my never dying quest to be worthy of Abercrombie and Fitch, I see that it is time to diet again. Apparently, my groovy coolness and ability to actually pay for the over-priced crap does not outweigh my recent birthday and my extra twenty (did I say 20? HA!) pounds.

And while I'm at it, I might as well go for golden. I mean, that's what makes a cool kid cool, right? I want to be the next face of Abercrombie and Fitch. Of course, it would have to be one of the ads where I'm being groped by some loser that can't afford a shirt and forgot how to pull his pants up, because the "Blondes Don't Pay Cover" and "Blame It On My Blue Eyes" campaigns are just too Aryan nation for me.

As someone who has been overweight since birth and has been on a diet since I was five years old, I'm pretty well versed in all the ways I'm supposed to act to insure me the next spot on an A&F ad. Can I do it? Probably not, because as anyone who has never suffered with chronic obesity will tell you, us fat women are a lazy bunch. But somewhere in between my working sixty hours a week, running three times a week, writing a book and managing a house, I'm going to get off my fat ass and put on my WWMJD (What Would Mike Jeffries Do) cheap rubber bracelet and try it again. My drug of choice this time around: Alli.

First, why would I need a drug, right? Just be more active and quit stuffing your face, that's the key. Well, somewhere between learning to walk and starting grade school, my body decided that I should do twice as much as everyone else, and eat half as much, just to maintain an overweight status. Pfft. I've already been doing that for almost fifty years.  Of course, birthing children that would fall into Jeffries category of an ideal customer didn't help much either, but that's a moot point since I've told them they will be disinherited if I catch them in an "A&F" shirt.

Again, why Alli? The side effects, silly! Who can resist anal leakage? Oily, orange colored stools, an inability to control bowel movements, gas with discharge and of course, rectal pain? It's all for beauty, right? So who cares if my ass hurts and I crap orange slime every time I fart? It's all for the betterment of society.

Yesterday, I bought Alli. I lasted 24 hours. I had to resolve myself to the fact that I'm just not as cool as Mike Jeffries, who is at least a decade older (and definitely not as good looking) as me, but that took all of about 30 seconds. I mean, dude (your favorite word, not mine), look in the mirror. Not cool at all. You're like that creepy grandpa that wants to hang out with the teenagers, and they let you, temporarily, only so they can laugh about it later.

And incidentally, at sixty +, I know the 'male problems' you are either experiencing or will be soon. You'll be begging for anal leakage. How cool is that, dude?

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