Last Friday, I came straight home after work, no dawdling, because I knew I'd have the place all to myself. I could watch whatever I wanted, eat whatever I wanted, sleep whenever I wanted. I sat down to a black cherry soda and a bag of Chipotle chips and a bit of reality TV, "A Model Life With Petra Nemcova." Chick lite, that was my aim. I have to say this one was a lot more interesting than that Tara Banks model show. But this program, it hit me right between the eyes. Here were these beautiful international girls, 5'11" and 5'10" and not one over 130 pounds, and the one that the show's trainer deemed "most healthy" was told she needed to lose weight and tone her over-large butt.
I don't know why that should matter to me on a Friday night when I've got a pocket full of tens, beautiful Minnesota weather, and a whole weekend all to myself, but it did. That's it! I thought. Stop the insanity! Why were we all measured by our individual body parts? And when will we ever pass the test? I'm no dummy; half of us are the ones doing our own measuring, I know.
"I can't wear this dress--these arms!"
"I've lost my waist--the only belt I wear now is a seat belt!"
Bah humbug. I was determined to do my part to restore dignity and honor thyself. Honor thyself! Where to start? I'll pick a part, any part, I said, and I will pamper it, all weekend long. The breasts? No, too risque, perhaps. The arse? Pampering options somewhat limited alone. The feet. I looked down at my reclining feet. The feet. (Everyone could use a little foot love. Men could also play along. No more worries over those pecs and abs.) That's it. It will be a weekend dedicated to the feet. Oh mon Cheri, pieds hereux! This will be The Weekend of the Happy Feet.
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