Run, Sashay, Shante

I went for a run Tuesday night. I wasn’t really into it. A stomach virus made its way through our house over the weekend and I was still trying to make up for lost sleep. I’m also pretty sure the smell of vomit lingered under my fingernails.

However there was something else that pushed me out the door, a far stronger motivation than even the need to escape my germ-infested home: the Victoria’s Secret fashion show was airing on television that night. I suppose there was a part of me that hoped by getting in my exercise for the day, I’d miraculously develop Alessandra Ambrosio’s abs or actual space between my thighs like Miranda Kerr. I’d probably have had to run further than 5k to even enter that stratosphere. Like non-stop. Until next summer.

The show always features a warning for parents with small children. I propose the following addendum to next year’s broadcast:

“Warning: the following broadcast may contain content that is inappropriate for women who have or plan to have children. Self-loathing may occur. Husband/Partner discretion is advised.”

It really doesn’t help matters that Alessandra, Adriana Lima and Lily Alridge, all who participated in the show, had babies in the past year. In fact, Adriana popped hers out a mere eight weeks before taping the show. Fortunately she didn’t pretend she got her body back solely from breastfeeding the way every celebrity mom claims to. Memo to those women: WE AREN’T STUPID AND WE’RE NOT BUYING IT. Many of us have also breastfed and our babies have not sucked the fat from our midsection to reveal six-pack abs underneath. Nursing means little ones drink milk your body produces. They are not tiny little lipsosuction machines (unless a lipsosuction machine also pukes in your hair three minutes after finishing).

Instead, Adriana revealed the tough (read: insane) regimen it took to have her looking like this when she walked the catwalk.

Six hours of working out a day, seven days a week. Unfortunately no one is paying me hundreds of thousands of dollars to run (let me know if you want to though), so my dream of strutting in lingerie for network television remains elusive for now. I may not have the bank account with millions of dollars and abs you could grate cheese on, but I went for my 5k, breathed in cold, fresh air, admired the Christmas lights in the neighbourhood and watched the fashion show with the one thing I have that the Angels on the catwalk can’t: cookies.