I direct a lot of my negative cognitive self-talk toward the unassuming dimples on my ass and my upper arms.
I’d probably direct them to my ass too except for that my ass just genuinely seems to just be psyched to exist and get to like, hang out in the world all shy but friendly. I’d feel like a monster bringing that lady down, you know?
I have done some ridiculous things to banish the bumps (oooh how Lady-Mag of me). I’ve all rubbed coffee grounds on skin, with wide-eyes, explaining to no one that caffeine is good for the skin and so is exfoliation so naturally -- coffee refuse all over my clammy naked form? A MUST.
I’ve bought so many different skin brushes, to the point where I was viewing all objects as potential cellulite busters.
I still -- STILL -- think that those spa released products that promise to rid me of cellulite might be worth the SIXTY DOLLARS price point. In fact, surely that high number is proof enough of the product’s potency -- because only the most elite of deserve to leave the lump-free life of celebrity, right? It’s this sort of thinking has also negged me into spending more money than I care to disclose on creams with the word “fat” in their names.
Sure, I blanch at having to bring lube to the counter, but a cream that might as well be called “This Fat Woman Hates Herself” can be as ubiquitous a purchase as say, a single red apple. It
So here's a reminder to me and to you: Cellulite. Is not. Caused. By fatness. Did you get that? It’s cool, go back and read through one more time, just so we’re all on the same page. It’s fine, I can wait, I have like, easily 18 episodes of "Pretty Little Liars" queued up -- so go for it.
OK -- we back? YEAH. THAT. It can’t be “cured” by body scrubs, or getting more sleep, or only foods that are lime green for 11 days and jogging backwards while urinating. It’s not something that even SHOULD be cured -- because it’s just, you know, how you’re made, structurally.
If you’ve got cellulite it means the connective tissue all up in your body is criss-crossed, or that you’ve got thicker skin. Guess what can’t be cured by sweating out all of our vital fluids while wrapped in kelp and restricted in a tiny Swedish Heat Chamber* -- HOW THICK YOUR SKIN IS, BIOTCHES.
Sigh. I’m sorry I called you biotches. I was upset and got carried away.
It’s dumb that I care! But I do!
There’s a reason those supermarket aisle magazines are constantly running covers of “GUESS WHOSE FAT ASS THIS IS LADIES?” Because that ass might belong to Jennifer Lawrence. And if that magazine can convince us that Jennifer Lawrence** has flaws, than maybe we will feel good, and in order to continue feeling good we will buy their magazine.
Imagine the sort of subtle explosion it would cause if we took a normal thing like cellulite -- and made it ACTUALLY normal. Normal as in unremarkable. Then we would have one less thing to fear about our own bodies. God, can you imagine not be terrified that at any second your bod was going to turn against you like some sort of secret Cylon?
Imagine if the “gross celebrity beach bodies” were actually the “Stars, they’re just like us” pages? What then?
What is the silliest thing you’ve done because of cellulite? I totally still have to talk myself into wearing short sleeves! It’s insane! Do you ever fall for it and buy tabloids? I totally do. Also ginger candy because it’s right there, you know?
*is this real? I don’t know. But I hope so.
** no one is better than Jennifer Lawrence.