I know I’m not alone when I say that I cannot deal with whiny girls. That’s why I begged my parents never to make me go back to sleep-away camp — all of those prepubescent girls with their hair tantrums, their 57 varieties of eating disorders and the girl who used to tape her stomach down for dances. The whining was mindless and infinite. Oh no, I never wanted to go back there. I cannot deal with whiny girls even if I’m one of them. If I start to descend into angst-filled bouts of self-pity, I usually feel compelled to slap the shit out of myself for being such a baby. Here’s the key to happiness (or as close to it as you’re going to get): There’s no point in whining and feeling sorry for yourself when life takes minor turns off of the straight track. Just suck it up. There’s no point, for instance, in crying over the fact that you have upper lip flab preventing you from achieving that winning cover girl grimace that you’ve seen in, like, Vogue and, like, Glamour and on that rich-bitch, Paris Hilton. (Ah, Paris Hilton … if only I had her swan-like, over-baked, plastic body.)
America’s Next Top Model is the source of my rage. That’s the Apprentice wannabe, with a much sexier version of Trump running the show. I don’t have any prejudices against models or girls who look like models. I’d like to see ’em get fat and fall off the run-way but, essentially, I love their skinny asses. My problem is this: I just don’t understand how poor little Kelle, the twenty year old ANTM contestant who owns an art gallery in New York City, can be brought to her knees by the fact that she has a little problem with her upper lip overhanging slightly — a flaw that only the super-powers of “Miss Tyra” can distinguish. I watched the model-in-training wail into the camera, sob over the misfortune of her “platypus” snout and double over with the pain of being aesthetically challenged (or at least more so than the other girls in the loft). I couldn’t help but compare the scene with footage of mothers who have lost their children in the War on Terror, or the clips of prisoners of war begging for their lives to be spared. You feel pretty sick about it when you realize it’s just another little girl grieving over her imperceptible and ultimately non-existent imperfections.
Get a life! Or, better still, get a plastic surgeon and stop harassing America with your cry-baby antics! Can somebody please tell me why these girls, who are being put up in a six-figure NYC loft and given the gift of couture, are moaning and complaining about how difficult their lives are? Why does one of these women weep and sigh, earnestly explaining that she’s tired because she’s been studying night and day? What exactly do models study? I’ll tell you what they study: They pore over ads in fashion magazines, and then they practice poses in the mirror, while studying their faces for excess lip flab and the like. Yes, Cornell, issues of Elle and W are the textbooks of the modern supermodel and, boy, is it hard looking at all the pictures!
It’s so hard in fact that, every week on America’s Next Top Model, somebody cries and declares that her life is over. Every week we are provided with yet another opportunity to learn why girls suck. According to this show, girls are weak, whiny, insecure, immature little babies. Some of them desperately need to have their asses kicked. And you know what? I’d be more than happy to do it but, the thing is, I just don’t want to break a nail.
Archived article by Lauren Simpson
Sun Contributing Writer