Ha, I'm just messing with you. The success of Victoria's Secret lies in their ability to make the average woman part with an obscene amount of money for the sole purpose of looking nothing like Miranda Kerr in a bra.
I can always tell when the beginning of December rolls around and the predictable signs of the season begin to appear: the Advent candles set up at church, the parking lot of my local Target suddenly resembling a scene from The Day After Tomorrow. And naturally, a bombardment of photos of the Victoria's Secret Angels prepping for the annual fashion show on the celebrity sites I frequent.
I dread this show every year. No one is forcing me to watch it, but it's like a train wreck, if train wrecks wore a 36DD and had a 25-inch waist. I can only look on with sick fascination. For good measure, the company always ensures the show includes the participation a model who's given birth in the past four months to make those of us who are two-plus years postpartum feel especially shamefaced.
(Note to the models who claim the weight just fell off by breastfeeding: The millions of women who have also given birth are not stupid. I have breastfed two babies. Nursing means babies are nourished by milk your body produces. They are not tiny little liposuction machines that suck fat from your midsection to reveal sculpted abs underneath, unless a liposuction machine also pukes in your hair.)
Without a doubt, my absolute favorite part of the annual broadcast is the cautionary message at the end of each commercial break, claiming that watching Candice Swanepoel parade around in a g-string may be harmful to my child. They should really consider adding the following message this year:
Warning: The following broadcast may be detrimental to the emotional and mental well-being of any woman who has had children or likes ice cream. Self-loathing may occur. Husband/partner discretion is strongly advised.
The one truth I've gained from years of watching the show is that everyone would look and feel better if they had a wind machine trained on them while waiting in line at Starbucks or to picking up their kids from school. I tested this theory earlier this year when I noticed the vents at the entrance to Costco's big refrigerator produce roughly the same effect. I think that photo got more Facebook likes than the ones I posted of my second-born immediately after his birth, and I had left my heels and giant, feathered wings at home that day.
I have never been able to determine if the target audience of this show is actually women who are filled with regret for every piece of leftover Halloween they eat while watching, or men who want to pretend their girlfriends or wives could really look like Alessandra Ambrosio in a push-up.
If it's my girlfriends and I you want to attract Victoria's Secret, I propose death cage matches featuring the Angels fighting over a brownie and a sugary cocktail. My friends and I would come out in spades to see that.
Until then, here's a drinking game for anyone who needs to self-medicate should they choose to tune in on December 9.
One swig per:
* Pair of wings with at least a five-foot span
* Each behind-the-scenes shot, trying to convince you the Angels eat real food like the rest of us
* Fur-trimmed bra or thong. Bonus sip if you actually think to yourself, "I would totally wear that under my yoga pants."
* Angel who dances down the runway in a garter belt (That is exactly how I steam vegetables in my kitchen on weeknights. HOW DID THEY KNOW?).
* Kiss blown to the camera/each other.
* Bare, spray-tanned ass cheek shown.
* Time a musical guest leers at one of the models (that includes you Taylor Swift).
One full drink:
* If the end of the show arrives without one single model giving the obligatory and entirely predictable wink to the camera.
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