Now I’ll Never Be A Teen Model
I’ve been keeping up with those damn Kardashians lately, and I’ve realized a few things.
- I’m in desperate need of a good sex tape to propel me into stardom. Just as long as it’s one where I don’t actually have any sex, all my lady parts are covered and I look impossibly thin. Come to think of it, maybe your run-of-the-mill viral video (sans sex) will suffice.
- Kim Kardashian and I have a lot in common.
Let me demonstrate.
I know! The resemblance is uncanny. When Old Navy produced those commercials with a Kim Kardashian look alike, they totally should have called me instead.
Besides the fact that we are almost impossible to tell apart, and that we both have “wedding hair,” I have recently discovered that Kim Kardashian and I both have psoriasis.
Let me correct myself. I’ve known that Kim (like how we are on a first name basis?) has psoriasis since July when she revealed her skin condition on the reality show. I was only recently diagnosed.
Diagnosed. That word sounds so very serious. Like I have something much worse, like I was diagnosed with the Ebola virus or something (which scares the bejesus out of me).
I had noticed some abnormalities in a few of my nails (abnormalities = they look weird and hurt), and my primary care doctor suggested I go see a dermatologist to figure out what was up. The minute the dermatologist saw my nails, the first thing she asked was, “So, who in your family has psoriasis?”
“My dad,” I responded. The doctor then explained that I, too, have psoriasis, the most common autoimmune disease in the United States that is largely hereditary.
The good news is I seem to have a pretty mild form of the disease, and I mostly need to take good care of my skin and nails and I should be okay. The bad news is it’s not curable. And my main problem, my nails, is barely treatable. So, I’m not going to lie. I’m bummed. It’s no fun to find out something is wrong with you – something you can’t do anything about. But in reality, it’s not the end of the world. Obviously, I could have been diagnosed with something much worse. I’ll survive.
I’ll survive, but now I’ll never be a teen model. (In case you are confused, the teen model line comes from The Brady Bunch Movie. After Marcia gets hit on the nose by a football, she yells, “Now I’ll never be a teen model!” Classic.)
If I’m completely honest, the teen model ship sailed a long time ago. First, I never grew taller than 5’3”. This is extremely disappointing to me, considering I distinctly remember being the tallest girl in one of my elementary or middle school classes. Whenever we would prepare for a fire drill, we lined up by our height (probably not the smartest strategy for quickly leaving a burning school). I was ahead of all the other girls. This made me very proud.
I then proceeded to never grow another inch.
Concerned about my lack of growth, I remember hearing a news report that drinking coffee could stunt a teenager’s growth, so I proceeded to never – ever – drink coffee.
I was 23 when someone offered to buy me a coffee at Starbucks and I thought, “No, I can’t. Drinking coffee will stunt my growth.”
Burn. I’m never going to grow again.
I think it’s all downhill from here. Not only am I never going to grow again, I’ll probably start shrinking. Don’t believe me? Even The New York Times says so.
And don’t even get me started on the wrinkles I’ve been finding lately. It seems every time I go to bed, I wake up with a new wrinkle! Which is very surprising to me, considering I always thought I was sort of, um, immune to aging. My face has looked almost exactly the same since middle school! You can only imagine my surprise – and shock – when I recently realized that I’m not going to look like this forever.
Add to that the fact that my knees crack when I bend over. Or get up suddenly from the couch. Or breathe. Apparently, the late 20s are the new 70s. For me anyway.
To add insult to injury, The Real World was casting in Richmond recently and I missed the age requirements. They only want you if you “appear to be between the ages of 20 and 24.” What do 24 year olds know about the real world, anyway? Not that I particularly wanted to be on the Real World, but I wanted the option. I didn’t want MTV to tell me I’m an old fart and not worthy of reality TV. Don’t they know that I can be as crazy as the rest of them?
Okay. Enough ranting. I’m off to search for gray hairs.
Maybe I’ll stop fretting in time to realize I’m only 26 and enjoy my youth while I’ve got it.
Now’s the time for all of you to tell me things you don’t like about yourself so we can all bond and feel better. Or tell me to stop being a drama queen. 3 … 2 … 1 … Go!
Copyright 2011. Simply Solo blog by Catherine Gryp. All Rights Reserved.