Sit Still and Look Sexy

Dear Head of World Advertising,

You have failed.  I know you thought you had me.  And you did, for a while.  I was actually beginning to think I knew what men wanted.  I bought the mascara you had J. Lo selling, thinking what men wanted was darker, thicker J. Lo lashes.  You do quite a thorough job, you know.  You dress the girls on commercials and make sure they haven't a blemish.  Anywhere.  You plaster your magazines with "health and fitness" tips for unattainable airbrushed abs that your editors spend hours shadowing and shaping on PhotoShop.

The girls you have selling lingerie for Victoria's Secret think all men want is sex, and if you give it to them, then maybe they'll want you as a person.  They're wrong.  You had me thinking men wanted  

Skinny legs in skinny jeans

 

And smoky eyes that said - you want me

 

And plenty of skin in all the right places

I wasn't so sure they were wrong until the other day when I was reading this blog.  That's not what men want.  They want beautiful best friends, not porn stars.  They want living, breathing real people to share their lives with.  They want women worth fighting for, not cheap eye-batting, slinking shadows of girls. 

You tell them what they want, just like you tried to tell me.  You tried to convince me that sexy is beautiful and beauty means worthy of love.  You tried to convince me not to speak my mind because that could get controversial and people might not agree with what I have to say.  Forget climbing trees and singing in public.  Better to sit still and look sexy, you said.  You told them chivalry is dead.  You screamed it through a hundred feminist megaphones and a thousand confused looks after they tried to lighten a heavy load.  You told them women are something to use to feel better about yourself, kind of like a Kleenex. 

Well, Head of World Advertising, this letter is to notify you, not only that you are the scum of the earth, but also that I refuse to  subscribe to your propaganda any longer.  You have wrought enough havoc.  Men and women were made for more than that.

Not cordially yours, not yours at all anymore,

Little Miss Sunshine