Watch Out For Those Curves

Readers who access my blog through Facebook probably are already aware of my issue with the Levi’s marketing campaign for their Curve ID jeans and the lack of stock in their flagship store on Lexington Ave.

Thanks to a bit of goggling/ research by Thom I sent the following letter of complaint to Levi’s President & CEO John Anderson - cause really why not go directly to the top.

BTW – with some more goggling I found that others find this marketing campaign to be both sexist and racists, way to go Levis’! New Curve ID Jeans Proving To Be Controversial

It is about size in your Lexington Ave. store

Dear Mr. Anderson,

As a woman with a love of Levi’s and curves I was very excited about your new line of Curve Id jeans. Your marketing/ advertising campaign to promote women’s confidence and size acceptance is groundbreaking; seems that no matter what I read or where I go I am bombarded with your slogan, “It’s about Shape, Not Size”. Kudos to your creative team for this powerful message and for flooding my major metropolis with good body loving vibes. I especially LOVED the wide expanse of window displays at your Lexington Avenue Levis store in Manhattan that silently scream Levi’s self empowering message, beckoning to all woman with curves to enter this palace of denim and experience the freedom of true fit! Now imagine my surprise when I entered your store on Friday Feb. 18^th with credit card in hand psyched to purchase a pair (or two or three) of size 16 CURVE ID jeans and was informed by a very non curvy sales girl that your store only carries up to a size 12… well maybe a 14 but she didn’t think they had any of those either. There appears to be a disconnect between your message and your practice, don’t you think?

I understand your right as a company to stock whatever you wish and I also understand that I can purchase your size 16 Curve ID Levi’s at a plethora of other retailers BUT my issue is with your window displays at your Manhattan flagship store, who are you marketing too? Obviously NOT curvy woman if you only carry up to a size 12. In addition you were quoted in an interview stating:

‘They (women) said there are three very uncomfortable buying experiences: underwear, swimwear and jeans because they have to expose themselves to what they consider unfair expectations on the perfect body size. We started with the premise that women should feel confident about who they are. And we are going to bring a shape proposition that will make them feel great and not just a size proposition. We are building on that and saying ‘ladies, feel good who you are; your shape is individual to you and we can fit your shape.’

Now how do you think a woman who is already marginalized by the fashion industry because of her size would feel when she, after following your marketing campaign, was turned away from your flagship store because it IS all about her size? I’ll tell you how she would feel, she would feel that Levi’s let her down and lured her into their store under false pretenses only to be chastised because of her fat ass.

I hope this letter finds its way into the correct hands so that your brilliant marketing message can be authentically realized in your retail stores by actually carrying the jeans for the women you are targeting. However if you cannot/ will not carry the entire line of your Curve ID jeans then I would suggest that you pull this message from the windows of the stores that only cater to smaller sizes and replace your feel good message of “It’s about Shape, Not Size” with “It’s ALL about size here, Do not enter if your waist is over 30”

Stop Hating On My Lady Parts

Sadness, Perky Bottoms is on a medical leave of absence from the YMCA and while she’s off cooling her heals I am stuck with a substitute instructor that… um… is a douche bag. This interim fitness dude is the same guy who teaches all the hard core boot camp classes and other random sweat till you vomit your right lung through your left nostril nonsense – but ahem…. Pardon et vous, this is a step class so maybe DROP the incessant drill sergeant barking son, OK?

On top of his abrasive bug dog demeanor this guy is also one of my least favorite types of Gays, he is the woman hating gay. Not only does he hate woman he assumes that we also hate ourselves and secretly wish were hard bodied, fully waxed, with a 9 inch schlong throbbing between… ok you get it. I’ve experienced these Gays before at other gyms, they attempt to motivate by yelling at a room full of women, “You don’t want those hips!!!”, “Summer is coming soon, work off that ass ladies!!”, “Pull those arms in closer, you want to lose that chest”. HOLD UP! REALLY? Why would I EVER want to lose my money makers? These round soft spots are my parts that make me a woman, and true though I may not be the preferred dish on the majority of American Males’ menus the discerning connoisseurs that ARE worshiping at this temple would be sorely remiss if I lost my lady lumps.

I am all for getting to a place where each individual feels their best, for some that is flat and hard, and for others it’s curvy and soft – or any place on the spectrum in between. I’m also fine with an instructor utilizing GENDER NEUTRAL verbiage to target body parts, but to listen to a man screaming at a room of woman for an hour about how much they all must HATE their unattractive womanly bodies, and if you didn’t you should now, makes me want to smother this smug tiny tot between my two heaving breasts.

Wholey Moley

To continue my “Welcome to Your 40’s Gail, Try Not To Fall Apart” lifestyle I made an appointment with my skilled (yet not humorous) dermatologist for a full body skin meet and great, or as members of the medical community call it, a Skin Cancer Screening.

I never considered myself highly freckled however my new GP and new Gyno BOTH made mention of my proliferation of speckles during my most recent examinations. While perched in a very compromising position my Gyno even went as far as to poke at my brown spotted knees, proclaiming with glee as if she just uncovered a wondrous discovery, ”WOW! Are you seeing a dermatologist?”

Well now I am.

Dr. Derma arrived with clipboard and calipers in hand however he realized all too quickly that this was not gonna be a routine pasty Upper East Side blue blooded skin scan. He was intrigued by the freckle on the sole of my left foot and my tattoo also received special mention– why thank you doctor – however, instead of ordering in dinner (FYI - China Fun is ‘round the corner) and spending a few hours cataloging ALL my speckles, spots, and splats Dr. Derma submitted to the fact this was a job that far surpassed his organizational skills.

Dr. Derma broken and worn by my unending surface area of freckles leaned against the counter, sighed, then asked a rather odd question considering I was tenuously sheathed in a paper kimono, “How comfortable are you with being naked?” Yeah… ummm…internal struggle…what does he want me to say…I mean I’m in a doctor’s office…so… NAKED GOOD!. “I feel totally fine with being naked”. Relief flashed across Dr. Derma’s face as he thrust into my hand a tri-folded brochure and pleaded with me to “Go there”. I looked down into my open palm and read these two words from the glossy page, “MOLE MAPPERS”.

WHAT THE WHAT?

Yep turns out there is a medical photographer downtown who for a mere several hundred dollars will snap nude photos of my skin, thereby “mapping” my moles for future comparisons.

I haven’t booked my shoot yet, I’m still deciding whether or not to trade my hard earned cash for a CD of detailed digital images of my bespeckled body.

Cons: My photographer may be this perv, “A Firing Exposes Worries Over Medical Photo Method”

Pros: With a wide formatted hard copy of my Mole Map I could subsidize my income by offering ‘readings’ of clients’ star/mole charts or I could most probably unlock the star gate.

Yoga Ain’t Ready For This Jelly

On Friday nights when I’m not out kicking up a rumpus I’ve committed myself to FAST walking 2 miles on the track and an hour of Family Yoga at the Y.

Last Friday was only my second appearance at Family Yoga but I was feeling rather confident, I mean sure those 7 year olds may be limber but I got focus and my OHMing rocks– eat it kids.

Our class is headed by a very sweet compact Chinese woman who quietly guides us into postures with instructions such as “Pace yor hans on yor ties”. I know it is awful (well awful awesome) but I LOVE it every time she says ‘ties’.

This past Friday we began by perching our bottoms on a firm foam brick, crossing our legs and sitting tall and relaxed. This I got. I sat with my shoulders down, head up, chest out, clear mind, while Miss. Susie circulated around the class of fidgety children adjusting their posture. Once again kids – big deal so you can put your foot behind your head – I can SIT – I rule this class.

Miss. Susie finally arrived at my mat. As she stood at my back she gently laid a soft hand on my left shoulder, leaned in and quietly said, “You should be sitting on a brick”. I turned my head over my shoulder and with a cocked eyebrow I responded, “I am.

”YES my bottom is THAT luscious that I engulfed the ENTIRE BRICK!

Miss. Susie was mortified, I was not. She apologized profusely, stammering, “I don’t see… I didn’t know… you… umm… yes… now I see… I don’t want to embarrass.” I wriggled on my brick as I laughed, trying to convince my mini yogi that all was well. We continued our death match of I’m Sorry – That’s Ok verbal table tennis as the class sat in studied silence watching the insanity unfold until I finally nodded, pointed towards my junky trunk, and said “I have a lot of cushion back there”. Miss. Susie assuming I was exhibiting self-deprecating behavior jumped at this opportunity to bolster my tender ego, “Oh no that’s GOOD”. Shockingly I responded, “I know”

Nothing Bad About That

Sometimes I score a week that is so totally unexpectedly kick ass that it just makes me beam, and last week was that kinda week.

Ok yes there was a crazy stupid ice/slush storm and yes I did knock my block off (see Off With Her Head) but really if that was the worst thing going on in my life in the middle of a harsh dark winter then I think I’m living on the plus side of the crap life bell curve.

Work was fantastic all week, my boss was out and so were 50% of my lady workmates. This occupational respite was a chance for me to blog (win win for both you and me) and tidy up the place.

The remainder of my week of kick-ass goodness rested heavily on the mantle of some of my most favorite people:

Masters – Haven’t seen her in a few months but she is always a breath of fresh air and good fun. We spent an afternoon at the Whitney doing the art thing and catching up on my random silliness. Besides Masters being just an all ‘round super gal I also LOVE the fact that she and I both hit the wall at the same exact time and understand that one should never ignore the body’s yearning for a grilled cheese with tomato.

Galetta – MIA since hand delivering my flat screen TV in June, Galetta popped up on my gmail at the beginning of last week and wooed me back into his steel trap of charm. DAMN that Galetta, he knows all my mushy buttons, well that AND he bought me a new blackberry Torch. Oh Galetta, he makes me feel like such a whore, but like he has always said, “I don’t need to BUY your love, I got a lease”.

After a few days of love notes Galetta took me out for a fantastic Argentinean meal with the hopes of a long night of drunken carousing, but… enter surprise guest #2

Surprise Guest #2 – I shouldn’t be blogging about him at all but he really did add some sass to my week of unplanned goodness. SG#2 or Long Term Booty Call (he hasn’t settled into a real nick name) rang my phone (after 4 months of radio silence) while I was being wined and bourboned by Galetta. Now I am NOT one to drop a friend for a piece of ass (that Coney Island thing doesn’t count Thom) but Galetta either feeling that he still owed me something OR feeling that he was wasting a perfectly good night out on the Lower East Side with a 40 year old lady, insisted that I head home ASAP to accept Fuck Chop’s most welcome offer. So I did.

Of course my week had other goodies besides these pop outs and heck I even laid some ground work for this week’s love fest. Either life is really F’in super or my synthroid meds are blowing my endorphins through the roof!