Sexy, Schmexy

So as part of my (and everybody else's) annual resolution to be more fit, I subscribed to a few women's health and fitness magazines. A chick named Brooke Burke was on the cover of this month's Shape. Now, I don't know much about Brooke Burke except that she's married to David Charvet (from Baywatch, right?) and I think she used to have some travel show on E! or something.

Anyway. My point is. This Brooke Burke chick is rocking a tankini on the cover of Shape, abs all toned, that long inner thigh muscle flexing. In her interview, she goes into what she eats, and how she takes care of herself, and everything else you'd expect from such an article. But then she starts talking about how "sexy" is all about feeling comfortable in your own skin.

And she's right. It is.

If you're posing on the cover of a women's mag.

Have you ever noticed who tells us things like "sexy is a state of mind?" ... Yeah. Pretty, toned women. Successful women. And sometimes, just sometimes, I wish I could slap the veneers right off their teeth as they beam whitely at me from their glossy magazine pages.

These women have access to the best skincare, the best makeup, the best clothes, the best personal trainers and dieticians. They have people to clean their house and watch their kids. They don't have to worry about money - or at least, not nearly as much as the average person.

Me, and many other women I know? We go without a trim for a year and a half because our sons' monthly haircuts cost so damn much. We use drugstore makeup that little fingers have put smudges through. We go for embarrassingly long stretches without removing body hair because we don't have much of an opportunity to shower, let alone shave. We spend an hour sitting on the closet floor feeling like crap because everything we own either makes us look fat or is out of style.We have lingerie in our underwear drawers that used to fit before three kids sagged and bagged and stretchmarked us and we can't do anything about it because who has the money for all this plastic surgery or the time to recover from it for that matter and oh yeah, there's still the matter of that pesky 40 pounds standing between us and that lingerie.

... Or is that just me?

Anyway, give these sage-advice-dispensing divas those conditions for a while, and let them see how sexy they feel. Deprive them of valuable "me" time by making them clean their own houses, do their own laundry, watch their own kids, cook their own meals. Limit their budgets. Limit their Botox and lipo sessions. Then let them define "sexy."

My state of mind is supposed to magically transcend the fact that I'm sagging everywhere, in desperate need of a manicure and a trim, and crusted with peanut butter and boogers?

I don't think so.