for those times you need to grate cheese on your CHEST BONES:
What happened to pretty little Kate Bosworth?
This was Kate back in the smokin-hot Blue Crush days:
And this is Kate today in a "please buy that I'm Lois Lane and not an alien masquerading as a sack-of-bones with some shiny skin stretched over it" phase:
I won't get into the issue of the work she's had done to her nose (leaving her looking less Sandra Dee and more TURTLE), but the chest bones are really, truly horrifying.
Yes, I watched Lara Flynn Boyle and Calista Flockhart and Nicole Ritchie and Posh Beckham and Lindsay Lohan disappear before my eyes, but there's something about Kate's chestbones that leave them all in the dust. They could grate cheese, those chest bones. Oh that I could peek inside those grocery bags she's pushing in that cart...I'm guessing there's no Boboli or Corona or Wonder Bread or Fruit Loops in those grocery bags. My money's on fifty dollars worth of Evian and a dozen cucumbers (enough to last her until Thanksgiving).
Honestly, however - all levity aside - watching women lose dangerous amounts of weight, particularly high-profile women with the entire magazine-reading, movie-going American public as their audience, terrifies me to no end...
After watching my very best girlfriend in the world waste away - the girl who was more fun than anyone, the girl I went to prom with instead of taking a normal date, the girl who's house I slept over at every saturday night through school, the girl who knew which guys I'd earmarked as my "future husbands" from the time we were fourteen, the girl that kidnapped creepy lawn ornaments with me in the summertime and shared clothes with me at summer camp and knew my deepest secrets and to whom I was attached at the hip for most formiddable years of my life - I became heartsick watching such brazen disease go undiagnosed and untreated. To watch that sort of self-abuse dress itself up as celebrity and go excused for years because it wears a movie-star mask is a devastating commentary about our beauty standards...
It's clear that Kate needs help.
For once, I would love to see Hollywood elect NOT to work with these poor, desperate women until they get a handle on their disease...I would love to read of a studio or a producer opting to save a life rather than profit from it's malfunction. I would love for the fists that wield the power to refuse to endorse the parade of disorder eaters, to refuse to market sickness as beauty, to refuse an actress work until she's been treated, to acknowledge the disorder rather than sneak the actress off into the hills and mislabel it "exhaution" when her heart first fails or she faints from malnutrition on the set.
It's a pipe dream, but one that hits particularly close to home...
Eat a Sourdough Jack, Kate. Come out on top.
This was Kate back in the smokin-hot Blue Crush days:
And this is Kate today in a "please buy that I'm Lois Lane and not an alien masquerading as a sack-of-bones with some shiny skin stretched over it" phase:
I won't get into the issue of the work she's had done to her nose (leaving her looking less Sandra Dee and more TURTLE), but the chest bones are really, truly horrifying.
Yes, I watched Lara Flynn Boyle and Calista Flockhart and Nicole Ritchie and Posh Beckham and Lindsay Lohan disappear before my eyes, but there's something about Kate's chestbones that leave them all in the dust. They could grate cheese, those chest bones. Oh that I could peek inside those grocery bags she's pushing in that cart...I'm guessing there's no Boboli or Corona or Wonder Bread or Fruit Loops in those grocery bags. My money's on fifty dollars worth of Evian and a dozen cucumbers (enough to last her until Thanksgiving).
Honestly, however - all levity aside - watching women lose dangerous amounts of weight, particularly high-profile women with the entire magazine-reading, movie-going American public as their audience, terrifies me to no end...
After watching my very best girlfriend in the world waste away - the girl who was more fun than anyone, the girl I went to prom with instead of taking a normal date, the girl who's house I slept over at every saturday night through school, the girl who knew which guys I'd earmarked as my "future husbands" from the time we were fourteen, the girl that kidnapped creepy lawn ornaments with me in the summertime and shared clothes with me at summer camp and knew my deepest secrets and to whom I was attached at the hip for most formiddable years of my life - I became heartsick watching such brazen disease go undiagnosed and untreated. To watch that sort of self-abuse dress itself up as celebrity and go excused for years because it wears a movie-star mask is a devastating commentary about our beauty standards...
It's clear that Kate needs help.
For once, I would love to see Hollywood elect NOT to work with these poor, desperate women until they get a handle on their disease...I would love to read of a studio or a producer opting to save a life rather than profit from it's malfunction. I would love for the fists that wield the power to refuse to endorse the parade of disorder eaters, to refuse to market sickness as beauty, to refuse an actress work until she's been treated, to acknowledge the disorder rather than sneak the actress off into the hills and mislabel it "exhaution" when her heart first fails or she faints from malnutrition on the set.
It's a pipe dream, but one that hits particularly close to home...
Eat a Sourdough Jack, Kate. Come out on top.
posted by heatheradair at 2:37 PM
6 Comments:
Holy crap, I think that chestplate is actually a desired thing these days. Why else would so many women with that keep exposing their cleavage. Yyyyyuck.
Amen, sistah! I am so sick of Hollywood and the tabloids making it like this is what glamorous and desirable--I don't any guys that think the chestplate is attrative! My boyfriend loves my so-called "renaissance" curves...and I think they are way more glamorous than stick and bones.
This is dangerous territory...now I'm ready to rant on my own blog about the Hollywood weight issue.
Yes and Yes:
What's strange is that all of these big money ladies (i'll add nicole kidman and teri hatcher to my list, too) are clearly less-healthy-looking and less LOVELY than they were 15 or 50 lbs ago... Problem is the "NO SUCH THING AS TOO THIN" mantra that lets them get away with it...
i'll keep my hips, thanks, if it keeps me lookin like a woman and not an 11 year-old BOY.
but as long as they keep snagging magazine covers and keep getting paid the big dollars to appear in movies where their boniness is paraded in front of billions of people, women will still keep thinking there's some part of that emaciated gig that's "better" than a healthy shape.
sigh.
(this entire post turned out MUST more serious than I planned, but it's one of those hot-button issues for me!
Ohhh.. there is indeed a thing as too thin. "honey, I'm trying to sleep...could you please stop poking me? oh, it's your boob... sorry..."
I think Kate needs to supersize that Sourdough Jack!
and wash it down with a beer or twelve...and follow that up with a milkshake and a nice six-egg-omelette (shoot, writing about food in the morning...now I'm flippin starving...)
This site is one of the best I have ever seen, wish I had one like this.
»
Post a Comment
<< Home