I don’t know how things go in your house, but here at Chez Stiles there is an American Gladiator-style battle for the remote every night. The struggle to find balance between BRAVO and ESPN is real, people.
This tug-of-war was playing out one Wednesday evening when my husband announced …
“Here, this show is perfect for both of us.”
The show he was referring to?
“The Victoria’s Secret Swimsuit Special.”
You know, the show where CBS and VS try to convince us that swimsuit models are misunderstood. A full hour devoted to the thesis that these genetic over-achievers are simply regular ol’ gals just like me.
The only gift in that moment was that I wasn’t actually holding a cookie or a bowl of ice cream when he turned it on.
In the 20 minutes I allowed myself to be tortured with this nonsense, it was riveting—entertaining in a science fiction sort of way. If you totally suspended disbelief, like when you’re reading the “Twilight” series, the theory that these were just normal women seemed sort of plausible.
In reality, they are called “Angels” for their ethereal quality and my husband needed no effort—he was in.
The models are like giggly giraffes craning their abnormally long legs and necks toward the sun. Soak up that Vitamin D, girls, it has no calories.
They are a pretty active bunch despite the handicap of minimal fabric. Running through the surf and sand, lying in the surf, lying on the sand and climbing on rocks. This series of shots is the first indicator that we have nothing in common. Not one of these gals is tugging down her suit bottom while bending over the open cooler trying to decipher the turkey sandwich from the peanut butter one.
Oh yeah, me and the Angels, birds of a feather.
One glance at my husband and I know that this is the heaven he pictures when his final ticket is punched. I think I might hate him right now.
Jasmine is now balancing herself between the pillars of a stone arch. Her silhouetted frame is suspended there as she waves her arms around like Mr. Miyagi demonstrating precision moves to his little grasshopper. Good old VS makes sure to let us know that Jasmine was a gymnast on track for the Olympics, making her the most limber Angel ever.
I know I could never be friends with Jasmine. God decided to make her insanely athletic and gorgeous enough to be a supermodel as a solid Plan B.
It’s nighttime on Angel Island (formerly known as St. Barts) and instead of actually eating dinner, the models all dance to Nick Jonas and Demi Lovato. If swinging your hair and taking on and off sunglasses is dancing, then these girls have mad skills.
It was like a flesh-packed, Daisy Dukes version of “Dancing with the Stars.” Oddly, no one shouted “I loooove this song” or had any ‘80s moves at all like me and my friends.
I was begging for the Military Channel, which signals DefCon1 here.
In the only slight touch of reality, two of the Angels got lost in the lush, mountainous landscape. Gasp!!
Directionally challenged myself, I nodded in solidarity. Finally some common ground! My husband even relaxed his poker face, momentarily thinking it was safe to show the joy he was experiencing. Well, maybe not joy but something warm and wonderful anyway.
But wait, the pair finds a random straw hat on the side of the mountain. Not only is it in perfect condition, but when they plop it on, it fits to a tee. If I got myself off course, I would be forced to choose a dirty, scuffed hat with holes and a real threat of lice in order to protect my head from the searing sun.
And it would likely be three sizes too small.
In between selfies, we saw long-range shots of the girls “lost” amid the cliffs and sweeping ocean views. I‘ve never actually been lost with a camera crew, but I’m thinking it takes some of the panic out of the situation.
Speaking of panic, I am starting to act like a caged animal in my own living room. I finally dive for the remote as the chirpy voiceovers begin. I can’t listen to them prattle on about how they all get along and how amazing this experience is because they can share it, together.
I watched these girls run along the beach in skimpy clothes with not one jiggle in sight. I get it … really … life is good.
And thankfully, my life returns to normal as my husband picks up the remote and selects Sports Center. Right now, he won’t get any arguments from me.