In one of the funniest stories to come out of Hollywood recently, Heidi Klum reportedly sent Victoria "Skeleton" Beckham a dozen of the decadent Sprinkles cupcakes for her birthday. It gets better: The attached note added that a dozen would be coming every Friday for the rest of the year.
I'll admit it. I totally laughed at this. The irony is as sweet as, well, a cupcake. But the more I thought about it, the more Mean Girls/Vicious PR Stunt it seemed. I love Heidi Klum (I used to be a Project Runway junkie before I gave up TV) but girlfriend seems to fall totally in the "genetically blessed" department. While Posh, for all of her too-skinny foibles, seems to have to work very hard for her (stick) figure. It seems mighty cruel to throw that in her face for 52 weeks straight.
If Heidi were truly concerned about Posh's health, she wouldn't have sent her cupcakes. Brown rice and salmon, maybe. Plus breath mints. If she were a true friend, she wouldn't have done it such a public manner either. And I'm sure it's no coincidence it comes on the heels of Ms. Beckham's interview with Barbara Walters in which she declared she would never, ever eat a cookie.
There's competition. Like a little friendly trash talking in the gym. And then there's competition. We women can be notoriously catty with each other. For instance, when you tell an embarrassing story about your friend in public to make yourself look smarter. Or when we let a friend go out in a fugly dress because we know we'll outshine her at the club. This cattiness can be very insidious. But why? There are myriad of reasons why we'd want to keep a sister down.
I Hate to Admit This
In my past life as a waitress, there were few customers more irritating than the woman who would order the prime rib with mashed potatoes & creme brulee but then insist that all the fat be trimmed from her meat, her potatoes be made with the skins on and cooked with no butter in soy milk and the creme brulee be fat free with Splenda caramelized on top. We'd generally do no more than an exaggerated eye roll but if she kept complaining and sending it back to get "fixed", well then, we'd, um, fix it. Especially if she was a teeny tiny gorgeous model type. It was like we felt it was our duty to fatten her up. And punish her for being more gorgeous, successful and rich than we lowly waitresses.
I can't believe I'm telling you this (guilty conscience, much?). My fellow wait staff and I would intentionally slip crap into her food. Not literal crap, thank you very much. But we'd pour oil and butter over her veggies. We'd pre-butter her rolls. We'd *gasp* switch out her diet Coke with real Coke. Even the chefs would get in on it by purposely choosing the fattiest cut of meat or ladling on an extra cup of Bernaise sauce.
All of which is not to say that you should fear your waitress every time you go out to eat. We saved this awful behavior for the select few who made royal pains out of themselves. (Seriously - don't order prime rib if you can't handle the "marbling." There is no possible way we can cut out all of the intramuscular fat for you. Order a chicken breast. Or the kabobs. Asking for a few substitutions is fine but don't try and rewrite the evening special's entire recipe. ) Wait - did I just try and rationalize that?
My point is that I've been on both sides of this equation. It doesn't feel good. When will we learn as women that tearing each other down does nothing more than lower the entire playing field?
Although if you do think your diet Coke tastes like regular, then it probably is. Sometimes we just ran out of diet.