Fug Smart

Here’s the thing, Anne: We feel for you, but we’re not suddenly blind with sympathy.

[Photo: BauerGriffinOnline.com]

I really hate that the world is going through a phase where every fourth outfit makes me think, “Hey, I had that EXACT SAME THING when I was in [insert school year here].” It’s disconcerting when Us Weekly looks like a page out of my old photo albums, minus a few designer purses and the Starbucks cups.

Beyond that, my sadness is two-fold. First, the kind of eating I want her to do does not involve her shorts gobbling up real-estate above the navel. It makes her torso look weird. And second, Anne… I don’t know if you can tell, based on the gentle draft tickling your Promised Land, but those are SHORT:

[Photo: BauerGriffinOnline.com]

Those are approaching a treacherous place, Anne. They are cruising along the highway to the danger zone, and while I know that profound piece of melodic poetry by Kenny Loggins tells that we’ll
never know what we can do until we get it up as high as we can go, I don’t think he had your hemlines in mind.

So go buy a half-dozen grief bagels — heavy on the cream-cheese — and take them back home to the couch before your shorts make good on their threat of under-butt cleavage. Do it for yourself. Do it for your mom. Do it for The Rock. Whatever works.