In Praise of a Little Bit of Cellulite

I have what would generally be considered a small amount of cellulite. It's definitely there, and it's enough to hasten the demise of my theoretical career as a swimsuit model, but it's not enough that I will stop making homemade hot fudge or banish butter from my refrigerator. I exercise, I eat these sinful foods moderately, and I'm relatively slim and fit.

In spite of my obvious pretentiousness, I read gossip magazines with the gusto of a German shepherd devouring freshly grilled ribeye. Virtually every issue of every gossip magazine has at least one article devoted to celebrity diet and exercise programs. Having read about macrobiotics, soy lasagna, and protein shakes guzzled at 4 am training sessions, often while I'm nibbling crackers with brie, I have come to the conclusion that perfectly-smooth thighs just aren't worth it.

Sure, I'd love to wear size 2 jeans, but not if I have to give up Double Chocolate Milanos. It would be great to wear a pencil skirt to a film premiere, but I don't have any film premieres this week. Or next, for that matter. But I do have a date for cheeseburgers with my best friend.

Yes, these celebrities earn millions of dollars per film, and often make several films per year. They date and marry some of the most attractive men on the planet. And so what? Many of them wind up miserable and substance-addicted. The attractive men cheat on them and leave them for younger versions of themselves. I'll take the sheer joy of my loving husband pinching my extra thigh meat any day.

Not to mention pasta with mushroom sauce.

Soy lasagna? Please. Life's too short.