Yummy Mummy

Ok, I promised some thoughts on the Yummy Mummy.

The little messenger I've sent hopping about my cranium has attempted to gather pieces of opinion into her little basket so I can put together an essay on whether the yummy mummy is inspiring or degrading to the rest of us, but the only conclusion I've come up with is this: (pay attention, it's profound)

They mean so little that I can't be bothered to form a total opinion of them.

Why bother? Even if you happen to be one of the lucky few who exist in the income range of these stratospheric attention mongers, why bother? You either have your priorities straight and realize that "having it all" in the sense these YM's do means you have nothing, or you're so caught up in being a YM that you never give pause to wonder about the nobility of such aspirations.

I don't think that YM's give us anything to strive for because the standards they have set are impossible to attain by most even if they havn't had children. They are living pieces of art. Modern art. Overpriced, overvalued, and definitely overvoyeured. (I just made that up. could you tell?) Sure, it's fun to see a woman attempt to keep track of a child whilst toppling about skillfully in Jimmy Choos, all the while staying comfortably grounded in our clogs or flip-flops. It's also fun to see if the super beautiful will spawn super beautiful offspring. (yes, Shiloh Jolie-Pitt is quite cute.)

Easy as it is to smirk and wonder how large a staff keeps that woman in fine form, I wonder what they feel as their children grow into sullen, angry divas. They aren't as easy to put aside as small pets or $5,000 handbags. I guess even an angry, criminal child gets the celebrity more attention in the end when they can tearfully simper to the cameras about how they have no idea where they went wrong.

So I ask myself if there's anything I can learn from them. Answer: don't sell a child's trust to any national publication.

And then I quit thinking about them in favor of watching more TED, whipping up smiley face pancakes, and making sure my cutoff shorts are clean for tomorrow because I just got a gob of applesauce thrown at my rear.

Life is too fun to worry about social icons.