TV Review: Big Sexy

Article first published as TV Review: Big Sexy on Blogcritics.

There was a time when big as applied to women was probably a good thing. Even a glance at the women in paintings by an artist like Rubens makes it clear that pleasingly plump was the ideal female body type. Even as late as the middle of the last century, softig women like Marilyn Monroe and Jane Russell had the figures that women coveted, the bodies that made male mouths water. That all changed as the century progressed. The new emphasis on youth culture found its ideal of the female form in the slender nymphet—curves were out and thin was in, thin to the point of starvation chic. Of course there were still big women, but more often than not they were made to feel freakish because of their size.

What big women need is a new image, a hip image. They need to feel good about themselves. They need role models who are unashamed of their thighs, their stomachs, their butts. Big Sexy, TLC's three part series which premieres Tuesday, August 30^th at ten, takes a shot at supplying those models.

The series introduces the viewer to five plus size New Yorkers, three aspiring models, Audrey, Tiffany and Nikki, and two wannabe fashion designers, Heather and Leslie—women who not only claim to be comfortable with their bodies, but celebrate their size. This is not to say there are moments of doubt, they are after all human beings and human beings suffer their insecure moments. Still when it comes right down to it, these are women who refuse to accept the stereotypical roles set aside for big women. They want everything their skinny sisters want, and they are going to do their darnedest to get it.

We follow them as they visit Fashion Week at Lincoln Center and marvel at the anorexic models while envying the stylish clothes that would never work for them. We see them rejected at a club holding one of the after parties. We watch them at a BBW (Big Beautiful Women) party, and later a round of speed dating. Their experiences are not always very satisfactory, but through it all they remain upbeat and optimistic.

The first episode ends with one of those let's put on a show moments as the women decide that fashion shouldn't be limited to petites. Big women deserve fashionable clothes too. With a little help from their friends, they decide to put on their own runway fashion show. There is some drama about bathing suits, but in the end the women come through with flying colors, and there is something empowering as these ladies strut their stuff. While the idea of the plus size fashion show may not be entirely new, I seem to remember an episode on Project Runway where the designers created 'looks' for full figured women, the emotional stakes for these women in this particular fashion show are much greater. This is all about their self image and when they walk down that runway, they walk tall and proud of whom they are. They are big and they are sexy.

My Short Modeling Career

Whenever I visit a Target or a Rite-Aid Drugstore, whenever I visit the greeting card store in the local mall, whenever I visit any establishment that sells American Greeting Cards, I always make it my business to check the racks of humorous cards. I'm not looking to make a purchase. I'm not looking for a quick laugh at some clueless remark ballooning out of the mouth of our last president or some eloquent bromide from our present leader. I'm not even looking to kill time while my wife shops (although that is often one of the unintended consequences).

What I am looking for is myself.

Let me explain. Some four years ago in December and then again in May, I drove up from Pittsburgh to Cleveland, a trip many Steeler fans like to make every year, not for football, but for a photo shoot at the official headquarters of the American Greeting Card Company which is located in the home of the Browns. I was on my way to what I hoped would be a lucrative career as a male model—a male model for the geriatric set. It's not that I consider myself particularly photogenic. It's not that I consider myself a senior hunk. It is simply that my agent had sent them my headshot along with more than likely fifty others, and someone who presumably knew what they were doing had picked mine. Whatever they wanted, I had it. Whoever they wanted, I was it. So, who was I to argue.

"Bring some short sleeve shirts," my agent said, "Bring Bermudas," "You got any with loud patterns?"

"It's December," I said.

"You got any with like a Hawaiian print?" he asked in a second phone call.

Hawaiian print and Bermuda shorts, obviously you know they're not looking for Brad Pitt; Sean Connery neither. What they're looking for is one of the old funny looking guys, maybe the one with a suppository in his ear. His friend says to him, "What are you doing with that suppository in your ear?" "Eh," he says. What they're looking for is an old coot with skinny legs and sagging jowls. Like I said, they're looking for me.

In the December shoot, I and another elderly Tyson Beckford wannabe, each dressed in checked Bermuda shorts, shirts from the Waikiki Beach collection, sandals and black socks , are posed sitting on a bench in front of an American Greeting Card store, they have set up either for visitors to the Greeting Card campus or as a set for shoots like ours. They pose us for two hours: him on the left, me on the right; me on the right, him on the left; him smiling, me frowning, him frowning, me smiling; him straight faced, me—well, you get the idea. The captions that will go with these photos, they don't tell us, but it is fairly easy to imagine they aren't going to be very flattering. I've seen the cards with the guys with their bellies hanging out.

When the agent calls in May, he tells me to bring one of those sleeveless undershirts. "You know," he chuckles, "a wife beater."

"They want Marlon Brando?"

This time what we are shooting is a Poker game. There are five of us: me, and four aged lovelies. The ,photographer decides against the wife beater, opting for the shirt from the Waikiki collection—who knew that the Hawaiian shirt was the AARP's equivalent of the little black dress. Again there are two hours of posing: the blue haired ladies and I in a variety of combinations, dealing cards, holding cards close to our chests, grabbing for chips, peeking at each other's hands, and so on. "We're not doing strip poker," the producer quips, "this time." The ladies giggle. The gentleman, yours truly, blushes. Once again, we leave with no idea what they mean to do with the pictures. At least I know that they won't be working with pictures of my sunken chest festooned beneath the wife beater I leave in the dressing room.

And so whenever I visit a Target or a Rite-Aid drug store for over four years now, I search for whatever it was—embarrassing and undignified or cute and cuddly--that might have come out of these photo shoots. Whenever I visit the card shop in the local mall I look for four ladies and an old guy playing poker on somebody's birthday or anniversary. Whenever I go into any store that sells American Greeting Cards, I search for two old farts sitting on a bench in what looks like a mall saying who knows what for Father's Day or maybe telling each other to get well.

It's more than four years now, and I've yet to find them. Sometimes I wonder if perhaps the pictures were so terrible, they were unfit for use, not even good enough to be bad enough to laugh at, but if that were true, I reason, why would they call me back five months later? Why would they pay me to come all the way out to Cleveland for another set of worthless prints?

There is only one answer. They are holding them back, saving them, waiting for the right moment to unleash them on the card buying public. So I keep looking, waiting for the day they send them forth. And when they do, when you see a semi-dignified, elderly gentleman in Bermuda shorts, sandals and socks, and a lush Hawaiian shirt, perhaps with a suppository in his ear, gracing the shelves of your local Target, you may well be looking at America's Next Top Model—Geriatric Male Division.

My Short Modeling Career

Whenever I visit a Target or a Rite-Aid Drugstore, whenever I visit the greeting card store in the local mall, whenever I visit any establishment that sells American Greeting Cards, I always make it my business to check the racks of humorous cards. I'm not looking to make a purchase. I'm not looking for a quick laugh at some clueless remark ballooning out of the mouth of our last president or some eloquent bromide from our present leader. I'm not even looking to kill time while my wife shops (although that is often one of the unintended consequences).

What I am looking for is myself.

Let me explain. Some four years ago in December and then again in May, I drove up from Pittsburgh to Cleveland, a trip many Steeler fans like to make every year, not for football, but for a photo shoot at the official headquarters of the American Greeting Card Company which is located in the home of the Browns. I was on my way to what I hoped would be a lucrative career as a male model—a male model for the geriatric set. It's not that I consider myself particularly photogenic. It's not that I consider myself a senior hunk. It is simply that my agent had sent them my headshot along with more than likely fifty others, and someone who presumably knew what they were doing had picked mine. Whatever they wanted, I had it. Whoever they wanted, I was it. So, who was I to argue.

"Bring some short sleeve shirts," my agent said, "Bring Bermudas," "You got any with loud patterns?"

"It's December," I said.

"You got any with like a Hawaiian print?" he asked in a second phone call.

Hawaiian print and Bermuda shorts, obviously you know they're not looking for Brad Pitt; Sean Connery neither. What they're looking for is one of the old funny looking guys, maybe the one with a suppository in his ear. His friend says to him, "What are you doing with that suppository in your ear?" "Eh," he says. What they're looking for is an old coot with skinny legs and sagging jowls. Like I said, they're looking for me.

In the December shoot, I and another elderly Tyson Beckford wannabe, each dressed in checked Bermuda shorts, shirts from the Waikiki Beach collection, sandals and black socks , are posed sitting on a bench in front of an American Greeting Card store, they have set up either for visitors to the Greeting Card campus or as a set for shoots like ours. They pose us for two hours: him on the left, me on the right; me on the right, him on the left; him smiling, me frowning, him frowning, me smiling; him straight faced, me—well, you get the idea. The captions that will go with these photos, they don't tell us, but it is fairly easy to imagine they aren't going to be very flattering. I've seen the cards with the guys with their bellies hanging out.

When the agent calls in May, he tells me to bring one of those sleeveless undershirts. "You know," he chuckles, "a wife beater."

"They want Marlon Brando?"

This time what we are shooting is a Poker game. There are five of us: me, and four aged lovelies. The ,photographer decides against the wife beater, opting for the shirt from the Waikiki collection—who knew that the Hawaiian shirt was the AARP's equivalent of the little black dress. Again there are two hours of posing: the blue haired ladies and I in a variety of combinations, dealing cards, holding cards close to our chests, grabbing for chips, peeking at each other's hands, and so on. "We're not doing strip poker," the producer quips, "this time." The ladies giggle. The gentleman, yours truly, blushes. Once again, we leave with no idea what they mean to do with the pictures. At least I know that they won't be working with pictures of my sunken chest festooned beneath the wife beater I leave in the dressing room.

And so whenever I visit a Target or a Rite-Aid drug store for over four years now, I search for whatever it was—embarrassing and undignified or cute and cuddly--that might have come out of these photo shoots. Whenever I visit the card shop in the local mall I look for four ladies and an old guy playing poker on somebody's birthday or anniversary. Whenever I go into any store that sells American Greeting Cards, I search for two old farts sitting on a bench in what looks like a mall saying who knows what for Father's Day or maybe telling each other to get well.

It's more than four years now, and I've yet to find them. Sometimes I wonder if perhaps the pictures were so terrible, they were unfit for use, not even good enough to be bad enough to laugh at, but if that were true, I reason, why would they call me back five months later? Why would they pay me to come all the way out to Cleveland for another set of worthless prints?

There is only one answer. They are holding them back, saving them, waiting for the right moment to unleash them on the card buying public. So I keep looking, waiting for the day they send them forth. And when they do, when you see a semi-dignified, elderly gentleman in Bermuda shorts, sandals and socks, and a lush Hawaiian shirt, perhaps with a suppository in his ear, gracing the shelves of your local Target, you may well be looking at America's Next Top Model—Geriatric Male Division.