My love/hate relationship with models.

Words by Michelle Andrews.

Anyone who has known me for longer than five minutes will know that I have an intense obsession with models. Like, I love them. I freaking love them, you guys.

You know how most people love musicians or artists or sportspeople? Not me. I idolise Victoria’s Secret angels like they are my religious leaders. I appreciate being updated by Brazen Models that today is in fact STEPH D’s birthday. Like, happy birthday STEPH D, you are one genetically blessed human being and I respect that. And while we’re here yes, Lara Bingle, I did notice that you changed your Instagram name to Lara Bingle Worthington before the media did… I stalk you THAT much. I will defend you until the bitter end, Lara, and I promise to never stop trying to mimic your hair style.

I’m not even ashamed, because finding out that Steph Claire Smith ate at Sardi café this morning before taking her dog for a walk is fucking scintillating to me. I scroll through that girl’s Instagram and my mind buzzes with deep curiosity like:

  • How someone can be born with such wonderful, clear skin
  • How her hair looks like a very shiny unicorn mane
  • How I would have her tummy for a face and I’d die happy
  • What life would be like if I looked like a magical fairy human and got given free sunglasses and festival tickets, too

So yes, once I quash the bubbling envy that makes me want to down a family-sized risotto, I really do enjoy my model obsession. I can assure you, watching wing-clad women strut down a catwalk does not get old for me. I will sit there, night after night watching the same recording, and gush at how beautiful they are with their impossibly long legs, flawless complexions and blindingly white teeth.

But let me pull you Models up on something – when you endorse certain products on Instagram it really grinds my gears. You being a ‘Skinny Me Tea’ ambassador is complete and utter bullshit. Why are you taking a photo of you drinking that shit like a total wanker? Every single one of your 11,000 followers knows you are naturally slim, and required precisely zero cups of tea to get in those jeans. (*Hi, Skinny Me Tea team! Remember how last year you sent me a legal letter threatening to sue me for defamation? Just another reminder that your products are completely pathetic and so r u*).

ANYWAY, you really do look like a dick. Put the tea down and go take a proper selfie instead. Even better, give the people what they want and convince your equally attractive boyfriend to get a pre-bed pillow selfie together. We lap that shit up!

Models, please don’t post about how this new line of organic skin care “saved your skin” and make out that it consists of 100% Jesus Tears. We all know that you could smear butter all over your face and still wakeup with the skin tone of a newborn pixie. You don’t know the pain of rolling out of bed with a new constellation of acne across your forehead -and that’s okay – but take your unrequested advice to the exclusive model club where you all lounge around in bikinis and bask in each other’s genetic brilliance.

Just don’t do it. We aren’t following you because we are under the impression that if we drink enough tea and rub ourselves with jojoba oil that we will transform into solid 10s. Go to sleep tonight knowing that you are one pretty human, and be comforted by the fact that you get paid a living just for being born attractive. Don’t preach to us mere muggles about the wonders of a moisturiser that you probably don’t even use. Go forth and continue being the magical collection of cells that you are.

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