Open Letters to People or Entities Who Are Unlikely to Respond
Send your nonfictional open letters to firstname.lastname@example.org.
An Open Letter to the Lighting in the Victoria’s Secret Dressing Room.
BY Dana Bate
Dear Lighting in the Victoria’s Secret Dressing Room,
I’m not sure if you remember me, but we met last weekend, when you made my stomach and inner thighs look like the surface of the moon, pale and lumpy and riddled with craters. I thought we were on the road to becoming good friends—that you were going to convince me to buy that unnecessarily complicated bra that wouldn’t look good under any of my clothes. Boy, was I wrong.
Until last weekend, I thought I’d been making real progress in my bi-weekly Pilates class. I think I’ve finally mastered the Teaser. I know. Exciting, right? But then we met, and you gave me at least five new ways to hate my body. Like, for example, that area right below my boobs, along the ribcage? I didn’t even know I could have cellulite there. So thanks for getting right in there and showing me what’s what.
But could I ask a quick question? And before I say anything, I want you to know I’m not trying to tell you how to do your job. You’ve got the whole moody/sultry/sexy thing down to an art, in a way I’ve never quite been able to replicate.
But, well, what I’m wondering is… do the top brass at Victoria’s Secret know what you’re up to? Because I have to be honest. You’re not doing them any favors. I mean, I didn’t expect to look in that mirror and see Giselle staring back at me. But, okay, let’s say, for example, I had seen Giselle staring back at me. I probably would have bought that bright red Miraculous® push-up bra. But I didn’t. No, instead I burst into tears at the sight of my own flesh and vowed to live off my own fat stores for an entire week. Do you see what I’m saying? Is the distinction clear?
Anyway, like I said, you’re the one who emits light for a living, not me. But I just thought I’d pass along my thoughts, ones that, given your full consideration, might help your patrons hate you—and themselves—a little less.
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