Although I’m certain that neither Ursula Andress nor Halle Berry had a C-section scar to show off with their bikinis, what have they got on us really? Aren’t we every bit as sexy as they are?
So we’d like to think. Thus, the Bond girl fantasy. The idea that we could pour ourselves into strings and small fabric triangles and strut down the beach with every guy turning his head in our direction. The thought of attending a ball or a casino in a tight yet flowing evening gown with thousands of dollars of diamond jewelry hanging from our necks and a suave tuxedo-clad man offering us champagne. The wild supposition that maybe – in an alternate universe – a British secret agent would risk his life to save us, simply because we are that smart and that pretty!
Meanwhile, what is the greatest personal risk my guy has taken on for me? Spending two weeks at my parents’ house? Painting my toenails when I was too pregnant to see my own feet? Changing an air-polluting diaper? Daring to shop at Toys-R-Us on Christmas Eve for that perfect gift? Hey, he bravely looked danger in the face, he came out alive, and he did it for me!
Maybe Hollywood won’t hire me to be the next Bond girl. But I clean up pretty good. Slap an evening gown and some bling on me, and my husband could take me to a party. I don’t need everyone’s eyes on me anyway . . . just his.
Then again, forget the martini, shaken-not-stirred. I’m getting into a cozy set of pajamas, kickin’ up my slippered feet with my hubby, and having cocoa. Not nearly so glamorous, but ever so satisfying.
By the way, my Bond girl name would have been Sassy Stilgottit. What would yours be?