I’m convinced supermodel Gisele Bundchen isn’t real. I think she’s a hologram. I think she was created by a small little man with mommy issues, sitting behind a curtain in an OZ-like manner. He summons her anytime he senses a mother is feeling a little too good about herself – and she appears.
The robots that man the hologram’s Instagram account produced this yesterday:
This is so perfect. I saw this this morning when I was breastfeeding my infant. My toddler was running around screaming like a bat out of hell, and my infant was kicking me in the face while she was feeding. Also, I forgot to put a breast pad in my nursing bra, so the side of my shirt she wasn’t feeding near was drenched in breast milk.
I slip into a semi-existential crisis when things like this happen. Why am I drenched in breast milk and getting kicked in the face by my infant, while Gisele’s infant angelically suckles from her breast while she’s getting a manicure and her hair and makeup done? Clearly I know the answer to that question; she is a gorgeous billionaire supermodel and I am a five-foot-three freelancer who works from home. My infant is kicking me in the face because she’s pissed we don’t live in a loft and my son is screaming because he wants better genes.
I went down the rabbit hole that is “Gisele’s” account. Won’t you join me?
Her toddler does yoga in what looks to be an immaculate living room. Mine is breaking crayons into a million pieces that I’ll be vacuuming for the fourth time today, shortly.
Maybe Gisele is a real person. I’m not totally convinced.