Once upon a not-so-long-ago time, Lady Bianca Miller found herself an agile and dexterous sprite — a paragon of feminine canine existence — boasting a panther lithe figure and a soul made of duck confit to match. A lady of great fortune, you see, immune to the pitfalls of genetics, poor diet and minimal exercise.
Ehem. Well truthfully — to be fair to all my mere-mortal fans, there was a moment in 2008 when the tabloids did capture my likeness from a particularly harsh angle:
Following the outrageous circulation of these filthy photos, my agent Herman Tannenbaum called my publicist, Zsa Zsa, who called Christine Henderson, my nutritionist, who in turn called Ronald my personal trainer, who called Acario my manservant and personal chef — and I was immediately put on a varied diet and exercise regimen consisting of kale, quinoa, bran, yoga, amphetamines, enzymes, interval training, green juice, and barbecued ribs. I was back to my slender self in no time — of course still with my voluptuous curves in tact! Why — it has been only in the past year (alas!) that Lady Bianca Miller has slowly found herself becoming victim to the awful metabolic realities of the masses.
And of course, in consideration of my high stakes modeling career, I’ve taken it upon myself and my considerable staff to get things under control before things become so wildly out of control that I should jeopardize the cushy insurance policy that covers any damage to my heavenly burrito shaped body. All the celebrities have them for certain bits and pieces — famously Jennifer Lopez for her rear end, Angelina Jolie for those rather grotesque (and I mean this in the best way possible) lips, Tom Cruise for his for his brain (Tee hee! Just kidding, obviously — we all know his IQ just skims above the cut off for mental retardation) — but rarely do celebrities have their entire beings insured. And before you think me conceited, I am merely working off the advice of my countless admirers and of course my entertainment lawyer, Alan Hershkowitz.
But alas, when I do find myself needing to gear up my exercise regimen, I refuse the big business commercial gyms — those cesspools of mediocrity and thievery — places where one might find oneself both swindled and required to mingle with commoners. Eee Gads!
My venue of choice for sculpting my perfectly proportioned yet odd and peanut shaped body is Fifth Avenue Fitness right here in my own lovely Brooklyn neighborhood. And I’ll tell you – though I may huff and puff, make snurfling and chortling sounds, curse the world and yearn for my mommy during a session — I truly have grown stronger both mentally and physically since I’ve put in my time there.
Now far be it from me to complain — I do realize I’ve been blessed with porcelain skin, shimmering fur, perfect proportions and a neck longer in circumference than the length or height of my entire body, but, dammit, I’m going to anyway:
I absolutely, positively, certifiably deplore exercise!!! For god’s sake I find it absolutely abominable but unfortunately, I’ve also found as the years go by — if I want to prevent my third and fourth neck rolls (two neck rolls is a little bit sexy) from protruding — physical activity has become an absolute must.
In fact, if I am being completely honest with myself and you, my loyal fans, all I want to do is eat my body weight in bacon cheeseburgers, tater tots and oysters, drown my sorrows in Hendrick’s Gin and fun hallucinogenic drugs, nap on memory foam mattresses with intermittent visits from my masseur — and sprinkle magic fairy dust all over everything, make things look pretty, not gain a pound or get wrinkles or get old and have everyone do exactly what I say at all times and for everything to go my way AT ALL TIMES without me having to LIFT A PAW for heaven-sake is that too much to ask!!!!???!!!
And now I feel I should apologize for that little temper tantrum, dear friends. Admittedly, you have caught me in the midst of a bit of an existential meltdown. See, when faced with one’s own mortality sometimes…well…one begins to realize that life is short and death is scary and being is difficult. And I suppose that is the paradox of the Canine Condition — that we all strive for perfection in life — and in the process, destroy the essence of life itself.
And so, when one thinks, when one concludes (and as I’ve mentioned – jumping to conclusions is my favorite type of exercise – so in no way am I attempting to judge you for doing the same) that a nearly perfect being as myself — that my existence seems so effortless…well, think again. Though I am skilled at making life look stunning on the outside, things on the interior are quite tender and do crumble quite easily when pushed too hard from above.
And so, I pull up my proverbial socks and march on (don’t worry, I’d never be caught dead in those vulgar little socks that chihuahuas and the like tend to wear) — I continue on with this paradoxical struggle…the one which so often eludes us creatures of higher intelligence — the struggle in which youth and maturity, recreation and health, extravagance and discipline seem simultaneously so diametrically opposed. When in fact, it is all really and always has been — a child’s game. This is it — the see-saw of life, the roller coaster — whatever you want to call it, and it doesn’t change. It charges along ceaselessly into the horizon, the dust from the road rising in its wake — and it doesn’t stop or wait for anyone. One has to get off the ride oneself and take a turn out.
And with that in mind, my dear friends, I think I’ll go spend the afternoon drinking sidecars, eating caviar and canoodling with a very young and handsome but simple-minded Rhodesian Ridgeback. Because tomorrow is a new day, and I just don’t know what kind of (and please pardon my Swiss finishing school manners here) m*^&ther f*%^*cking bullish&^%t it might hold.
Lady Bianca Miller