Dear BYU females (and females everywhere, as it can apply to you, too!),
Katie here, on a mission from Tyra herself. Okay, not really, but I think she would approve of me passing this message on to you, as you desperately need to hear what I have to say.
Too often I am walking around in this wonderful world (or on campus) and I witness hapless young women of every shape, size, and hair color also walking about. Walking seems to be the only word to describe what I witness. And these creatures may not be beautiful girls after all, but mindless robots with only one thing on their mind: Getting to their destination.
And marriage.
So I guess that’s two things.
To most of these girls, walking is only a mode of transport. A harsh, vile mode of transport that results in them being out of breath and sweaty after arriving at their destination. In our world of Hondas and Audis and Vespas and bicycles Harleys, walking as transport has become passe. A thing of the past, if you will. An activity only the most vile and “crunchy” girls do.
Besides, who can even walk in four-inch heels?
Because walking is only seen as a mode of transport, most girls don’t give a flying toss about how they walk, just as long as they can walk. Heels are banished to the back of the closet in favor of the more comfortable (and uglier than this. Or this) shoes-that-shall-not-be-named. If your shoes are uglier than a hairless cat, you have to do something to take the attention off the rainbow-colored sick on your feet.
Walking around like you have a stick up your butt is not cool.
As you walk past me–arms stiffly and barely swinging at your sides, perfect posture, hips stationary–I shouldn’t wonder if that’s really a guy trying to pass a girl. I should be able to look at you and say “Wow! There’s a girl off to conquer the world! Or her sewing final.” Screw being lady-like (whatever that means)! Give me some personality!
Slouch a little. Look comfortable in your own body. Move your shoulders. Loosen your arms. Swing your hips. Put some bounce in that booty.
You are not a princess, despite what yo mama told you. You don’t have to walk like you have the Library of Congress balanced on your hideous Utah-Poof that rivals the size of Texas.
Now go get yourself some sexy shoes, a pair of smokin’ sunglasses, and stomp it out on your way to the fridge.
And bring me back a Klondike.
