Boo: "Madame Fanny? Please encourage me to apply to the Joffrey program."
Fanny: "Couldn't hurt."
Boo: "No but I mean like really get in there and delude me. I can't dance like Sasha, but I can dance like a boy, I can turn and jump, so how do I parlay that into..."
Fanny, verbatim: "-- Ballet is very hard, Boo. And a lot of it does depend on how you're made. You have to be realistic."
Boo: "Do I, though?"
Fanny, verbatim: "You're a big-boned girl. You have a tummy. Your waist is very short..."
Boo: "Uh."
Fanny: "...None of which means you shouldn't try. Right?"

And that's how I fell in love with Fanny. Body issues are real, and destructive, but that's not what this conversation is about. You asked the question, you got the answer. If you'd asked, "Am I pretty," girl you are gorgeous. But what you asked is, "I am fairly certain I understand the reality of this situation, but just in case, I'm asking one more time." And you got the answer you need, which is: No. Plenty of other things, but not this one thing. Not to say you shouldn't try, because everything that rises does converge, but if you want the actual answer, there's your answer.

And that's not about feminism -- much less lookism, or fattism, or whatever dumb thing they're calling it nowadays, where you constantly need other people to validate your appearance for you -- but about whether or not a hammer is good for screwing in screws, or a flaky delicious croissant makes an effective GPS device (or whether Michelle Simms would make a good Effie in Dreamgirls, which, hold that thought) because that's not what a croissant is for. And it's really not the world's job to make that up to the croissant, because being a croissant is this whole other God-given skillset you're ignoring, which means denying the world of your true skills and talents, which is selfish and destructive all on its own.

PARTY

Michelle looks freaking amazing in the LBD -- even gives a near-silent prayer of thanks to the "little freak" known as Truly -- and, after admiring herself from every angle, she goes downstairs to wander through the zombie staring mass of partygoers and find some wine. Which, she immediately learns, tastes terrible. So she's holding this mouthful of terrible wine in her mouth when Hubbell appears, and -- I would have burst into tears, probably -- throws herself on him in a charming, lovely way.