Dear Beyonce, 
I’ve been a fan since Destiny’s Child. I sing Baby Boy to my three sons way too often. I am FOR you. 
However, I can’t decide if your baby weight loss is supposed to inspire me—you too can lose 60 lbs in 3 months!—or just make me a blindingly-angry/drooling lunatic. The latter is winning.
I read this about you:
“The 5-foot-7 singer, 30, prepped for her first gig since the January 7 birth of daughter Blue Ivy with trainer Marco Borges, who led five-days-a-week cardio and body-sculpting sessions.”  
I also read that you ate nothing but whole foods—veggies, proteins, and apparently “a lot of lettuce”.
Let me start by saying that I know you have worked hard shaking your jelly to earn your money. I am happy that you are no longer a single lady and that you have a beautiful baby daughter with a namesake fit for a Hip-Hop and R&B mogul’s kid. Congrats.
But, please don’t tell me that you “ate lettuce and worked out five times a week” to lose your baby weight.
Please AT LEAST admit to the fact that with your well-earned money you have purchased a personal chef, a personal trainer, a nanny, at least three assistants, a housekeeper, a night-nanny, a gardener, a driver, a pilot, a financier, a professional photographer/filmographer to document your baby’s growth, a personal stylist, a hair and makeup person, a choreographer, an agent, a social networking manager to deal with your emails, Facebook updates and Twitter feeds, and a personal shopper. 
I don’t know you well, but I can guess you aren’t on the phone all day dealing with the service department at Toyota because the VCR in your 1999 minivan broke again. I also feel it’s safe to say that you aren’t walking around in socks with holes in them because you don’t have the time, nor the emotional energy to drag your three kids to Target. I’d be willing to bet on the fact that you have someone who goes to Barney’s or Saks Fifth Avenue—and that person purchases your hole-free socks designed by Marchesa or Michael Kors.
And while your assistant is out running your errands, someone else is tending to your Blue Ivy, while another person is preparing your lettuce-plate—all so that you can be in your home gym with your personal trainer five times a week for several hours a day. 
When you tell me how hard you’ve worked to lose your baby weight, at least MENTION all the little people who have helped you get to your booty-licious self again.
And for the love of God, don’t tell me you are going to celebrate your weight loss by “getting chocolate-wasted!” I am well aware of the fact that some PR person told you to tell me this—so that when I am schlepping away on my Stairmaster late at night, hours after the weeds have been pulled, and the Playdoh has been picked out of the crevices in my table, and the Hot Wheels have been put away, and the dinner has been cooked, and the kids have been bathed, and the baby is finally sleeping, and the kitchen is clean, and the budget has been balanced, and the emails have been responded to, and the photos of the baby have been uploaded to Shutterfly—I’ll turn on E! to see you unveiling your post-baby bod and I’ll think, “Oh, she’s going to get chocolate-wasted. Wow. She must be an everywoman. Just. Like. Me.”

I understand that to you, “chocolate-wasted” means that you MIGHT put a tootsie roll in your mouth, and then spit it out before you actually ingest the calories. 
If you would please refer to Jenna Fisher’s (of The Office) mentality:
 “Let me please stand in solidarity with all the women who are not a size 2 six weeks after leaving the hospital.” 
It would make the rest of us not want to throw a dumbbell at our television.  
A fellow survivor, 

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