I have been struggling with you, my friend.
On one hand, I want to rejoice. At last, a chubby girl with a role of substance on a hit television show, who finally dresses like she isn’t buying fat old lady clothes from the Women’s section of JC Penney.
Raise your moonpies, ladies, we have arrived!
But, here’s the thing. I want to love everything about Ashley Fink’s portrayal of this rubenesque scene stealer, but I don’t.
In fact, I can’t stand her.
I hate that she’s become a member of the Glee Club, not because she’s fat, but because she’s a dick. She represents a horrible perception of chubby girls in high school who are bitter and do dirty deeds for candy bars.
Really, Lauren…bugging the Glee room for Mallomars and Snickers bars? Where’s your self respect, because you know when mousy Rachel comes to me for a favor, little girl is paying me in cash. Wide calf boots don’t buy themselves.
Now you’ve gone and brought Puck into the picture. I’m going to try not to switch into mom mode here and lecture you about the risks of making a sex tape with the school manwhore who fathered a baby, went to juvie, and had better not ever pass out near me, because I swear to God, I’ll shave that mohawk off his head and dip him in Bactine from the waist down.
Instead, I’m going to address the reason why the thought of a Lauren and Puck sex tape makes me want to vomit. And, it has nothing to do with the fact that Lauren is overweight and everything to do with the fact that I want to see two cringe-worthy school bullies bone about as much as I want to let Charlie Sheen give me a bikini wax.
Lauren could take a cue from Mercedes.
(Aside from her wardrobe, but that’s just my strong personal aversion to colored skinny jeans.)
Mercedes plays a strong, talented young woman on Glee. Not curvy Mercedes on Glee. Not slow motions shots of me devouring cake Mercedes on Glee. Just Mercedes, playing the role of a person, not her weight.
You have an amazing chance to instill a sense of confidence in so many overweight teenage girls, Ryan Murphy. Please don’t blow it by spewing out a poor man’s version of a crass and bitter teenage Roseanne Barr.
Oh, and for the love of God, get her better musical numbers. “I Know What Boys Like” was painful in ways so far beyond the metallic early 90s prom dress she stole from my closet.