Burlesque! We love you! How fabulous you are! Your corsets and your sequins and your stagecraft and your music. So fresh after the grungy 90s, so refined after the douchetard Noughties. You’re a magical spectacle of perfect femaleness, yet you’re also Real Women’s Bodies. We want to be just like you! The lips and the eyelashes and the hair and shining accessories. Except we’ll be taking off our clothes less, nothing personal – we know you’re not a “stripper,” Burlesque.

Burlesque, we’re so mad at you. You kept us waiting for hours in that boring bar. Then you show up with some obnoxious boyfriend and it seems like you can’t do anything right. When we’ve been picturing how perfect you’re going to be. You’re too pretty, we feel bad comparing ourselves to you. You’re not pretty enough – why do you get to be on stage, and not us? God, we feel old. Either your outfit sucks or you spent way too much money on it, you’re too prim or too slutty, and what’s with all the politics? You wanted our opinion? You’ve got it.

Burlesque! We’re sorry! We all get so judgemental when we look at you. Everything  about you is magnified because you’re on stage, we’re all watching. You want to draw our gaze and you do it so well. When you’re in front of us, you’re all we can see, you’re so charismatic.  You’re brave and fun, and kind, too – you told us nobody’s too old, too fat, or too weird for the stage. And you invited us to all your parties, every one of us.

Burlesque, you’re this decade’s take on the eternal human beauty of a woman, dancing. Styles will change one of these days – ask your sister Bellydance about that. But we will always remember you and your sequined prime.