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The year-old Modern Family actress recently posed nude for Women's Health 's Naked Issue, looking undeniably gorgeous on the September cover. In the accompanying interview, Vergara gets candid about how her body has changed through the years, the work she puts in to maintain her famous physique and why her husband, Joe Manganiello, appreciates her for being herself. Vergara says posing naked for Women's Health was especially important to her because of the message it's sending. PIC: Sofia Vergara Gets a Sweet Kiss From Hubby Joe Manganiello - 'Now My Weekend Is Perfect'. Even if you want to, at this time in your life, you can't be perfect," she explains.

I see it happening to me. I want to look my age, but I want to look great. I think if you are obsessed with this 'I want to look younger' thing, you're going to go crazy. What do I do with these? If I grab them, I can't even cover the nipple! The actress is accepting of her body, including that she'll never have six-pack abs.

But she does strive to eat healthy, and works out with a trainer three or four times a week using the Megaformer, an advanced Pilates machine. I don't have abs because I'm not 'I need to be like a fit model with a perfect body. But if there's one thing she does love, it's looking her best for any occasion. Vergara admits she almost always wears lipstick, even if she's at home by herself. For good or worse, it's the way I grew up: Accept yourself but also be better than yourself.

An SMU booster threatened to have my legs broken-and I was delighted.

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That's something he'd say to anyone, I realized. While all this was going on, I began helping out with Dallas Cowboys sidebar articles and weekend coverage of the Rangers. I helped cover the team for the Associated Press.

And I was entering the peak of a seven-year stint as the masked wrestling columnist Betty Ann Stout-Fort Worth's equivalent of Joe Bob Briggs-whose unofficial duties included opening appliance stores, riding elephants when the circus came to town, and acting as rodeo Grand Marshal on the backs of large, hoofed animals.

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Oh sure, little stuff happened, like the time one of the Oakland A's made a big point of standing next to me naked in the middle of the clubhouse or one of the Los Angeles Raiders chucked a set of shoulder pads at my butt. Then there was the occasion Rangers manager Doug Rader spat corn on me after I asked a dumb question.

Of course, Rader would have spat corn at anybody.

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By then, I had become accustomed to the nudity and byplay of the locker room. I've always considered the real hurdle of all this to be players' perception of me, not suppressing my thoughts. Before a team got used to me, there might be some giggling each time someone made a smart remark or cursed loud enough to get you kicked out of the Watauga Dairy Queen. The players didn't know I'd grown up with games or that my best friends had usually been crude guys or that I could open a beer bottle with my incisors or that I liked to fish as much as they did.

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They didn't know, and it made me feel awkward that they didn't know that this stuff really didn't bother me outside of the fact that I felt obligated to respond with a remark, which took away from my ability to do my job. I was nervous the first time I entered the Rangers locker room, about seven years ago. Not about naked bodies or about crude remarks but about how they would think I felt-and how I intended to respond with confidence, no matter what happened.

So I stepped down the tunnel from the dugout to the clubhouse and peered around the open door.

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Because of my vantage point, it appeared I would have to walk through the shower, through the four wet, naked men, to get to the actual locker-room area. I retreated back behind the door before anyone could see me. God, I can't believe someone didn't warn me, I thought.

And what if someone saw me in this state of trepidation? It was critical no one smelled fear or I'd lose respect from the get-go. Maybe I didn't belong here. Maybe I'd never fit in. Maybe I should write news or features because I'll never have the fortitude it takes to stay on your toes with one-liners and be tough enough to handle this. Maybe McDonald's was hiring.

But I had a deadline. I had to go in. I wasn't afraid of naked men. I was afraid of the unknown. A few feet in, I realized a hall ran in front of the showers. You take a right turn before you have to walk straight into the naked men and the soap. The first Ranger I interviewed was drying his stomach with a towel. Before I could utter a word, he said, "Wait, let me rub it, it will get hard.

That seemed like such a dumb thing to say. I mean, I know how penises work. And I know how smartass remarks work, too. The latter are supposed to be more humorous than the former, though adulthood has taught me different. I'll always remember that no one else laughed, for whatever reason, and that made me feel good.

Nudity rarely bothered me, but I prefer never to see Nolan Ryan in anything but Ranger white or bluejeans. I have no idea why, except that Nolan Ryan and my daddy are my heroes, and I just have no need of seeing either one of their white heinies. Aboutthere was a college football convention in Dallas.

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There were reporters all around the lobby of the downtown Hyatt, waiting for coaches to arrive after a golf game. I was leaning against a post, waiting for Grant Teaff, holding a notepad. That's when a security guard came up to me to ask why I was there. I told him. He told me I had to leave unless I was staying at the hotel. He could not allow me to bother the guests. I explained again that I was a sportswriter waiting for Grant Teaff and pointed out other reporters, all men, around the lobby.

He said I was loitering. I refused to leave. He said he would have me thrown out physically. Mortified, I pondered my attire a baggy smock top and pants. We both approached the front desk, where the clerk sided with the guard, saying I could remain for 10 more minutes, but only if I stayed out of the central lobby and remained "mobile. Each time I stopped pacing, the clerk and guard started toward me. I'd had enough. Once I stopped and they looked up, so I started spinning around in circles. That did it; now they were ready to call the police.

I went home and called my sports editor. He got an apology from the Hyatt; I got suspected of prostitution while waiting in a hotel lobby for Grant Teaff. AboutI got crossways with the sports editor. I ended up covering minor events full time, even doing the dreaded office score-taking work again. At the same time, my marriage began taking ugly, unspeakable turns. I began to wonder, what had I done with the last seven years of my life? Had all that I'd put up with just been for nothing?

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When the coveted Rangers beat came open, I was passed over. My dream of covering professional baseball seemed further away than ever.

And I didn't want to go back to putting up full-time with condescending high school and college coaches and jerks guarding locker room doors. I began experiencing panic attacks and became practically addicted to the antianxiety drug Xanax, buying it from bartenders and acquaintances when my prescriptions ran dry. My face broke out. And I gained 40 pounds.

Good God, all I had wanted to do was cover sports.

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The bouncing, wide-eyed ball girl who wanted to write about baseball more than anything was gone, abandoned in increments on football fields, at locker room doors, in editors' offices, and on barstools. I had become a sweating mass of raw nerve endings.

I felt like a cancer victim who was finally ready to give up the fight because it meant giving up the pain and humiliation. They gave me all the weird stories. They knew I could write even the most boring stuff into something of interest.

But I learned to do news as well. I wrote about civil rights issues and roamed through abandoned warehouses alone in search of skinheads. Yet all the time I was still dreaming up stories to get me to the ball park. A feature on the woman who washes the Rangers' clothes was not out of the question. A three-part series on Ruth Ryan, spouse of Nolan, turned into a delightful three-week chore that included stops at the Ryans' ranch in Alvin and the stadium.

I had started wandering longingly over to the sports department, just to talk about baseball. More than two years ago, I told the sports editor I wanted to return to sports. And I wanted to cover the Rangers someday. I concluded my sports hiatus last year with a stint on a special projects news team, collaborating with another reporter on a series about Fort Worth's high infant-mortality rate.

We won some awards, and I gained some confidence and perspective.

When you've interviewed a year-old mother whose daughter was stillborn for lack of prenatal care, how tough can it be to talk to a young pitcher who's lost to the Angels for lack of run support? It was time to go back to the dream. I asked for-and received-a transfer back to sports. In my three years away, I'd shed a husband, a house, a lot of weight, and a collection of unhealthy habits.

I began bicycling and training for a marathon. Fueled by my own version of a life-affirming experience, I felt as though I was taking back 10 years of my life.

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I was ready once again to be the greatest sportswriter who ever lived. I was in the visiting clubhouse waiting to interview one of the Oakland A's this year when one of the players called, "Here, pussy"-as though he were calling a cat.

But of course, he hadn't lost Fluffy; he'd found a woman in his locker room. It doesn't make me angry anymore; it just seems silly and absurd. But some paranoia lingers. Sometimes I'm kind of quiet in a group interview, and I have this feeling other reporters will think it's because I'm a dumb ol' girl.

I'm a general assignment sports reporter now, which means I do whatever they ask of me.

My aim as a writer is to make the people I cover seem human to the readers. You can't do this without asking about their dogs and their mom and what bugs them even worse than dropping the soap in the shower. It seems logical to me. I mean, we know a guy is probably happy to be a number-one draft choice, but what makes him real is how he is like or unlike us.

It's the way we measure all people, the Homo sapiens equivalent of sniffing butts by the fire hydrant. But I don't think it seems very logical to some of the other reporters.

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Sometimes I will request an interview at someone's house, and my peers act as though it's weird. But how can you really profile a guy if you haven't seen his coffee table or the junk stuck to his fridge? Sometimes before the game when everyone is milling about, I go sit around the corner in equipment manager Joe Macko's office and visit for a while just so I don't wear out my welcome in the room o' nakedness.

Some nights I walk out the back door where all the wives are waiting, and they stare at me strangely, as though they think I'm the woman Cosmo warned them about or something.

After a long game, while standing in the middle of the clubhouse waiting for someone to appear, I sometimes gaze off in one direction, the way you stare when you're bored and become transfixed on an object until your eyes cross and you snap back into the reality of car payments and cellulite. I was doing that one recent day when a wet, naked body walked into my trance.

It might as well have been a water cooler. I had to remind myself that I should probably look away. That's another thing that has changed. I really want to be as unobtrusive as possible, so I will turn away from someone who is dressing or, if I have the time, wait until he has put his shorts on before I approach. I've been around long enough now that if they see me turn away, they probably know it isn't because I'm scared or intimidated.

I like to think I've earned a little respect. The Mavericks pose an entirely different set of problems. I'd actually never been in an NBA locker room until last winter.

Then, just as I walked in the door, it struck me that I was five feet, three inches tall-about the height of an NBA crotch. Point guards became my instant favorites for those early post-shower interviews. It is one thing not to look at your notepad, but another not to be able to look straight ahead without a big clothesline of boy parts. James Donaldson was the very tallest, and I almost always waited until he had some small piece of fabric on before I walked back there.

If necessity of deadlines or getting to someone before another reporter called for it, sure, I'd talk to Oral Roberts's foot Jesus naked, no matter where the crotch fell.

The Mavericks were a delight to be around even when pissed off. The Rangers treat me like anyone else who wanders in. Oh sure, they may actually think I'm an idiot.

But there's a strange sort of comfort in feeling that if they think I'm an idiot, it's probably not because I'm a woman but because I'm just acting like an idiot.

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The most puzzled responses to my job come from the friends and acquaintances in my personal life. Kids at the tanning salon want to know if I date the players.

Friends at Bible study ask if the players are mean to me.

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And then there's the guy-almost any guy in any bar in town-who subjects me to a sports-trivia quiz during the usual getting-acquainted foreplay. Leaking testosterone and reeking of beer, a Jethro Bodin-esque character sidles up and asks what I do.

Lady Gaga Shows Off Her 'Peach' in Skimpy Bathing Suit on Miami Beach. Lady Gaga showed off her toned body in a tiny bikini at the beach ahead of her concert in Miami. Just call her "Princess Estimated Reading Time: 2 mins The year-old actress made a 'Big Bang' on the app on Wednesday -Prudie. Dear Prudence, I'm in my mids and have always enjoyed a good relationship with my parents. My father is a well-respected member of the community. Growing up, I had nice things and Estimated Reading Time: 8 mins

So do you know about sports? I falter, and he complains, "Hey, I thought you said you knew sports. Lately I've just started saying I'm a secretary at Wolfe's Nursery. But unfortunately, in north Arlington, this seems to be an enviable attribute on a par with big Dallas hair and coaching shorts as after-five wear. And of course, women everywhere want to know about that great walled fortress of wet boy flesh, the locker room.

We're sitting around the salon one day making bets on when the rest of the country will catch on that Ross Perot is a weasel when someone says he finished ahead of Bush and Clinton in another poll.

Cindy, who is dabbing brown goop on my roots, figures this is like when the seniors get all reactionary and vote in the ugliest girl for homecoming queen, and it just might happen on a bigger scale.

Donna doesn't like politics, so she asks what it is I do for the paper again.

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Donna doesn't like newspapers either. Donna is a good argument for euthanasia.

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The immediate response is curiosity: Do I get to go in the locker room? And you won't believe this, and I swear it's true: the immediate response of three women who don't even like sports outside of bungee jumping at Baja is, "You've seen Ro Blackman naked? I'm sure he's been naked in the room where I was at some time.

But the point is that you don't even think much about people being naked after a while, and unless you have some peculiar reason for remembering, you don't know who you have seen naked because they all kind of waltz in and out of the shower naked, just one wet butt covered with soap film after another.

I tried to explain that it is probably a lot like being a male gynecologist: the daily procession of personal parts becomes so routine that it ceases to be of anything but professional interest. Yet I wonder. When men gather at bars and golf courses and any of the other traditional salt licks for male bonding, do they ask the gynecologist what Mrs. Holcombe's hooters look like? Do they want to know if it's hard for him to keep his professionalism with his hand inserted in some babe's bodily cavity-and whether it's scary?

I try to explain, which is difficult because Donna and I are on different sexual wavelengths.

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But then Donna likes the men she meets at Baja. If I did ever fall hopelessly head over heels for one of these men, it would not be because I had noticed a pterodactyl-size penis, but for the same reasons I'd fall for anyone else. Like many people, Donna, who should have been named Brittany, just can't accept this. Actually, I tell them, one of the most peculiar side effects of my job is that it seems to run off men in personal relationships.

Oh sure, at first they think it's pretty cool that you're the only person at a party who can remember Neil Lomax's name or that you can name all the Rangers managers in 18 seconds-with a shot in your mouth.

Originally published June 4, , in the Dallas Observer. Reprinted here with permission from the author, who has also provided an afterword about the response to her story 'Big Brother': Derek F. Apologizes to Tiffany & Azah for Past Fights. TV 'The Morning Show' Cast on Bradley's Unexpected Kiss in Episode 3. Movies Madonna Exposes Year-Old Fan's Breast During Concert, Teen Calls It the 'Best Moment of Life' By John Boone AM PDT, March 18, This video is unavailable because we were unable to load Estimated Reading Time: 5 mins

But that's while they are still trying to maneuver you quickly into bed. During this phase of courtship, most men would be reassuring Lassie that her role as a dog star doesn't matter that they just like her nice, shiny coat. For most of the guys who hang around for more than three dates, my job suddenly becomes a problem.

Apparently a guy has to be awfully secure not to be intimidated by my frequent trips into locker rooms as though I'm doing comparative shopping or by my knowing a good bit about sports. I can't tell you the bizarre arguments I've had with a few of these creeps who keep suggesting I become a teacher.

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