What do you mean you don’t Venmo?

I get it that my mom, who’s in her 70s, doesn’t know how to copy and paste a simple line of text and probably doesn’t even realize there’s a private message feature on FaceBook. What I don’t get, though, is how all Generation Xers—my contemporaries—don’t use Venmo. Are you kidding me??? This app is the best thing that ever happened to me since meeting Ray. It’s like, “Wait, you’re telling me that when I owe people money, I can instantaneously pay them back and don’t have to go through the steps of remembering to write a check, addressing an envelope, wasting a stamp and driving to a mailbox?” That’s dreamlike—with the time I save, I could buy a lot more useless shit on Amazon. Wow. 

As an inherently lazy person, who has her dry cleaning picked up and delivered and controls her thermostats from bed, these risks would never deter me from using this miracle app.

So, why don’t some of my friends take advantage of this utopian app? I did some very in-depth and professional research to find out why. Translation: I accosted them by text. This made me realize why I chose opinion writing over hard-nosed journalism as I read the response of Friend 1: “I like cash, checks and credit cards. Not Venmo. There’s no other reason. I don’t ‘wanna Venmo. I won’t be bullied into it, and I’m not using it. There’s no answer other than that. I just don’t want it!” Slam went that bulletproof door, so I moved on and texted Friend 2. She explained that her family has had identity theft issues, so they wanted to limit their online exposure. She then added, “I’ve since given in, and I use Venmo but only when necessary. I had to for group stuff—gifts and shiva. I couldn’t be the odd man out anymore.” Friend 3 also threw her e-hat in the ring despite worrying about the security of her bank account. If it was good enough for her financially-savvy friends, it was good enough for her. 

Friend 4 doesn’t have her own Venmo account but doesn’t let that stop her. “Oh, how much were the tickets? I’ll have my husband Venmo you.” That’s what I call a Friendmo account, where someone else does the Venmoing for you. She told me that she can’t have her own account, because only one Venmo account can be linked to a particular bank account. Friend 4 didn’t really want to hear from me that she could still have her own account and simply not link it to a bank account. It would be like a virtual jar where you add and send money directly to and from that jar. “YES, BUT WE DON’T WANT TO DO IT THAT WAY!” Did she just tell me to fuck off? Yes, she did. 

The fifth and final friend I asked is one tough motherfucker, who ignores the constant urging of friends to “just use Venmo already!” She admits it’s probably an irrational fear of someone being able to access her money and even allows her kids to link it to their bank accounts. She pays bills and shops online using credit cards, so I asked, “What makes you think someone won’t hack your credit card?” She said, “They can, and I can cancel it—they still won’ have access to my whole bank account.” Okay, I couldn’t argue with that rationale. But, her last reason of not wanting people to be able to see who she paid was unfounded. You can choose to have a private feed, and, even if the other Venmo user has a public setting, the transaction will be cloaked. And thank god for that, because I don’t need anyone seeing I pay my boyfriend for sex. 

So, is there truth to these paranoias, or is it safe? A little research will tell you that even though Venmo uses data encryption and offers users a PIN code option, it is not a foolproof system. A thief can take up to $2,999.00, because that’s the maximum balance allowed. To protect yourself best, you’re supposed to keep small amounts in your account, only interact with people you know and keep your account private. As an inherently lazy person, who has her dry cleaning picked up and delivered and controls her thermostats from bed, these risks would never deter me from using this miracle app.

Possibly the best benefit of Venmo, though, is sidestepping the awful exercise of hunting down those friends who always seem to “forget” to pay you back. I used to avoid heading up group gifts, because I didn’t like shaking people down even when writing those sweet-sounding group emails: “This is a gentle reminder that I have not yet received your check for Betty’s 40th group gift. She’s now 47. Thank you.” You can check your history on Venmo, too. When a friend says, “I paid you for that already,” you can say, “No, you haven’t, you lying, cheap bitch.” Oh, and, how could I forget that, if you have a college kid, you need Venmo as much as you need Xanax? “Mom, I need money in my account. I can’t eat.” Knowing he blew his money on weed, I smirk as I transfer the money anyway and type “act of mercy” in the Venmo reason line. 

I bet you didn’t know that you can Venmo people who don’t even have it. I was the asshole who did that to my sister-in-law. When you click on the icon to pay someone, all of your contacts’ emails come up, and Venmo allows you to send money to a person without an account. I assume it starts one of those virtual jars I mentioned above. My sister-in-law is now a faithful Venmo user and has me to thank…I think.

It’s clear that I have a bit of contempt for people who resist Venmo. I will work on being an accepting and loving person with this mantra: “They are good people; They don’t mean to inconvenience anyone; I will respect their right to choose.” Oh, please, I can’t even say this crap. Just get fucking Venmo already!

I dedicate this blog to the Venmo users in my life. Thank you for saving me paper, ink, stamps, gas and time. Thank you for paying me promptly. And, thank you for participating in the 21st century. 

*All names have been changed. 

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Posted in day-to-day, errands, idiosyncracies, improvement, Judgment, pet peeves, social media, trends | 3 Comments

Greener Pastures

“Why would you wear those pants? They showcase your muffin top.” That’s called fat-shaming. “Why do your legs spread as easily as cream cheese on a bagel?” That’s called slut-shaming, In my day, it was just called being a nasty bitch. Now, it happens all over social media. I thank some higher power that this little shaming trend came into existence well past 1990, the year of my college graduation. I’ve managed to avoid being fat- or slut-shamed as far as I know, but, last summer, I was straw-shamed. I have to say it did leave me with a little sting, which is why I’m writing about it today. 

I’m not not ready to get completely fucking California yet—I cannot live without paper towels or Ziploc bags.

I now keep a metal straw in both my glove compartment and pocketbook, but here’s how it went down last July when I poured my two guests drinks and offered them plastic cocktail straws/stirrers. Right away, my one friend said, “I don’t use straws.” I was smart enough to know it was an environment-friendly stance and not a problem with her lips. I remember feeling embarrassed and extremely non-green. I wanted to shout out, “Wait, I hate Trump, and I’m a staunch recycler! I only use paper plates on a rare night of too much company!” Instead, I defended myself by saying, “Well, I have tons of these little straws. I may as well use them, because they can be thrown out now all together or little by little over time.” She just kind of nodded but definitely didn’t reach for a straw. I can’t remember if my other friend used one or not, but I’m guessing after that awkward exchange, she put her mouth directly on her glass. 

You might be thinking that my friend didn’t really shame me, and I was just being sensitive. It was my reaction to feel embarrassed. It was her choice of words that made me cringe, though. Had she simply said, “No thanks,” I would never have given it a second thought. But, I heard “I don’t use straws,” as, “Why do you use straws?” Maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing, because, guess what? I did ask myself why I used them. A quick Google search told me that plastic straws take about 500 years to decompose. That means every one you’ve ever used is sitting in a landfill somewhere. Loads of littered straws end up in the ocean, where fish and animals can’t digest them. I’m not a tree-hugger or an animal-lover by any means, but I do have a conscience and a heart.

Like I mentioned, I recently began keeping metal straws with me, but it’s not so common in the NJ suburbs yet. I can just hear the jabs from my Chanel-bag-carrying friends. “Oh, look at Miss Dreadlocks and her silver straws!” My “shamer” friend—who is a very nice person by the way—lives in Brooklyn, where people are more environmentally conscious. I have cousins in Berkeley, CA, who carry reusable straws and nylon grocery bags in their pocketbooks. They use cloth napkins, too. My part of NJ apparently hasn’t gotten this memo yet. Trader Joe’s is the one grocery store near me who gives out paper bags only. My big three markets—Shop Rite, Kings and even Whole Foods—still use plastic bags. That would be a practice worse than human sacrifice in Berkeley. Our close neighbor, New York, just passed a statewide ban on most types of single-use plastic bags that will start next March. These greener, cultural norms will slowly make their way to NJ no doubt, but the message is being sent via the Pony Express.

While I do have my own reusable grocery bags, I’m not not ready to get completely fucking California yet—I cannot live without paper towels or Ziploc bags. Those are like plasma and oxygen to me. I hear that in some places, cloth diapers are making a strong comeback, since disposable diapers really do a number on the environment. I offer a sincere thank you here to my three children for being fully potty-trained. So, back to my plethora of cocktail straws: Do I toss them or use them gradually, since they will all be going to a landfill eventually? I’m ‘gonna go with tossing them now. If my cute, metal straws inspire someone else, then that’s a good thing. Plus, I don’t want to be stung ever again by anyone in a “There is no Planet B” t-shirt.

I dedicate this blog to Elpheba, the coolest green person out there. I also dedicate it to my friend, who did me a favor and spurred me into action without even knowing she did.  Thank you to all the others, who truly care about reducing our carbon footprint, too. Hear this, though: I will never stop shaving my pits or reuse tampons. 

p.s. Guilt alert. I just ordered reusable storage bags to replace my Ziploc habit. Here’s the link: https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00LX4FXMM/ref=ppx_yo_dt_b_asin_title_o00_s00?ie=UTF8&psc=1

*All names have been changed. 

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TO EAT IS HUMAN; TO BE THIN, DIVINE.

If Oprah is doing it, then so am I. About every three years, I give Weight Watchers a try. It’s usually at the point where the one pair of jeans that don’t constrict my abdominal region have absolutely no more stretch left in them. I last a few weeks until I’m at a party and find myself with a tequila in my hand and some pigs-in-blankets traveling down my throat. This then kicks off a high speed train ride back to gluttony. I always seem to have a first-class ticket. Shit. Yet I still hang on to the hope that WW (as it’s now called) will reel me back in somehow. That’s why I tend to show up at meetings even after a night of pasta—that I definitely did not calculate in the WW point system. Hearing a woman confess about how she housed an entire sleeve of Thin Mints makes me feel normal. I don’t know any of these people. We are all different sizes, shapes, colors and ages. But, we all have one thing in common—we love to put things in our mouths that are bad for us, and I’m not talking about blowjobs here. We try; we fail; we try again. That’s why I continue to cycle through my triennial relationship with WW.

Hearing a woman confess about how she housed an entire sleeve of Thin Mints makes me feel normal.

My last meeting leader, Sally, was my favorite. She streaked her hair purple, fuchsia or turquoise each week, and she had slightly hidden tattoos. Her wit and humor makes this group-therapy-like setting fun. Once at a meeting, a woman said her “thing” was CHEEZ-ITs; she said she could sit down and eat a half of a box. Right away, Sally cut in and said something like, “Wait, you mean you don’t eat the whole box? Then, that is definitely not your thing! If it was, that box would be gone. I know that, because CHEEZ-ITs are my thing, too. That’s why they cannot enter my home. Ever.” I show up for Sally but also for the regulars. Sometimes I want to call out “NORM” when Kitty enters. She’s in her 70s and talks without shame about her food struggles. I fell in love with this woman the day she told us that she was placed directly in front of the sweet potato pie at Thanksgiving, and her arm and fork just kept reaching back in for more. That’s why I was so happy the day she sat down next to me at a manicure. I said, “You’re Kitty, right? I’m at your WW meetings, but I don’t talk much.” Well, in only 15 minutes, I knew how much weight she had put on; the marriage status of her three children; and the stops on her upcoming two-week cruise.

At times, the honesty in that room is almost too much to bear. Women have started crying while talking about their fucked-up relationships with food. It’s a good thing I’m rows away, because it’d be really creepy if I reached out to stroke the hand of a complete stranger. One woman once confessed that her own father tries to sabotage her dieting. Another broke down as she spoke of having to take care of a very sick relative, which made her regain her weight. The saddest moment was when a woman said she was there, because having to ask for a seat belt extender on a plane was the lowest point of her life. It’s this room that makes people feel safe, because if you’re there to lose over 100 pounds or just ten, people get it. And, it’s a real bang for your buck when you compare the 12 or so dollars a week to the $200 for private therapy. Plus, you don’t have to dig all they way back to how your mother never hung up your school projects on the fridge.

Then there are the people who make me smile, like Kitty. Two of my other favorites are the older women with white hair who sit in the back and “whisper” comments to each other. I swear they are those two old muppet men in the audience of “The Muppet Show.” I overheard one of them say she wished she could use the WW app (which is as important to this diet as having gas in a car). I leaned over and asked why she couldn’t. She said it was because of her phone. I expected to see a flip phone, but, no, she had a smartphone. I told her I could help her, or she should ask the woman at the desk. I’m pretty sure she still doesn’t know what she’s doing. My own 83-year-old aunt is convinced she doesn’t have a texting icon on her brand new Samsung Galaxy, even though my sister and I have separately given her idiot-proof, step-by-step instructions—at least ten times.

I get more out of these meetings than just feeling like a fellow failure in a sea of yo-yo dieters. Who knew Hebrew National made a hot dog that is only one point? And, who knew there was something called Half Naked Popcorn that you could eat a lot of and still keep it legal? I also know how one woman pre-tracked her meals to navigate the exorbitant amount of food on her vacation to Mexico without tipping her scale. I even learned how one of the regulars made it through her nephew’s bar mitzvah without starving herself like she used to do. Victories, not only failures, abound at these meetings. I just sit there quietly hoping that something will click in me, too. If those muppets can do it, then why can’t I, damn it?

I dedicate this blog to that 83-year-old aunt I mentioned. She has always struggled with her weight and is probably the thinnest she has ever been in her life, having stuck to a diet for a long time. I wonder why, at 83, she doesn’t just say, “Fuck it,” but I haven’t said that to her. I never aspired to be a saboteur, only a thin person.

*All names have been changed.

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Posted in community, confessions, day-to-day, dieting, health, improvement | Leave a comment

Confessions of a Weirdo

Who the fuck eats the green Mike and Ikes? Or the green lifesavers? Why do they even make that flavor? Or, is the question really: Who still eats this tooth-rotting shit? This is where my hand shoots up from the back of the class, and you all look at me in either disgust or admiration for admitting a gross habit. Unfortunately for my thighs and ass, I do love candy, just not the green ones. I like all the candies that make you say, “Is that even food?” I love Now & Laters; Bottle Caps; Spree; Bullseyes (caramel creams); and Circus Peanuts (orange, peanut-shaped, marshmallow-like). I think in the meats department, that’s akin to liking Spam. My parents ate Peanut M&Ms, Snickers, Charleston Chews and Reese’s, so I know it’s not a hereditary disorder. 

I like all the candies that make you say, “Is that even food?”

I also like really bad TV shows. Ray worries about me, when he walks in and finds me watching some documentary on teenage abduction; hoarding; women with the biggest hips in the world; kids born with no brains and men who date blowup dolls. I don’t really think I’m the audience they are targeting, because I have a college education. I’m so glad I can help their ratings, though.

Now, let’s move on to my obsession with gadgets. I have a mini ice pick in my freezer to separate the ice when it clumps together. I wish I could explain why it’s satisfying to make that stabbing motion from the shower scene in Psycho and watch the cubes break apart. I use a sheepskin shoulder pad on my seat belt strap to stop the chafing on my neck, which made me paranoid that my kids thought Ray had given me hickies. I have a zoom lens I hook right onto my iPhone that makes me look like the total loser that I am. I even have a boot-remover device that I bought at a western store. You stand on the back of it with your opposite foot, as you put the heel of your boot in the front of it and pull out your foot—no bending over or struggling required. It doesn’t discriminate: It works on fuck-me boots as well as cowboy boots. And, you know those metal zig-zag taco holders that restaurants use? That’s all I’m ‘gonna say. 

Does this make me anal-retentive, obsessive-compulsive or attention-seeking? I really don’t think so. Let’s just say I’m a little strange, or how about interesting or unique, since that sounds better? I tried to bring Ray into the fold a little bit, when I bought him one of those electric shoe cleaners they have at golf clubs, you know where you press the button and the black and red nylon brushes rotate around as you put your foot underneath. He was polite and thanked me, but it’s still in the box in his storage closet.

One more thing—I know I mentioned only sugar candies above. Please don’t take that to mean I don’t like chocolate. Unfortunately I did inherit my parents’ chocolate gluttony. If you put a bag of Hershey’s kisses near me, I can assure you I don’t need a wand to make them disappear.

I dedicate this blog to Amazon, who enables my strange buying habits. When you don’t have to leave your house to buy a 1950s retro candy box or a pickle grabber tool, it’s pure bliss. How great it is to live in the United States of Amazon. 

*All names have been changed.

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Posted in confessions, errands, idiosyncracies, pet peeves, shame | Tagged , , | Leave a comment

Miss Under Stood

A green complexion can make life tough. Just look at the Wicked Witch of the West. Noticing a new pimple makes me wince, so how do you think she feels waking up to a green reflection in the mirror every morning? Maybe you’d act like a mean witch, too. I learned the real story behind the Wicked Witch from the musical Wicked. She is a liberal and caring soul and truly the most misunderstood character out there. Brainwashed from childhood, I bought into Dorothy’s take on her and never even bothered to think there was a bigger picture. I’m embarrassed to admit that this is typical for me. I tend to prejudge people before knowing a whole story. It’s not one of my better qualities.

The reality is that if someone judged me on who my close friends were, I may have a very barren social calendar.

If a woman is thin, attractive and has a good sense of style, but she’s a quiet type, it’s easy to assume she’s aloof and a bitch. If another woman is quiet but is instead overweight and sports a pooka bead necklace, we would chalk it up to her simply having a less social nature. I know some women who are actually shy. I used to think, “Grow up already for God’s sake. You’re 45, not three.” But, then I learned they had some kind of social anxiety. I knew a woman like this in college, who got stomachaches before she’d go to a party. Sometimes she’d even stay home altogether. When you look at it from an angle of why, rather than an angle of an immediate eye roll, it’s surprising how sympathy develops.

For example, if someone shows up to a workout class wearing a sleeve of gold and diamond bracelets and has a Mr. T neckline, that definitely might make me stop and say, “Hmmm. I don’t think I’ll be asking her to coffee anytime soon.” But, what if the story behind the jewels was that the minerals contained in gold tempered some kind of extreme skin irritation? Then there is that mom who smothers her kids and lives her life vicariously through them. Before I label her pathetic, I have to think that maybe she was a very lonely child, who was the last pick for kickball and never went to a prom. Who am I kidding, though? I’d still think she was pathetic, but, at least I’d have some compassion behind my judgment.  

Then there’s the guilty-by-association prejudgment. You know, like, “How could I be friends with Betty, because Betty is friends with that social climber Louise?” The reality is that if someone judged me on who my close friends were, I may have a very barren social calendar. I have friends who social climb, too. They also lie on their taxes; let their underage kids drink; talk behind people’s backs; double book plans; curse at their kids; fight with their mothers; and on and on and on. Who elected me chief of the moral police, when I’m guilty of some of this stuff myself? 

A very wise and beloved cousin of mine once told me that people who are mean are usually unhappy inside. When I encounter rude people, I’m grateful when I remember that before a slight rage builds inside me. I’ll never forget a NYC bus driver I had once. I didn’t have my token ready, and she barked at me with a real nastiness. She was heavy, highly unattractive and seemed tired. A possible out-loud “fuck off” turned into an under-my-breath one. She was clearly sad inside and was lashing out to soothe herself somehow. I think she just needed to get home to her couch and wrap her crocheted blanket around herself. 

There’s always more to a story. There’s always someone just having a shitty day. There’s always the possibility that even the most perfect of us could simply be misunderstood. And, if you’re not buying any of that, there’s always pizza. It’s cheesy, crusty and not sweet, but you still like it anyway. 

I dedicate this to the next-door neighbors of my son’s apartment, as he parties, I mean studies, abroad. May they have patience and earplugs. Or, may they file complaints ever so softly. 

*Names have been changed.

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Posted in friendship, improvement, Judgment, sentimental, shame | Tagged | Leave a comment

Stop Being So Groovy

The white robe; the white, terrycloth slippers; the little bottles of shampoo: all signs that yes, you’re in a hotel room. Then there’s the sign in the bathroom asking you to please be green and reuse your towels. It’s interesting how I usually notice that sign as I’m dropping my wet towel on the floor. But, give me some help, hotel planners—where are the extra hooks in the bathroom? I’m lucky if I can find two. Ray’s hook works for him, a low-maintenance male, but my hook has to put in a lot of overtime as it supports a wet towel, a bathrobe, and, at times, a wet shower cap. That little, paper, guilt-inducing sign was never around when I was in my younger years. Does it actually help cut down on energy and water use? A Google search just told me that seventeen out of 100 people reuse their towels during hotel stays. 

I need my bathroom to be like a vault, where, if a nuclear war hit mid-shit, I’d be safe. 

Now that that’s out of the way, it’s my past two hotel stays that have made me really scratch my head (and not because of dirty towels). What the fuck is with this trend of not fully enclosing the bathroom? I know we share hotel rooms with spouses, relatives and close friends. They are the people we get naked in front of, cry in front of and burp in front of. But, do we really need to hear them take a shit and then smell it? For god’s sake, let there be a door that closes fully and a shared wall that is solid. These groovy designs of missing doors; partial walls that don’t meet the ceiling; walls with a macrame rope section (my last hotel) or a glass insert in the middle of sheetrock do not work for me. I need my bathroom to be like a vault, where, if a nuclear war hit mid-shit, I’d be safe. 

Back to the glass panes now—my one thought is “Why?” I’m a woman. I represent all women in the fact that we pee at least once, mostly twice, in the middle of the night. With a full bladder in the dark, I have two choices in these groovy-designed hotel rooms: to take a Helen Keller-like journey and feel my way around the bathroom, hoping to fit my ass securely on the seat or to turn on the bathroom light, which will wake up Ray, since the entire room will be aglow at two am. Both scenarios suck. I usually end up using my phone’s light, which is only one step away from a blindfolded Sandra Bullock in Bird Box. 

The real impetus for my profound confusion with this groovy, boutiquey nonsense was the placement of these panes of glass inside the showers. One hotel had a glass pane in the wall between the shower and the bed itself. And—I swear this is true—the pane was directly in the spot where you stood under the shower head. I tried to angle that fucker as far back as possible, so that maybe just my breasts were visible. But, nope, no such luck, it was a full-body shot. Of course, the friend I was rooming with, weighs about 80 pounds and has a body profile that mimics a sheet of paper, not to mention firm tits. I wanted to break that pane of glass, take a shard and murder the asshole in charge of deciding where the glass would be placed. My last hotel was only a little better in that the shower wall was frosted glass and not completely see-through. However, my fully-lit, naked silhouette still wasn’t working for me.  

You better believe when I stepped out of these showers, cringing and wet, I wanted a fresh, clean towel. Fuck the environmental footprint, and fuck these groovy designers. I reuse my towels at home, where I have a solid wooden door with a proper knob and a lock. I even have six hooks. Please know that I will never leave a hotel room without leaving cash on the counter for the cleaning women. And, I never steal the robes. 

I dedicate this blog to Ray for giving me the privacy I need in hotel rooms with no proper barriers. 

*All names have been changed.

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Posted in privacy, travel, trends | Leave a comment

YOU ARE (not) GROSS

“Everything off but your underwear. The doctor will be in soon,” she said as she handed me the paper gown. But, you didn’t tell me if the opening goes in the front or back. Ass first or second? Shit, I hate these full-body skin checks.  

Does Gisele Bundchen feel the slightest bit self-conscious about this? Do teenagers hate this, even though nothing is even falling or weathered yet? Every ripple, vein and freckle was scrutinized by my doctor. She even wore a headlamp around her head, like a coal miner about to head into a tunnel. Then, I’d hear the snap of a picture being taken. This is actually being documented? I want my records sealed. When she got to my boobs, the self-loathing in my head got louder: Is she choking back her puke? Will she have night terrors from the sight of these? Then we proceeded to have a conversation about sunscreen with me facing her, gown fully open; my tits hanging down like my scarves on closet hooks. This was humiliation at its maximum output, as she kept shooting photos. I said, “Wow, this is as close as I’ll ever come to being a centerfold in Playboy.” She didn’t laugh. I don’t blame her—it wasn’t funny. I yearned for my jeans and bra on the nearby chair.

But, my inner voice can be such a mean bitch, who wants to take some kind of vengeance on me. What the fuck did I ever do to her?

I would guess that guys don’t care much when they’re in a medical gown, and the doctor clutches their balls and tells them to cough. They’re not thinking about a clean bikini area or back fat. I assume their biggest paranoia is worrying that the guy before them in the examining room was hung like a 70s porn star. Their expanding bellies and love handles that protrude over the tops of their ill-fitting GAP jeans aren’t a concern. It’s their dick size that’s making them squirm. Wow, that would be a dream to think about only my vagina while stark naked in front of someone. Instead, my head is swarming with enough self-deprecation to cause an aneurism. 

I have a hunch I’m in good company here—that we women despise parts of ourselves for things we can’t control, like our mothers’ crows’ feet and our grandmothers’ thighs. But, my inner voice can be such a mean bitch, who wants to take some kind of vengeance on me. What the fuck did I ever do to her? I thought she was supposed to be a guiding energy and a personal cheerleader. She should be pumping in kind thoughts about unicorns and my favorite camp counselor. She needs to shield me from the devilish voices telling me I resemble my nana emerging from the shower circa 1980. Her gig includes suffering with me through nakedness and public speaking—even 50th birthday roasts—without hurling negative thoughts like spears through my frontal lobe. If she wants to remain a tenant in my brain, she better cheer the fuck up.

You know that cute, little serenity prayer that’s sometimes needlepointed and hangs on people’s office doors: Give me the strength to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things I can; and wisdom to know the difference? Well, that’s the kind of thing my inner voice should be chanting to me. She should set those words to a catchy tune that will play over and over in my head when I’m feeling insecure. I want that song cranked at high volume when I’m in a bathing suit and about to step onto a beach. If she can’t shower me with love, then I will have to turn to the only resource I have that brings me what I need within a day or two—Amazon. A quick search just now brought me to this book: You are a Badass; How to Stop Doubting Your Greatness and Start Living an Awesome Life. Sounds good to me. 

I dedicate this blog to Daughter 2. She is my baby, and, though she tells me I’m annoying almost daily, I know she likes me deep down. Now, that’s something that gives me some confidence. 

*All names have been changed.

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