I was looking at an apartment in Brooklyn. It was, as usual, on the small side. One of the rooms was in the shape of a “Z,” so that there was really no possible way for a bed to fit. Which was too bad, because it was supposed to be a bedroom.
“There’s a big one for sale a couple floors down,” said the broker. “You wanna take a look, for fun?”
Well, of course I did! I spend at least 20 minutes a day on StreetEasy, staring greedily at NYC real estate I can’t afford. Keep reading »
I am the only woman in NYC who has never gotten waxed. This is a fact. If someone collected statistics, the numbers would definitely confirm it.
You could say I’m a bit of a wild woman. My hair is unpredictable, my nail polish is usually mostly chipped off, I can’t do a pantsuit to save my life and I have all sorts of body hair.
I know, I should be ashamed. I once wondered if anyone would ever love me. You’d think not, but actually, I’ve been married for a year! It doesn’t count, though, because he’s the hairiest man in the world. He’s basically half wildebeest. So he doesn’t notice these things. That’s the only possible explanation. Keep reading »
I like boobs. I’m a straight woman, but really, who doesn’t appreciate them? Robots. Reptiles. Sauron. That’s about it. And I’m not even positive about Sauron. He might have, at some point, before he was all disembodied. Breasts are awesome. As feminist writer Gail Collins said in her New York Times piece, “Everybody likes breasts — infants, adults, women, men. Really, it’s America’s most popular body part.” But sometimes it seems like we only get to talk about how awesome certain kinds of boobs are. The ones that are bold, perfectly round, Sports Illustrated-style, belonging to Christina Hendricks, full, plush, generous, prominent, and just generally big.
Those words do not describe my breasts, but I like mine anyway. For some reason, I never learned to be ashamed. I listened to my brothers (and the world) make enthusiastic comments about well-endowed women, and, although I had a few moments of “Seriously, God? Where’s the rest of my chest? YOU FORGOT SOMETHING,” I grew up generally liking the way I looked. It could be that there’s something wrong with my brain. But I think it’s more likely that small boobs are pretty great. Here’s why. Keep reading »
It was Valentine’s Day, and I didn’t have a boyfriend, which I was telling myself was actually pretty nice. The last boyfriend had gotten me a heart-shaped box of chocolates. I don’t like chocolates. I don’t like hearts. He had also written some ill-conceived poetry, comparing my face to the moon, or something. Or maybe he was comparing my boobs to the sun. Whatever. Keep reading »
I used to be really skinny. So skinny my ribs stuck out.
Everywhere I went, women said, “You’re so skinny! Oh my god. I’m jealous.”
I had friends that were more gorgeous than me, but it was OK, because I was really skinny.
“I wish I was as skinny as you,” they said.
I smiled. I said, “Nah, whatever.” Keep reading »
I saw this girl the other day. She was wearing stunningly high, bright green heels, a strapless silver jumpsuit with a huge white belt, and a fur vest. She looked amazing. I don’t know how she did it, but she looked amazing. And I thought, as I always do, I wish I could pull off something like that. And then I shook my head sorrowfully, but in a resigned way, like an old man on his deathbed at the end of a movie about the pointlessness of modern life, and off I went, going about my day in my ordinary jeans and my Old Navy pea coat. But I have dreams of grandeur. There are things I dream of wearing. Things I fantasize about wearing, in another life, when I am reborn as a Minka Kelly look-alike. For every single thing I secretly want to wear, I have a reason why I shouldn’t wear it. I also have a perfectly clear picture of the kind of girl who would look better than me in every outfit I would like to wear (she usually looks like Minka Kelly). But life is for living! Fear is for lame-o’s! And someday I will work up the courage to wear all of these things … Keep reading »
I was one of the skeptics. Online dating sounded kinda lame to me. It sounded kinda like giving up. After all, I was living in New York, a city teeming with eligible bachelors. In theory. I wasn’t meeting any of them, but I was told they were out there. And I wanted to go on some dates. Grad school was calming down, I’d been single for long enough, and I wanted to check out some of those tiny, funky restaurants in the Village. I didn’t want anything serious. I wanted something to wear cute shoes for. I wanted the opportunity to flirt a little.
“Go online,” my beautiful and much more outgoing best friend said. Keep reading »
I have long suspected that I am bad at being a woman. There are things that other women can do that I am terrible at. There are days that I go out wearing giant boys’ sweatpants, my dad’s old football sweatshirt and a red knit cap. I forget that I’m supposed to try to look nice. There are other days when I try really hard to look nice, and then I see about 50 girls on the subway who all are much better at it. Their outfits are both more original and more trendy. Their lipstick has not ended up on their teeth. They always have a drawer full of makeup somewhere, and they know what each type of makeup thingy does. They have an intimate knowledge of flirty, confident, suggestively withdrawn, adorable, fascinating body language. I am in awe. I wonder how they do it. In my head, I keep a growing list of things that women can do that are a mystery to me, in the hope that one day it will all make sense. One day, I will unlock their secrets. After the jump, some of the things woman do that I just don’t understand. Keep reading »
When I got my period for the first time, my mom wanted to throw a party. She had the whole thing planned. There would be a circle of women — many of them her friends, who would talk about womanhood with me, share their womanly wisdom, and tell rousing tales of menstruation. My mom would present me with a special bracelet, ordered from a catalog of all-natural products, that somehow symbolized my transition from girlhood to womanhood. The red beads were supposed to represent my various life-stages. Or congealed menstrual blood, or something.
“Ohgodpleaseno,” I said, when she told me about her plan. Keep reading »
The other day, I found myself engaging in conversation with a stranger at the grocery store about weight.
“God,” the woman said, pausing near me in the aisle as I considered a package of cookies. “I wish.”
I laughed. “Yeah, I’m trying to decide if it’s worth it.”
“Go for it,” she said, grinning. “You can always hit the gym after.”
She went on her way. I put the cookies back. I thought about it. I picked them up again and put them in my basket. What the hell? I never go to the gym. I’m terrible at treadmills and I’m lazy. Or maybe I’m terrible at treadmills because I’m lazy. It’s a chicken/egg kinda thing. Keep reading »