Last week, I bought new pants. And while that may sound like a mind-numbingly mundane act to you, believe me when I say that the earth shook a little. I haven’t purchased new pants in over three years. I’ve worn them on occasion, sure, and have several pairs languishing in the dark recesses of my closet. But overall, I’ve shied away from wearing jeans, slacks, and pants of all kinds ever since I discovered the fun, flattering, flirty world of skirts and dresses. Skirts work with my figure. They emphasize my waist, glide over my bum and thighs, and show off my shapely calves. Skirts are my sartorial staple. Skirts make me feel confident and stylish and powerful.
Skirts are also decidedly feminine. And as someone who has a deep-seated, highly irrational fear of androgynous dressing, I love them for it. Keep reading »
This month marks the six-year anniversary of my divorce. A lot has changed since then. I’ve lived on my own (no parents, roommates, boyfriend, or husband). I dated again for the first time in a long time (how long? there was no internet the last time I dated). I changed jobs, got another degree, changed careers, moved across the country. Fell in love again.
I’m happy, extremely so. So why do people still act sorry for me when they hear I’m no longer married and the reason why? Keep reading »
When I first met Ethan, I was in love with his friend.
Josh, however, was not in love with me, and told me so. We hadn’t been dating long, but I had met his mother over the holidays and thought things were getting serious, that we might have a future. When he assured me we didn’t, I felt confused, misled and heartbroken.
Ethan had no idea how I felt or that I had given up sugar, gluten, fried food, meat, dairy, alcohol and caffeine in an attempt to cleanse my body of the pain. Ethan had just moved to New York City and was simply looking to meet new people. I agreed to lunch, thinking Ethan might report back to Josh that I was cool and pretty, and what the hell was he thinking?! Keep reading »
My name is Winona and I am a slob.
Growing up, my mom affectionately referred to my bedroom as “the pig sty,” and rightfully so: the clothing, books, art supplies and cereal bowls that covered the floor would often reach knee-height before I felt the urge to tidy up a bit. At some point my brothers began gathering up the trash from their cars and setting it my room instead of putting it in the garbage. Months would pass before I found the bags of Slurpee cups and cracked Green Day CDs.
When I moved into my college dorm, my roommate was also a slob, and within months the trek from our doorway to our beds had become eerily reminiscent of the scene in “Star Wars” where Luke Skywalker falls into the Death Star’s garbage compactor. Keep reading »
About six months ago, my naturally curly locks entered a fussy phase. My hair has always been a delicate ecosystem, but some unidentified hormonal, dietary, or environmental shift had caused it to change from uniformly unruly to lopsidedly bizarre. Essentially, I looked like a frizzy mess except for one stubborn greasy patch directly above my right eye. I had no desire to become the poster child for “combination hair,” and spent a lot of time glaring at my reflection while muttering expletives. Keep reading »
Ughhhhh, he is infuriating, I thought as I scanned Paul*’s Facebook page. There were new status messages — “carboloading” — a recent video of him performing, and links to new posts on his blog. Facebook told me what parties Paul had recently attended and which ones he had just RSVP’d to; it told me “Paul and So-and-So are now friends” and that new friend made a reference to how great it was to meet him. I felt my mouth puckering in the way that my friend Erin refers to as “Cat Ass” — tight and pissed. I wanted to scream expletives at him, eviscerate his ego, slap him, do something to show him just how hurt I was. Instead, I took a deep breath and clicked the window closed. You’ve moved on, Amelia, I thought. You’re over him. You realized you deserved way better than what he could possibly give. There’s no point in being angry. Keep reading »