There are topics people won’t touch at cocktail parties because it’s not “polite conversation.” These are subjects people secretly want to discuss, but, when broached over hummus and Merlot, make them uncomfortable. These are precisely the things I love talking about. So here goes: My husband and I just graduated from couple’s therapy.
We started going about two years ago. We had just gotten back from a vacation with friends in the Bahamas with our then-3-year-old twins. There’s something about couples in trouble and the Caribbean, an unspoken belief that perhaps the turquoise water will bring clarity. That the sun and sand will somehow breathe new life into a choking, gasping union. I know several couples who returned from a Caribbean vacation and immediately divorced. Keep reading »
It had been a bleak year. I started taking anti-depressants and was slowly putting on weight, as the side effects had warned. This alone was not a problem: guys always told me I was a little too skinny and that I had a bony butt, so I actually enjoyed having a juicy badonkadonk for the first time in my life. But as I packed on more pounds on my slender frame, my clothes stopped fitting. J.Crew skinny jeans? Couldn’t wear ‘em anymore. Vintage mini-dress? So tight it ripped. Silk blouse? My upper arms no longer fit without gnarly pit stains. I had to chuck tons of panties that now squeezed uncomfortably around my new butt. Not surprisingly, I started to get a little neurotic (and vain) and seriously considered ditching my happy pills in the hopes that I’d get my zippy ol’ metabolism back.
Then my 26th birthday arrived. My boyfriend was out of town on a business trip and left a birthday present waiting for me on our bed. I ripped the paper off and saw a box from one of New York City’s fanciest lingerie stores: inside was an adorable black and pink bra and panties set from Betsey Johnson. He did his sizing-homework in advance: the panties fit my rotund butt, the bra did not pinch my shoulders. And something immediately clicked: I am attractive no matter what size I wear. Sexy lingerie comes in all sizes! I realized I didn’t have to fit into my existing clothes to be sexy; I could still look sexy in sizes that fit me properly.
These days, I’m OK with my weight. But there’s one person who’s not — my mom. Keep reading »
Growing up in Brooklyn, I was a tomboy without any contact with actual boys. I was the youngest of two girls raised by a single mother. My sister and I both went to an all-girls, ultra-Orthodox Jewish day school and neither of us had any male friends. During summer breaks, I went to an all-girls camp in the Catskills where we played volleyball and basketball in long skirts, though dribbling a basketball ball between your legs with a swath of denim in the way was no easy task. My extracurricular activity of choice was gymnastics, a sport that doesn’t exactly runneth over with boys. Keep reading »
Recently, during a weekly therapy session, my doc and I were doing our thing, talkin’ ’bout boys, my frustration with the ones I have met, and my recent relapse into dreaming about my ex; I was telling her that sometimes, despite being a relatively solitary person who enjoys time alone, I get overwhelmed with loneliness. I miss something I don’t have anymore, that feeling of deep companionship.
It’s something we’ve talked about often in the last year and a half since my biggie breakup; during that time, as my loneliness and grief waxed and waned, my career has thrived. The Frisky has become more successful than I dared to have dreamed when we first started it and I’m noodling with the idea of writing a book; both work and personal projects keep me busy and sometimes I feel like I need to pinch myself to confirm that my professional aspirations have been met with truly thrilling results. Keep reading »
People say that insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. Then allow me, Keysha Whitaker, to declare myself insane … at least in my dating life. I’m a 31-year-old woman of color who keeps dating the same type of man, over and over. Unfortunately, they often end up being jailbirds, pathological liars and rehab projects to whom I’ve loaned money, written resumes, forgiven lies, posted bail and bought clothes. But who can fault me? My type of guy—a smooth-talking, 6’3″, caramel-skinned, basketball-physiqued brotha with a beat in his step (think rapper T.I. or Michael Ealy)—looks good, and looks good on me. (And, of course, not all caramel-skinned brothas are these things, just the ones I snag.)
It’s easy for me to remember the guys in my life who were my type. Keep reading »
I was never the little girl who dreamed of being a princess. While other kids dressed up in pink chiffon and glitter, I fashioned three-piece suits out of garbage bags and pretended to be a lawyer defending my Babar doll in a custody dispute. So when I got the chance to audition to be a Disney Princess at Disney Hong Kong, it wasn’t about channeling some childhood fantasy. I knew I would be faking it. Or so I thought. Keep reading »
You know that one guy friend of yours who’s always been something of a question in the back of your mind? The one who finishes your sentences and is there for you whenever you need him, but whom you’ve never actually gotten naked with? You know the one – he’s the prime candidate for your “If we’re not married by the time we’re 45” pact.
I have one of those guys in my life, and recently, after evaluating what it was that I’m really looking for in a relationship and thinking it might be him, I decided to take the leap. I vowed to be brave and bold and all mature-like and actually address aloud what had been unsaid for all this time.
So, I did exactly that. And basically, this happened. To my complete and utter surprise, he explained that I’d totally misread his signals; that, in fact, he hadn’t thought of me in that way for a very long time.
Where, in my interpretation of things, had I gone so utterly wrong? Keep reading »
When a study released in late June revealed that one in five women would remain childfree into the next generation, a lot of people were shocked. I wasn’t. In an ironic twist of fate, I had my tubes tied the same weekend. Keep reading »
Of all the personal essays I’ve written, “Why Marrying For Money Isn’t A Totally Bad Idea” has provoked the biggest response. It has actually run twice on the Frisky site: once about a year ago and again in June for our Cash & Coupling feature. Due to all that exposure, it has racked up comments numbering in the hundreds and been written about (90 percent negatively) on dozens of blogs. Someone even sent me an email calling me a “yeast infection”!
Some of the things written about the post, and about me, are so untrue that I’m not sure the author actually read the essay all the way through. But it’s clear to me — both from the tone of the comments and from seeing the piece run with “fresh eyes” for a second time — that I did not explain myself and my beliefs very well. I think that instead of being speculative, I should have gotten more personal.
So. Here we go, again … Keep reading »
Little does the guy on the treadmill next to me know, I’m winning. He was ahead of me at first, but I’ve caught up. Now I’m out in front. He’s run 4.2 miles to my 4.4 in the same amount of time. Ha! I’m winning! I want to yell. I’M WINNING!
In reality I know the stranger couldn’t care less about me, and my competitive spark is just a way to motivate myself during an otherwise boring run, the way it pushes me at work and with my writing. But if I’m not careful, that spark can escalate into a wildfire, threatening to burn everything in its path. Keep reading »