There’s a period of time in high school that I’m not particularly proud of and, remarkably, it’s not the time I wore sparkly blue nail polish to prom: it’s when I wore my Playboy Bunny T-shirt. I’d half-forgotten about that thing until I read Playboy is selling official “Playboy Bunny costumes” in honor of their 50th anniversary. My knee-jerk reaction was to laugh. I mean, what a ridiculous costume. Do women actually feel sexy dressed up in a corset, cottontail and bunny ears?
Then I remembered I used to wear a T-shirt emblazoned with the Playboy Bunny logo. Keep reading »
When I was 21 I was diagnosed with cancer. It really sucked – and not just because of the whole “life-threatening disease” thing. My prognosis was good, as my doctors had caught it early and the type I had was considered extremely treatable. The worst part about cancer was the wrench it threw in my plans. At the time of my diagnosis, I had just started an amazing internship where I was required to work anywhere between 40 and 60 hours a week. My 22nd birthday was three weeks away. Summer had just started and I’d had big plans to work hard all day and play hard at night. In short, multiple surgeries and months of hospital visits was not what I had in mind. In the end, though, cancer might have been the best thing that ever happened to me. Keep reading »
There are real downsides to writing about your life on the internet. For one thing, “sharing” — in the form of your deepest feelings or the most benign observations — starts to become a knee-jerk reaction every time something happens. A particularly awesome development on “Lost”? Tweet your reaction during the commercial break. Feeling inexplicably sad because the person you have a crush on doesn’t seem to give a s**t? Tweet “FMLFMLFML” and then pen a blog post about it the next day. Eventually you realize that your internal filter — the part of you that says, “I think I am going to keep this to myself” — has switched off. That’s what’s happened to me. Keep reading »
This morning, I stood waiting at the bus stop, debating whether to pull a book out of my purse, or pop earbuds in my ears and listen to my NPR Addict app. NPR, I decided. You didn’t read any news yesterday; you need some culture. So I reached my hand in that little pocket of my handbag where I keep my iPhone and fished around for my phone. Nothing. Damn it! I left it on the dresser! Oh, well. No NPR for me, I guess. I scanned my busy avenue, no sign of my bus in sight, and resignedly pulled Some Girls: My Life In A Harem out of my bag to bide the time.
It took me about three seconds to get lost in my incredible book. But all of a sudden, someone appeared right in my face, startling me. I winced for a second, then realized it was my boyfriend. David’s just-showered hair was sopping wet and he was only wearing a tee shirt on this chilly New Jersey morning. He was holding my iPhone.
I kissed him, thanked him, and told him to get back inside because it was cold. And while I watched him dart across the avenue back to our apartment, I flushed with a familiar feeling. He’s too nice for me, I thought. I don’t know if I deserve him. Keep reading »
Yesterday I posted a quote from former Bond Girl Eva Green, who complained about being told she’s beautiful because she’d rather people compliment her for her acting talents. This quote irked me — as it irked many of you — and I’ve been thinking a little bit about why, exactly, I found it so annoying. On one hand, it’s irritating to hear anyone complain about being complimented. On the other hand, I “get” why it would be bothersome to have her good looks seemingly overshadow her other talents. Regardless, Green’s problem is utterly unrelatable; it’s certainly not one I’ve ever dealt with — quite the opposite, in fact.
Put simply, I would just love for someone to tell me that I am beautiful. Keep reading »
A year into our relationship, I knew Michael was about to pop the question. After all, we were crazy about each other, lived together, and made a great team despite our many differences. Now it was just time to make our union official.
“Babe,” he finally said one day. “Are you ready to get a dog together?”
I practically squealed with delight. Yes, I was an unabashed “dog person,” the type who regularly accosts cute canines on the street. But my real excitement was about getting a dog with Michael. In my eyes, our future pup would be a sort living, breathing, slobbering symbol of our intention to build a life together. Keep reading »
When I was about 10 years old, my dad made me promise that—as soon as I turned 21—the two of us would go on a father/daughter trip to Las Vegas. The pact stipulated that it would be just him and me making our way to Sin City—it would not include any kind of boyfriend, or buddy, and certainly not my mother. At the time, 21 seemed like fiction to me. I was still figuring out multiplication tables and it was hard to think a decade ahead to a time when I would no longer be belabored by math and old enough to drink and gamble as well. But at the same time, even at 10, I understood my father was serious, and that a large amount of trust was being entwined in this promise. Keep reading »
The true nature of my relationship ambivalence became apparent a few months ago, when a colleague at a work event asked my partner and me if we were married. I shrugged in my typical fashion, looked at the floor, and muttered, “Yeah.” My coworker nodded, then did a double take. “Wait, did you just say yes?” he asked, incredulous that I would seem so unconcerned about asserting my legal and romantic status. I laughed, as did my partner. It isn’t that we aren’t thrilled to be together. We just don’t care if you know it. Keep reading »
I was standing in front of a table lamp display in Crate & Barrel when I decided maybe I needed to be on psychiatric medicine. I had been alternating between staring at the display and wandering around the store helplessly for the last two and a half hours and was no closer to making a decision on what table lamp I was going to buy than I had been when I walked in. My heart was beating fast, my mind was racing, and I simply could not concentrate on making what should have been a very simple decision. I was thisclose to a full-blown panic attack. Instead, I walked out of the store, went home empty-handed, and told my therapist that Tuesday that I needed a referral for a psychiatrist. I seriously could not take this s**t anymore. Keep reading »