This post was inspired by this comment, from Erin. 

Grilled cheese. This is how I impress people and make friends. It’s also, apparently, the centerpiece of the most boring scene ever written.

A couple years ago, a family friend mentioned that she lived next door to this big-shot book agent. He specialized in fantasy and sci fi. He had four other houses. The books he represented got turned into movies starring Tom Cruise.

(I’d be OK with this being a character from a book I wrote. source)

“You’re writing a book– right, Kate?” the family friend asked.

“Yes! Yes! Yes!” I said. Or something to that effect.

She put me in touch with him. He offered to read my manuscript. I died of fear and joy and then fear again. And then joy. This is it, I thought. This is my big break. Kate, girl, this is the best thing that will ever happen to you.

I was not exactly putting all of my eggs in one basket. I had just started grad school. Just moved to NYC. And it was more about offering up my entire soul than anything to do with eggs, I think.

I sent him the book I’d worked on in college. It was the story of a dangerously powerful young woman named Sanla who is attending an all-girls boarding school at the edge of an enormous jungle, when suddenly she is selected by the Master Mage– the most powerful man in the world– a mysteriously blind, surprisingly young man with long curly black hair, to become his apprentice. But Sanla has the wrong kind of magic. She is a dark mage. And dark magic has long ago been outlawed. It is the magic of dirt and instinct and poverty. The ruling class practices a magic based on memorization, and words, and levels. Could it be that the Master Mage is experimenting with the dark? Could it be that the world is about to change, because of one little orphan girl?

Well, yeah.

The agent read my manuscript and he wrote back. He wrote three long paragraphs. Let me summarize:

“You’re a good writer, but this book is so friggin’ boring I can’t even believe it. NOTHING HAPPENS. They talk a lot. They eat a lot. And the food sounds good. But there’s no action. Maybe if you wrote a different book, it’d be better.”

(what my book was. source)

(what it should’ve been. source)

“No problem!” I wrote back, swallowing my pride. In one week, I wrote about 80 pages. It was a new book. This one was about a girl named Raphaela with unusual abilities who is starting college at a university that looks a lot like Columbia. She has been admitted to a special program called LINK, for a mysterious group of students who all have certain strange talents. The program is run by a maverick young professor who is blind and handsome. It seems that the co-chairs of the philosophy department are stealing people’s free will, and only LINK can stop them…Raphaela is about to learn who she really is…But first…grilled cheese!

(I wanted to show what she ate– which was a lot of Oreos and some very creative grilled cheeses.)

The famous agent read my 80 new pages. Which was really very nice of him, in retrospect. He wrote back. This email was even longer, which I knew immediately was terrible news.

In summary: “This has no shape. It didn’t go anywhere. It’s boring. Like, so boring I almost fell asleep. No one would ever find it interesting. And what’s with all the food? But you’re good with words. In ten years, I expect to see you published as an author. But for now, write short pieces and make a name for yourself. You’re not ready.”

In slow motion, I fell back onto my bed. It was not a real-sized bed, because I was living in the tiniest apartment ever. It was also broken. You had to know where to fall, or the whole thing might collapse. Go ahead, collapse, I thought. I cried for what felt like hours, possibly years. I couldn’t write books. All I’d ever wanted to do was write books. I was bad at the thing I loved most. I was despicable. Also, I wanted to kill the agent. A lot. How could I kill him? How could I know which one of his five houses he would be in? It was going to take a lot of planning.

This guy who liked me was coming over just then. I’d forgotten about him. He knocked and I let him in and then went back to bed.

“Whoa, whoa…” he said. “What happened here?” He was holding his guitar. We were supposed to jam.

“Um,” I said. “My life is over. I can’t hang out.”

To his credit, he proceeded to recite the entire text of “The Lorax” from memory, in an effort to calm me down. It did help a little.

And then life, inevitably, went on. I was bitter and I threw myself into my thesis research. I grinned an empty, cynical grin when people mentioned books. I swore a lot. Wore all black. Chain smoked. Packed a lot of heat, in case I ran into the agent. Kidding. But I really wouldn’t go into book stores for the longest time.

(sometimes I really want to be her when I grow up. source)

And then, a little over a year later, I started blogging, which was the first creative writing I’d done since the rejection. God, I love to write, I thought. Why the hell did I stop?

And then, recently, I read those 80 pages aloud to Bear. The ones about the girl named Raphaela and the college that looked like Columbia. They were good! The writing was funny and clever and sweet. I liked Raphaela. I could totally identify. I think she was even homeschooled, like me. Funny.

We got to the scene where she’s making a grilled cheese for like three pages.

Bear said, “I’m not trying to be mean, I really like this book, but this is a really boring scene.”

“But it’s so delicious!” I said.

“Yeah, but you’re listing like every single ingredient.”

“But they’re all important!”

“Yeah, but we don’t need to know everything that’s in her refrigerator.”

“But it says so much about her, as a character!”

“Does it?”

“Uh huh.”

OK, it was boring. It was super boring. It was a scene about making a grilled cheese.

But you know what? It sounded like an amazing grilled cheese. And I am proud of that. Maybe I don’t know how to write an action-packed scene, but I know how to make a grilled cheese.

Here’s my current favorite:

Sourdough bread, sliced thick, slather with butter. Cook in pan over low/med heat, with fresh mozzarella slices, sprinkled goat cheese, heirloom tomatoes, and bacon. After it’s crispy on both sides and the cheese is gooey, remove and pry open. Put a sauce made from mayo, stone-ground mustard, and Frank’s hot sauce on one side, and scoops of avocado and arugula on top of the tomatoes. Close the bread, slice the sandwich in half– serve. You will be loved forever. Maybe not as an author, but as an impressive grilled cheeser.

In fact, maybe I’ll make one right now.

*  *  *

Unroast: Today I love the way I look in stripes. Check it out!

(I’m having a taking pictures of myself kind of week. What am I, fourteen? Nope. Just love to look at myself. )

P.S. Check out the awesome thing that is happening with a blue coat. This is all ETDC reader Melanie. She is awesome.

This post is for Cate, who commented here. 

I am a dreamer.

I want big things. I want gorgeous settings. I am idealistic. I am impractical.

I am old enough to know better, so I don’t think I will ever know better.

I am fragile. I want to be famous. God, that’s embarrassing. At least there’s this: I don’t want to be famous and get invited to all the best penthouse parties and know all the names of the owners of the sexiest clubs. I don’t want fame to follow me outside, into the street. I want to be a famous writer. I want people to read my words and disappear briefly inside them. That’s what happened to me, as a kid, reading fantasy novels. I slipped inside another world. I want to do that for people.

I am a failure. I tried being practical. I tried growing up right. At fifteen, I got my first serious job. I worked through college. For a while, I was making more money than all of my friends. I was a little smug about it, when a guy who liked me bragged about how much he made at his job, repairing computers, and I made more. Don’t say anything, I thought. Don’t you dare say anything. I really wanted to say something. I only let myself get A’s, and I only considered Ivy League grad schools-- I got into the one my professors wanted for me. There was this straight, groomed path, and I was on it, and I was going to take my degrees out into the world and knock on a bunch of impressive doors with them (they make a more important sound than just my bare hand), and things would fall into place.

And then I couldn’t.

(that’s my backpack. And my chocolate milk. This is where I was writing yesterday)

Three internships, at a desk wedged in a corner with no windows in sight, a job, commuting to work in a car with a guy who kept talking about his penis– how amazing his penis was. It was the most amazing one ever. He was almost positive. No, he was entirely positive. Working for organizations that were trying to improve the world in little, gradual ways. I was the stupid one. I wanted to change the world myself. I was the irresponsible one. I couldn’t adjust. I couldn’t accept it. I couldn’t believe that after everything, this was the way life would go. That after all of the adventures that played out in my head, this would be the reality.

I am scared of the smallness of life. The trip back and forth to the ShopRite– back and forth again, endlessly. I am scared of small yards with fences around them. This is where your life stops, the fence says to me. Right here, by the swell of the septic tank, up against the back of the neighbor’s flaking gray shed. This is it. So when I write about my friends who are moving to the suburbs, it’s not so much the house, but the borders that bother me. It makes me angry– why don’t I want the things that other people want? Why don’t I even like them? I don’t like House. Or The Office. See?

Sometimes I think everything I want started when I was eight or so. When all I did was read. Once I found a book that I loved more than every other book. It was the story of two kingdoms at war. The humans and the demons. The demons were a species that lived in caves, the humans lived above ground. The human princess was a fiery, opinionated young woman who snuck outside the gates of the castle  and met a young, furry, short demon man who thought that war was unnecessary. They fell in love. And then his people found out what he was up to, and tortured him. And just at the last moment, the princess rushed in and rescued him. I think they lived happily ever after– but more than that, I remember the look in his eyes when he saw her, her hair streaming behind her, exploding into the underground chamber where he was being held captive.

I read the book once and then returned it. Later, I couldn’t remember the title. I combed through the shelves in the enormous public library. Week after week. The title was his name. I thought his name started with an X, or maybe it was a Y. Or a Z. I never found it.

So my life’s goal is to write a book that good. I want to write a book for my eight-year-old self to read. I want to write her perfect book.

Maybe I shouldn’t have read so much as a child. Maybe I shouldn’t have gone into the forest and pretended, alone for hours and hours, that I was a powerful mage. That I was a human princess who loved a forbidden demon man.

Maybe then I would have had more practical goals. Maybe then I wouldn’t have stood at the edge of Morningside Park, by the statue of some old dude who no one cares about anymore, at the end of grad school, and said, out loud and with total conviction: “No.”

I wouldn’t have decided to do something immature and ridiculous and impossible to respect by the people who would later ask me what I was doing with my life and then smile blankly and look awkward when I told them.I wouldn’t have taken a huge risk despite not being a risk-taker. Despite being cautious rather than bold and hesitant rather than cool and anxious rather than confident. I wouldn’t have decided to start again, after all that work. To write all the time, instead of doing something that would involve real money and the possibility of promotion and the security of social status and the hard-headed realism that separates so many successful people from people like me. From people who dream and dream and stubbornly refuse to wake up.

This is all very confusing. I mean– I don’t know who to aspire to be. The people I admire most are happy people who have never done anything that will end up in a history book and don’t care, and also the people who click automatically onto that tight, greased track that you ride at the top of the world.

But really, no one, not even those greased track people, is remembered by history.

Once, a couple years ago, across the country from here, Bear and I sat on a stone bench on the crest of a tall hill overlooking everything, and we talked about life.

“No one is ever famous enough to be remembered forever,” I said.

A hawk wheeled by in the wide blue sky, and then sank, thoughtless and hungry and deceptively gentle, towards the trees that carpeted the floor of the world.

“Who is ever remembered?” I said. “Like, five people, and we don’t really know their stories. There’s something about a cherry tree. There’s something about a kite and a key. And no one can even spell Gandhi.”

“I think we should just let ourselves be temporary,” said Bear. “That’s the great thing about life–we don’t have to hold onto things. We can’t even do it when we try. We should just think about being whatever we need to be next. And then one day we’ll die and it’s over– you never have to worry about anything again.”

“That’s the terrible thing about life,” I said. “You can’t really ever make a difference.”

But for some reason, it didn’t feel so terrible, in that moment. It felt a little like a relief. I won’t be remembered. Thank god. Because if it was really a possibility, then I’d have to try to be perfect all the time, so that the best of me lasted. But instead, I want to write and write– little books about girls who fall in forbidden love in a world where there are no fences and no litter. And definitely no septic tanks, but also some secret, potentially magical form of plumbing that makes it non-gross.

So maybe my dreams are smaller than I think. Maybe they are more practical.

Maybe this ferocious struggle I wake up inside of every day– the effort to figure out what I should be doing and the old, sour fear that I made the wrong decision when I said “no” to the path I was on and suddenly veered off into the part of the woods the Eagle Scouts haven’t marked yet– maybe that’s just looking through the wrong end of the telescope. My life is bigger than that. There are mountains in the distance, and the ocean, and I am going to follow my stupid, incessant dream right up to it. Because sometimes life isn’t about failure or success or one path or the other. It’s not about doing the right thing or being remembered or the title you have or don’t have or whether or not you got the degrees you were supposed to or if those degrees opened the right doors. It’s about what you are, fundamentally, underneath all of that.

And I am a writer who needs to write a book about a girl who lives in a big, open world.

I am a goddamn dreamer.

*  *  *

What about you? Any dreamers out there? If so, how does it impact your life?

Unroast: Today I love the way I look in a black shirt and jeans. Really simple. I wore it by accident, but it works!

P.S. Here’s my piece about weight gain on the Frisky. I have to write a lot of pieces about it, because I’m self-centered. And I love the topic.

Here’s a new cake pic for the gallery! I LOVE it. Send me yours soon! And if you’re on Twitter, follow me! I tweet stuff. Sometimes it’s interesting!

I am sitting here, staring at my laptop, and I have no idea what to write. Sometimes this happens to me. Sometimes I have weeks where I want to write about everything. Everything is a good idea. Someone coughs on the subway, and I’m inspired. I’ll do an essay about riding the subway! About coughing! It’ll be witty and relevant and perfectly constructed!

Right now, I feel like I don’t have a single good idea. And no one on the subway has done anything interesting for like the past four days.

So rather than wallowing alone in my failure, I thought I’d ask you guys. What do you want to read about? Specifically, what do you want to read about from me?

I think my posts on this blog tend to fall into some basic categories: body image, relationships, what’s the deal with life, and totally random (like the one about politics).

Are there other topics you think I should cover? Do you prefer posts that fall into one of the categories above? WHAT DO YOU WANT?

I’m sorry for yelling. That was wrong of me. I will make it up to you, with some great posts. But first…let me know what you’d like to read.

OK, I’m going back to wallowing now.

(this is my wallowing face. it’s kinda boring– all the chaos is internal)

*  *  *

Unroast: Today I love the way I feel when I’m wearing skinny heels and a big coat.

P.S. RE: secret date: Bear took me to Shake Shack (wherein resides my favorite cheeseburger in the world) and then to see The Book of Mormon!! I was ridiculously happy. I’ve wanted to see it since it opened. It was awesome. He was proud of himself. I was impressed. And then we came home and made grilled cheeses. Hooray, romance!!

What does it mean to be romantic? I’m not exactly sure. What’s the most romantic thing someone’s ever done for you?

A guy wrote a love song for me once. It started “Dear Kate…” It was a good song.

Once a guy wrote a slam poem for me, and then he performed it in front of a lot of people.

Once a guy wrote a symphony for me. I am not kidding. That really happened. It had three movements. Wait, maybe it had four. It was a while ago.

(source)

On our fourth date, Bear took me to Utah, for the weekend. But he forgot our first wedding anniversary. We were supposed to write each other love letters, rather than doing gifts. He was at a conference all day. I was tagging along on his business trip. I was having a great time. I knew he wouldn’t be around much. I knew he hadn’t thought to do it before. I knew he wouldn’t remember to do it later. So when he didn’t do anything for our anniversary, it was fine.

But I was a little worried, too. People might think, “What kind of husband forgets your FIRST anniversary?” (A bad one.)

I thought my friends might ask me what he’d gotten me, and then I’d have to say “nothing,” and then it’d be weird. I’d have to explain. “No, no, Bear is so amazing…I know how much he loves me! He’s the best! We’re just BOTH not into gifts. Seriously. We don’t even care about them.” And then they’d look at me, with this sympathetic look, and they’d be thinking, “She sounds so defensive, poor girl…He’s probably going to leave her.”

It occurred to me that Bear is maybe not very romantic. Can you be married to someone for a year without realizing that they’re not romantic?

When I think of romance, I think of doing something extra– something dramatic. Of putting yourself out there. Singing in the rain, while the guy closing up the pizza place gives you a look that says, “Why do I even live in this stupid friggin’ city full of crazy people?”

“Come on,” said the guy who wrote me the song.“Let’s run along the river!” It was 2 am. We were not drunk. “Come on…”

“Okay, okay,” I said. I followed him outside and we went to Riverside Park. He hopped a fence.

“I have to get over this fence now?” I said.

“Live a little!”

I lived. I got over the fence. It hurt. Damn, did I just sprain my ankle? No, it’d be worse. Maybe it starts like this, and then it gets a lot worse, like, when it swells?

“Come on!”

We ran. I was out of shape. I started out running too fast and then everything was burning. I tried not to pant too loudly. But it was fun. My ankle was fine. The park was empty, the river was sleek in the moonlight. The cars swished by on the highway. This is romantic, I thought. We stopped, finally, breathless, at that veteran’s monument at the top of the hill. He leaned in to kiss me. I leaned away.

(imagine this at night. I think that counts as romantic. source)

*

Bear does not make big gestures. He is the kind of guy who tells me how much he loves me every single day. Every day, it’s clear how much he loves me. Every day, when he gets home from work, he is so happy to see me.

He says, “You’re the most important thing in my life.” And it’s true.  He says, “You’re my soulmate.” And I am.

But neither of us is very romantic. Love is easy. Romance seems harder. Or am I doing that dichotomy thing I said was a bad idea in the last post?

Somewhere along the line, I learned that romance felt a little fake. I didn’t quite believe it. The guy who wrote the slam poem about me and performed it in front of a crowd, at an open mic– he didn’t get me right. He described a woman, but it didn’t sound like me. I knew it was supposed to be me, but what came through was his idea of what I should be. In my poem, my legs were suddenly long, and very, very smooth. And by then, I had already cheated on him, already almost died of guilt, already repressed it, already wondered and wondered why I didn’t love him the way I should. And by then, he was starting, somehow, in the back of his mind, to know.

Romance is for people who don’t have enough love. (For some reason, I thought that.)

Later, I married a man who can love like Niagara Falls– it pours so naturally out of him.

A week after our forgotten first wedding anniversary, at three in the morning, I told Bear that for our next anniversary, I would like him to do something. To say something. To get me something. At first, he was a little hurt. “I thought you didn’t want anything!”

“I don’t! I mean, I don’t, but you know, the world wants you to get me something.”

“Well, I don’t care about the world. What do you want?”

“I mean, I’m a part of the world, y’know? So it impacts me and stuff.”

“So you want me to get you a gift?”

“I mean, maybe? I mean, sort of. Like, maybe in five years, you can get me a gift, just so it doesn’t look bad.”

“What should I get you?”

“I don’t know! Figure it out!” I thought about it. “But maybe at some point, you should get me diamond earrings. Like, in five years.” That seemed like a gift a husband might get his wife after five years of marriage. It’s a big gift, because their commitment is also big.

“Diamonds? You want diamonds… Aren’t they gross and wasteful?”

“I know! I know! But you have to show that you care!!”

“But I do care! I show you every day!”

“But not everyone can see that!”

I don’t know what made me suddenly care about everyone, and what they could or couldn’t see. I definitely don’t care about diamonds. I’m pretty sure people know Bear loves me. Something just came over me. I wanted romance. Or at least, I wanted specialness. The specialness that comes from setting something aside and fussing over it and making it different. Maybe that’s what romance is. Maybe it’s about making something ordinary remarkable. Maybe it’s flipping something inside out and exposing the silver lining.

*

Our anniversary was four months ago. Tonight, Bear is taking me on a secret date. A month ago, he told me to reserve this evening. I canceled my plans.

My friends are trying to guess. “It’s totally a reservation at Per Se. You need to get those a month in advance.”

“It’s a concert!”

“What’s your favorite band? He’s taking you to see them!”

“Um…I don’t think I have one.”

Rachel’s husband said, “It’s an experience. He’s planning a whole experience.”

“Can you guess?” asks Bear.

I have no idea.

Bear has never done something like this before. He isn’t a planner. We are always late, booking tickets for a flight. We always have to pay more, and we are always angry, and we never learn.

I am so excited! What should I wear?

“You don’t know what you’re going to wear?” says Rachel, who is always wearing something incredible. “How can you not know already?”

Eek! I have to figure it out! I’m meeting him at 5:00! He never gets out of work that early. Never.

I’m surprised at how excited I am. It’s not like this is such a big deal. It’s just that it’s mysterious. It’s just that he didn’t tell me. He tells me everything. But he planned this, without telling me. He’s making it special and different.

It’s romantic.

And maybe, once in a while, everyone needs that.

I feel like I should do something back. Maybe  a symphony? It might take a while to write one. Maybe a poem? I can describe Bear pretty well. I know exactly how his legs look.

(also, Niagara is supposed to be pretty romantic, itself, I hear, so if his love is like that…source)

*  *  *

What do you think romance is all about? What’s the most romantic thing that’s happened to you? If you have a partner, are they romantic?

Unroast: Today I love  the way I look in beige. I can rock it. And that’s saying something.

I saw Amy Chua, the Tiger Mom, last night at the 92nd Street Y. Actually, I ran into her on my way to the bathroom, before her talk started. I wasn’t positive it was her, but I had a feeling. She was wearing a hot pink dress under a fitted leather jacket. Her hair was perfect. I looked at her and she looked at me, as though she was waiting for me to say something (like “Oh my god, I LOVED your book!” or “It’s women like you who are ruining this country.”), but I didn’t, and we awkwardly squeezed by each other in the narrow hall. The sleeve of her jacket brushed my arm.

Like a lot of people, I didn’t read the book, I read the Wall St Journal excerpt. Like a lot of people, I joined in conversations about parenting styles and whether “eastern” or “western” parenting is better, and how much tiger is too much. Everyone was shocked by her. Everyone was horrified. “This is why kids kill themselves,” people said. “Because there’s so much pressure to succeed.” “Her daughters will have eating disorders,” people said. Everyone was defensive.

In her talk, Amy Chua was funny and a little overeager. She kept starting thoughts and switching over to something else, so that her sentences tumbled together, breaking off and beginning again in crisscrossing excitement. She had so much correcting to do. The book was supposed to be funny. It was supposed to be a confession. She was shocked by the response. She would much rather her children were happy than successful– what parent wouldn’t? And can we not call certain things success? How about we just say “overcoming challenges,” because that’s what makes life fulfilling. The book, she said, was a celebration of rebellion, not conformity. Her youngest daughter rebelled, and she was forced to reexamine the parenting style she’d adopted from her incredibly hardworking, poor immigrant parents. But she did reexamine, and she changed.

The Tiger Mom came off as earnest, humble, and extremely loving. Not at all the way she’s been described. She came off just like most of the parents I know and have known, growing up. She was just trying to figure out what was best for her kids.

If this is the Tiger Mom, then where are the real tiger moms?

Chua explained that her parenting is based on a fundamental belief in her children’s abilities. She thinks they really can do anything. She also described herself as “hands-off.” She thinks there is too much “helicopter parenting” happening around these parts. Don’t do your kids’ homework for them. They can handle it. Teach them that they’re smart enough to figure things out on their own.

There wasn’t too much East vs. West in what Amy Chua had to say, but at some point the woman who was interviewing her (who could barely get a word in) said something along the lines of, “But what if your child is not musically inclined? What if they aren’t above average academically? What if that’s not their talent?”

And Chua said that in China, she hasn’t seen this idea, of talent. This idea that your kid has a talent that needs to be discovered doesn’t exist. Everything is about hard work.

I’m not sure I believe that everyone in China would reject the concept of natural talent, but I really like placing the emphasis on work instead.

Seeing the Tiger Mom in person made me angry. Why was this even a thing? Why were we so worked up? Why does everyone think they know what’s best when really everyone is just trying to figure things out?

I think that maybe my mom was a tiger mom, in many ways. She was pretty strict. Laziness wasn’t acceptable. Quitting was a very bad idea. We practiced our instruments every day. She thought we were capable of greatness, and it was clear that we should aspire to do bigger and better things. When we did those things, she was incredibly proud, but that didn’t mean that we got to stop for a second. My mom had a lot of rules. We definitely weren’t allowed to stay out late. Or watch TV. Or see movies with a PG 13 rating or above for the LONGEST time. We didn’t bring “store bought” food into the house. We ate organic and drank water. Our time on the computer was limited.

I also had a ton of freedom. I was in charge of a lot of my education. I chose how to spend a lot of my time. I had to be productive, but I loved to be productive, so it wasn’t an issue.

I didn’t go to school until college. Sometimes I describe my education as “unschooling” because so much of it was up to me. And yet my mom was strict and organized and fond of the phrase, “Because I said no.”

My upbringing sometimes sounds like a contradiction of terms. How can these things go together? Isn’t it either a super chill homeschooling mom or a ferocious high-powered mom who makes her kids take six APs a semester? Isn’t it either a lax western mom or a tough eastern mom? Isn’t it either a homeschooling mom who teaches her kids every single subject, at a blackboard in the living room, just like a school teacher, or an unschooling mom who smiles munificently from her watercolor pad as her children play in the woods all day, every day, discovering themselves without the repressive constraints of normative education? Mean or nice? School or no rules? Strict or loving?

THESE ARE NOT DICHOTOMIES. I am so sick of people trying to divide everything in the world up into neat categories.

Sometimes my mom drove me crazy, but I knew how much she loved me, all the time. And I loved her.  My mom was brave. She was trying to figure it out. She was trying to find the right balance.

When I’m a mom, I’ll be trying to find the right balance, too. I’m trying to find the right balance right now, with my work, with my friendships, with my happiness/sadness, with being a wife, with life, in general.

We want so, so badly to simplify. You’re either fat or you’re pretty. You’re either a prude or a slut. You have a college degree or you’re stupid. You’re ambitious or you’re a stay-at-home mom. You’re pretty or you’re too old.

ENOUGH ALREADY.

If we can stop, for just a moment, being so defensive, so anxious, so afraid that maybe someone is doing it better, so afraid that someone else’s experience is somehow negating our own, then maybe we can learn something from that someone. Maybe they have something interesting to say. Maybe I shouldn’t have told Marius that he was naturally talented– maybe I should’ve told him that when he works hard, he’ll always get ahead. Maybe I should have told him that hard work is satisfying, no matter where it takes you. Maybe I should have told him that he has what it takes– he doesn’t have to be special. Specialness is beside the point. He just has to be himself, and be willing to challenge himself.

I think that structure is important. And structure requires rules. I think that freedom is important, and freedom requires space. I think that finding a way to integrate both of these things into your life and the lives of your children is an enormous challenge. Everyone handles it a little differently. Some people really mess it up, but I’d guess that most people are trying their best. The Tiger Mom is trying her best, my mom tried her best.

Let’s talk about that for a couple minutes. We might learn something. We might notice that all of this is really just about love and fear.

Seriously.

Isn’t that weird?

Maybe not.

(source)

*  * *

What kind of mom do/did you have? Do you think hard work should be emphasized over talent?

Unroast: Today I love the way my hair looks when its curl comes back (it’s long enough again now)

A version of this piece appears in the Huffington Post here.

Dear Marius,

First of all, welcome. Hey. You don’t know me yet, but I’m a friend of your mom and dad.

I am a little in shock, about you being here. I mean, it’s like the best magic trick ever. Something out of nothing. Not just something– you. I saw the YouTube video your dad made. I watched it six times in a row. You appear to be perfect. It’s bizarre. It’s possible that you are the most adorable thing in the world.

For you, being born is something that you’ll only have to think about later, when people show you the pictures. And then you’ll probably make a face and be like, “Come on, guys, I was NAKED.” And go back to whatever you were doing.

But you being born is ridiculously awesome.

I had a moment. I was looking at your tiny face, in the Youtube video, and you scrunched it up for a second, like you were thinking about crying, and then you changed your mind and went back to looking around  with big eyes. And suddenly I got this urge to tell you stuff. Even though I’m twenty-five and what do I actually know about stuff. Twenty-five is a lot older than you. Maybe I’ve picked up a few things along the way.

Stuff:

Sometimes it doesn’t hit me until I see the sky. Like, a lot of the sky. Most of the time, I actually just forget to look up. But walking back from the A train the other day, I remembered, and for a block or so, between buildings, I could see a sizable chunk of sky– clouds and everything. And I realized that I’d been thinking about deadlines and whether or not she meant to sound so irritated when she said that in the meeting and, of course, dinner. But then, when I looked at the sky, I was suddenly thinking about how perfect it is, to be alive. Being alive is this crazy, ridiculous, utterly ordinary gift. You were given it. Make sure you look at the sky.

(you never know what you’ll see up there! source.)

You are loved. A lot. Which you should probably try to remember as much as you  possibly can. Because it is the thing that matters most. Really. You and I are both incredibly lucky to be born to parents who will love us no matter what. Sometimes I call my dad at work, and I’m like, “It’s so weird–this cream sauce is all clumpy.” And he says, “Lower the flame, stir constantly.” And then we talk about life for an hour. Sometimes the only thing in the world I really need is my mom. That still happens. Just so you know.

You are going to be good at a lot of things.  They might not be the things  that you wish you were good at. They might not be things you even notice all the time. But you are talented. And there are people out there who think your talents are the coolest ones. But more importantly, they are, because they’re yours. I, for example, am great at making grilled cheeses. You’d think that’s this little, practically meaningless skill. It’s not. I promise you, it’s not. It is a mighty, noble power. I’ll make you one when you’re older and can eat solid foods. You’ll see.

No one is normal. I swear. Not even one of us. We’re all just pretending, so that we can be a part of a group. But what makes us hilarious and fascinating and cute and promising is how quirky we all are. So don’t worry too much about being normal, if you can help it. Also, along these lines, if you want to dance crazy, you should just go for it.

(here’s an example of someone dancing crazy– it happens to be me. I don’t ever know what to do with my arms, and it’s OK)

It’s better to be happy. Even if there are times when you can only find one thing to be really happy about, and it’s the egg sandwich at the deli on the corner, that’s cool. I love me a good egg sandwich.

But it’s OK to be sad. It will happen. Even though I wish it would never happen to you. When I get sad, I always get angry at myself for being sad. Which means that then I’m both sad and angry. Don’t do that. People say sadness is like a wave. You have to let it wash over you. I would never say something that clichéd– but seriously, just let it wash over you– it’ll go away and then you’ll be there, sitting on the beach, thinking, “Hey, I can actually see a lot of sky from here.” The important thing to remember when you’re under the water is that you’ll always come to the surface again.

It is tempting to protect yourself a lot, when you get older, by being sarcastic and cynical and cautious. But it’s when you let yourself be vulnerable that you’ll learn the most, and feel the most connected to other people. Like right now, I’m making a lot of little jokes, because I try to protect myself. But really what I want to say is something corny and earnest and utterly defenseless. Something like– let yourself love. Let yourself be passionate and interested and engaged and captivated. Let yourself cry.

And make sure to make a fool out of yourself. Just get it out of the way– life is more fun if you’re willing to embarrass yourself a little. My arm got caught in the subway door the other day. The doors opened and snapped shut, and then my leg got caught. Everyone was looking at me, like, “Um, can you just get in the friggin’ train so we can go, now? Why do you have so many limbs that you don’t know how to use?”  I laughed, to lighten the mood, which I thought was pretty ballsy, since there was a chance I was about to lose my leg. No one laughed with me. But look! Now I have that hilarious little story! So, to summarize, when you put yourself out there, you might end up somewhere really interesting. Like, in my case, Queens.

At some point, you will probably think it looks better not to wear a coat, even when it’s really cold. But you should wear a coat anyway.

(this should do the trick. source)

Honey Nut Cheerios are always good. You can eat them for breakfast or dessert.

Words are dangerous. That sticks and stones thing that will definitely still be around when you’re old enough to understand it? Total BS. Once you can use words, be gentle with them. You might hurt someone otherwise.

But for now, enjoy being carried around. That stuff is amazing. You’ve got a while before you have to think about any of this. But when you can talk, if you ever want to talk, I’m here for you. We don’t even have to get into anything deep. We can just eat a grilled cheese or two. Maybe some cake.

Love,

(Aunt) Kate

P.S. Did you know your mom studied dinosaurs, before you were born? How cool is that? You should ask her some questions about them. My favorite was always pachycephalosaurus–  a total bonehead.

(so cool. source)

*  *  *

This piece also appears on the Huffington Post here.

Unroast: Today I love the way I feel when I notice the sky.

This is what it looked like yesterday:

We go around the room, introducing ourselves and sharing how long we have “practiced.”

“Nine years.”

“Five years.”

“Twenty.”

“Four days.”

That’s me.

And that is one of the reasons I am not good at yoga. Also, I am not flexible (does this make me less sexy? I’m pretty sure it does). Also, I have scoliosis. Not in a serious way. Just in a “Your spine is a little too curved” way. It makes my lower back look especially cute, the doctor said I looked like a dancer (a dancer! I must be pretty!). It makes my upper back and shoulders look not cute at all– more like a turtle (a dancing turtle!). It’s hard for me to put my shoulders back. Which means it’s hard for me to look like a queen. Which is a major disappointment.

So the hardest pose for me is the one where you sit with your legs straight in front of you and then bend over them, from the waist. My back won’t let me bend. I’m sitting straight up, and everyone is touching their toes. Even the pregnant woman in the back. How is that even possible? Even the seventy-year-old dude in the very tight pants.

I am also bad at downward facing dog, which feels shameful. Downward facing dog is clearly the most important pose. They keep coming back to it. Everything ends in it. No matter what you do, you end up in downward facing dog, contemplating the fickle, meandering course of your life.

(have you noticed that the mats are always in soothing colors? source)

“You know what’s the most relaxing pose?” my mom said.

I waited, dreading it.

“Downward facing dog. You’ll see.”

Damn it. What if I never see?

The thing is, my hands fill with blood. I can feel it happening. All of the blood from my arms is draining into them. It’s disgusting. They are swelling. They are blood balloons. They might pop.

Oh god, what if my hands actually burst? Has that ever happen to anyone before? What if I have some weird condition that no one would’ve known about if I’d never done yoga? This was a terrible idea!

“Four more breaths…Look at your hands. Are the fingers spread? Are they embracing the mat?”

Don’t look at your hands. Don’t you dare look! They might be purple. The veins might all be standing out. Wait, are those little pink specks burst blood vessels? Shit– I’m probably having a hand aneurysm.

“And one more….that’s right…Let your hips float up to the ceiling. You’re all doing beautifully.”

Not me. I’m a freak.

(I’m tellin’ ya… source)

I have to keep shaking out my right hand, so it doesn’t explode– so blood doesn’t end up spattering the sleek blond ponytail of the slender, stunning girl in the Columbia tank top next to me. I am like a three-legged dog. I’m also panting a little. I feel people’s eyes on me. It’s possible they’re wondering if I have rabies.

It goes on and on. I think I’ve got the balancing stuff– where you’re a tree. But then I overthink it and the tree topples. I can’t do anything that involves rocking.

“Rock gently back and forth on your sitz bones.”

Ow. Ow. Hell no.

An hour and fifteen minutes of sweat and failure and twisting into strange positions, with the soothing, reassuring voice of the instructor drifting over everything.

And then we are finally resting, in shavasana, which is the one where you’re supposed to be like a dead person, I think. I love it. I know I’m supposed to close my eyes, but I can’t, for some reason. I’m lying there, flat on my back, staring up at the skylight, which has a tarp over it, and the hanging ferns, which someone thought should be there, for some reason. No, I understand why– they’re lovely. So green and alive against the blankness of the ceiling and the white tarp, through which a little light from the faraway sky seeps in. My eyes are so relaxed, I can’t close them. I need to stare into nothingness.

We lie there for ages.

And then my mind does what it always does. It goes to my work. It goes to my problems.

“You’re falling behind. You should be doing something productive. Make something of yourself!” (This is how my mind is always talking to me. It has a slight Yiddish accent).

The bad egg darkness tries to squirm inside.

But a funny thing happens.

It can’t.

It’s like there’s a wall. A clean, white wall. The darkness is coming up against it, pounding on it, but I’m on the other side, and the pounding is muted. It sounds like a drum in the distance. It’s kind of nice. I am so utterly relaxed that I don’t care about what I’m supposed to be doing. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to be doing exactly this.

(this is basically how my mind looked. source)

I can’t remember what I’ve ever worried about. I try. It’s weird. Why can’t I? I try to think of someone I really hate. Is there anyone? Maybe not. No one comes to mind (not even this guy).

So weird. So nice.  Damn it, where’s my cynicism? What the hell?

I don’t want it to stop.

But it does, eventually, and then my friend and I go get huge sandwiches, and eat them. Which is really nice, too.

*  * *

Did you guys know that could happen from yoga? Does physical exercise ever change the way you think? I feel like I got spiritually ambushed or something.

Unroast: Today I love the way my nails look, with mismatching nail polish, chipping off.

P.S. Thank you everyone who told me I should do yoga, even though I thought it was lame and that I was a rebel because I didn’t do it. I still feel like a rebel, I guess. In other ways.

Recently, I realized that my marriage is not perfect.

Isn’t that shocking? I’m shocked. I thought it was perfect. I didn’t say this aloud, but I was sure that we were the only perfect couple in the world. And not sure in the “Yeah, I mean, it’s pretty great!” way. Sure in the like “I have found God and there is only one Truth” way.

I’m not sure which is more embarrassing– that I thought our marriage was going to remain unblemished and preternaturally self-possessed, like a child model. Or that it isn’t.

When people fall in love, they’re supposed to go crazy. Their brains release all of these ridiculous chemicals and they start running around, jumping in fountains and throwing things in the air and laughing with their mouths wide open and their heads thrown back. That stage lasts for two years. Which is a lot of fountains.

(I’d go for this one. source)

It’s science. People need to get like that so that they’ll commit to each other and then they can raise babies and stuff. Unless they’re gay, and then science gets all awkward and nods a lot and says, “We’re working on that one.”

I was sure my love for Bear wasn’t science. It was something much better. Something much, much more unpredictable. This was pure, wild luck, and Bear and I were its masterpiece.

I’ve known Bear for close to three years now, we’ve been married for a little over one, and I’m starting to recognize our particular struggles as a couple. The things that get stuck just below the surface for too long, until suddenly they erupt. The ways in which we go gradually in circles. The things that we are each really bad at. I have sorted issues into piles. The pile of stuff that bothers me a little but is really fine. The pile of stuff that bothers me more than a little, and I am not sure I’m fine with. The pile of stuff that bothers him, and I should really do something about.

(the stuff under the surface can be scary when it suddenly breaks through)

I am not as dependent on Bear as I was at first. At first, I had to see him all the time. I had to, I had to! Every night was a giddy, giggling slumber party. I wondered how I’d ever make time for friends. I started cooking every evening, experimenting with lamb stews and complicated, clashing salads. I sat up in bed and watched him sleep, stunned by his absurd perfection. How could someone have perfect lips as well as perfect ears as well as a perfect chest as well as perfect arms and perfect nostrils and perfect freckles and perfect knees and perfect hair on his perfect shoulders? How? (I’m still not sure, honestly.)

Now I like to go out a lot more. I spend whole evenings with my friends. I want to break up the weekend sometimes, with couple’s brunches or a little work, or with me going to see a movie with someone else. Not because I don’ t want to see Bear– but because it’s beginning to feel like I have enough time to do all of this, since we’re going to be together, y’know, forever. My need for him has lost its frantic edge. It feels safer. It feels less competitive.

(so relaxed….)

Oh no! I think. This is the death of passion! Comfort is the worst! This is the beginning of the end! Pretty soon it’ll just be us sitting for hours in the same room, reading. And then one of us will say, “Did you remember to take the chicken out of the freezer?” and the other one will say, “No.” And the first one will say, “Well, could you please do that?” and the other one will say, with a long sigh, “Fine. I’ll get it. Don’t feel like you have to get up for anything. We wouldn’t want that to happen.” And the first one will say, “You know what? I work really hard.” and the other one will say, “Doing what? Writing some blog about your boobs? And how’s that novel coming, anyway? It’s been, what, a year? Two?” And the first one will say, “Oh, really? You want to go there? I’m going to be famous one day.” And the other one will say, “Uh huh.”

What if that happens??

It doesn’t help that Bear is nervous, too. He makes these little, totally hilarious jokes about me leaving him and breaking his heart and destroying his life. I’m kidding– they’re not hilarious. I feel like I should reassure him. I should be more attentive, more earnest. I should write him more adorable, adoring emails. I used to do that. It looks bad that I stopped. I should be doing something more.

When we were planning the wedding, I remember hating it when people said that marriage was all about hard work. All about constant compromise. All about getting over things and lowering expectations and just dealing with annoying stuff. We wanted a relationship based on play, instead of work. We even put that in our vows.

It turns out that marriage can’t be all about play. But that doesn’t mean it has to be constant emotional labor. What I’m learning is that it needs room to change. It needs space to shift into the next phase of its gentle evolution. Bear and I are so nervous about losing the first phase that we’re hanging on, wide-eyed, afraid that the first part was true love, and the rest, somehow, won’t be.

It’s strange, but I think the biggest problem that Bear and I have is that we are starting to notice that our relationship isn’t perfect. We’re unprepared and defensive. But…wasn’t that the way love worked?

(weren’t we always smiling?)

Well, yeah. It was. And so is this. That’s part of the adventure. You see where the love goes. But you have to be brave enough.

OK, secret: I’m a little relieved.

Being perfect is too hard. Actually, in the end, ironically, it’s too much work. And marriage isn’t about work. I won’t let it be. What is it about? I don’t know. Getting to know each other better than anyone else in the world? Being committed to each other? Having someone no matter what? Growing together? Laughing at each other’s jokes?

I know a couple (full disclosure, it’s Jess, from the naked post, and her husband) who make sure their jokes get laughed at. If one person says something particularly clever and the other person doesn’t react, the first person says, “Hey! You forgot to laugh!” And then they do it over again. I love that. Marriage is about that.

And when Bear and I both stop being nervous about how imperfect it turns out we are, and realize that we don’t have to be a perfect couple to have an amazing relationship, I am really looking forward to getting to know him better. To living the rest of my life with him. To sitting side by side in a quiet room, reading. One person will say, “Hey, honey, did you remember to take the chicken out of the freezer?” and the other will say, “Nope.” and the first person will say, “I’ll do it, then.” And the other person will say, “I love you.” And the first person will say, “I love you, too.” And then the people will have really hot sex on the couch.

Here’s to being in love for the long haul! Take that, science!*

(I love this man so ridiculously much. Even more than when this picture was taken. Also, when this picture was taken, I was trying not to trip over the front of my wedding gown. Not my best moment)

*  *  *

Married people: how is your marriage doing? Any advice for newlyweds who are realizing their relationship isn’t perfect? Newlyweds of less than a year, any advice you need from me?

Unroast: Today I love the way I look in electric blue. When I’m in a certain mood. Which is now.

*I don’t really think science is the enemy. Science is great!

This is a guest post from someone I like a lot. She described herself this way when I asked for a bio: “Jess is a teacher and occasional writer who lives in Brooklyn. She occasionally writes here: therealmsmanners.tumblr.com.” She is also ridiculously smart and has unfair hair. Unfair because when I cut mine off, I was imagining it looking just like hers, and then it didn’t. 

I am not a naked person.

I am not the kind of person who gets out of the shower and wanders around, air-drying at my leisure. I grab a towel. I am not the kind of person who casually carries on locker room conversations in the nude. I get in and out of there as quickly as possible.

Which is why, when a couple of weeks ago, my husband and I got an email from our friend inviting us to a place called “Spa Castle,” I immediately responded with:

“Um…maybe? Exactly how disrobed would I have to be?”

Despite my hesitation, and despite the fact that we aren’t the kind of people who typically go to spas (or castles, for that matter), my husband and I figured that the beginning of a new year is probably a good time to branch out and try different things, and besides—how bad could it possibly be to spend a few hours imagining you’re in a tropical paradise resort instead of Queens in the middle of January?

Which is why we found ourselves riding the 7 train to the end of the line that Saturday. While we were watching the stops roll by, our friend nudged my husband.

“So, uh, we’re going to have to make a decision pretty soon.”

“About being naked or not, you mean?” my husband asked.

“Yup!”

“Yeah, I dunno. We’ll see…”

I exchanged looks with my friend’s beautiful blonde girlfriend, as if to say, “men! So childish! So weird about being with each other!” but underneath my knowing smile, panic was beginning to set in.

Eventually, after a couple of misadventures with public transportation, we found ourselves inside an enormous warehouse-like building in the heart of the Valley of Ashes, faced with five floors of Jacuzzis, saunas, and whirlpools.

We immediately split up to go change in the locker rooms. I dutifully put on my bathing suit and the “uniform” that the Spa Castle had provided for me, and my beautiful blonde friend and I walked upstairs to explore the world of saunas and Jacuzzis. We sat in a “salt sauna,” which promised to purify our pores, and then we moved onto the “gold” one, which implied it would somehow strengthen our bladders. We then wandered around, looking for our significant others. When we finally found them, their hair was wet, and they were almost giddy.

“We were naked!” they told us triumphantly.

“How was that?” I asked.

“Not that weird…and kinda fun? There are lots of old fat men here. Everyone’s just sitting around being silent and naked.” My husband said. They both seemed happy.

In fact, the guys wanted to go back to the gender-segregated, nude-only part of the spa before they left. And part of me knew that I’d feel I had failed some way if I didn’t also experience it. Like I’d chickened out. And I might regret it later. So, with some trepidation, I made my way back to the locker room to take off my uniform and bathing suit.

As I took off my clothes—and hurriedly wrapped myself in a towel—I thought to myself again, “I am definitely not a naked person.”

(these are so important. source)

When I changed for cross-country practice in high school, I would either use a bathroom stall or perform all sorts of acrobatic contortions (worthy of a workout on their own) under my t-shirt to avoid anyone seeing any more of my flesh than was absolutely necessary. Even when I go to the gym now, and I no longer have normal teenage insecurity to rationalize/defend my behavior, I dutifully go to the farthest corner of the locker room, and turn my back to the other women who might be in there, so that, should they see anything, it’s nothing more than my briefly exposed back. If anyone bothered to ask me why I was hiding, I’d probably laugh and say, “oh! No one wants to see any of this!”—and I’d mean it. Part of me just thinks that hiding my body from other people is common courtesy.

It’s not that I’m particularly ashamed of my body. To tell you the truth, I don’t even really think about it that much. Sometimes I feel like I want to lose more weight, and I wish my ribcage was narrower (a weirdly specific neurosis of mine), or that my arm muscles were more defined, but other than that, I just put on my clothes and live my life. Without my clothes, though? All my imperfections become magnified.

Taking off my bathing suit in the spa, I realized I couldn’t hide my less-than-stellar back skin, or the creases that show up on my stomach after sitting (sometimes I like to pretend it just looks like muscle definition, but, of course, it’s the exact opposite), or my imperfectly shaved legs (and let’s not even talk about how I’ve never waxed in my life…), or the unflattering shape of my butt without jeans or leggings to support it, or, or, or…basically, without my clothes, I became an insecure mess.

My biggest fear, though, was that I would walk out there, amongst these naked women, who all seemed perfectly comfortable in their own skin (and nothing but their own skin), and I would notice some way I differed radically from them all. I would realize that I’m secretly, fundamentally, wrong in some way that’s only apparent when I’m in the buff. I was pretty sure I didn’t want to have that sort of epiphany.

As I walked from the relative safety of my aisle of lockers to the “pool room,” I realized two other things.

1)      On our way over to the Spa Castle, my beautiful friend had mentioned—in the genuinely modest, uninterested, casual way that only the truly gorgeous can achieve—that she had been asked to be in a fashion shoot the week before, and

2)      With the exception of my immediate family members, no woman had ever seen me naked before.

So now, I was about to be on full view to dozens of women, one of whom—the one I had been semi-consciously relying on for some moral support—was literally a fashion model.

I cautiously took off my towel and walked as quickly as I could to one of the pools of water, wanting to submerge my nakedness as soon as possible, but not wanting to seem like that’s what I was doing. (I also didn’t want to slip—I could just see the headline: “Naked Girl Injures Naked Self, Is Rushed to Hospital, Naked”)

And then, a funny thing happened. Almost immediately, it stopped mattering that I was naked. I sat up in the water a little straighter. Who cared about my various imperfections and quirks? Certainly no one here. They all (with the possible exception of my friend) had their own idiosyncrasies, but none of them seemed the least concerned about their own, or anyone else’s. A group of women around my age talked and laughed in one pool, while a large woman and her young granddaughter sat quietly in another. A small, serious-looking middle aged woman scrubbed her arms studiously in one of the shower stalls. Everyone was calm, everyone was happy, everyone was naked, and it was no big deal.

I realized with a shock—and then was a little embarrassed at my own surprise—that no one—not the thinnest, prettiest girls there, looked the way actresses look when they bare all for the camera. Everyone was imperfect—a roll here, a lump there—but everyone was normal. I was normal.

Eventually, we had to leave. We put our clothes back on and headed back to the reality of January and New York.

As we left, I squeezed my husband’s arm. “That was fun. We should do it again.”

(spa castle. source)

*  *  *

What about you? How do you feel about being naked? Would you get naked around a bunch of other women in a spa?

Jess’s unroast: Today I like the way my eyes look with the dramatic eyeliner I never think I can pull off.

There are some things I stopped wearing when my belly stopped being flat. Tight dresses, for one. I used to have a skintight gray knit dress that I thought was the hottest thing in the world. I gave it away when I gained weight.

I hit my heaviest weight ever (again) back in November and I’m still there. Which kinda surprised me the last time I weighed myself (at my parents’ house, of course, since I don’t own a scale). I thought I’d slip back. I thought I’d return to normal. Y’know, to my real body.

I think this might be normal, guys.

And the good news is, there’s a chance I’m curvy now! At least a little. I think I might be. Even my boobs are contributing, in the gradual, half-hearted manner in which I used to do my laundry after my mom reminded me ten times.

I didn’t know until I put on this incredibly tight dress covered in rabbits. And then it turned out that I am a (potential?) bombshell. It was like BAM BAM BAM!

BOOBS BELLY BUTT!

My first thought, which came out high and squeaky with shock, was “Wait– really? Nice!”

This is all wrong.

I am not supposed to like being at my heaviest weight. I am supposed to want to shed those pounds ASAP!! Girl, get some self control!  I am supposed to be panicking. I am supposed to be dreading summer and calculating how many hours per day I should spend on the treadmill, starting NOW, right after I eat this chocolate croissant and its adorable twin and their slightly smaller cousin who would’ve been lonely otherwise. I am supposed to feel disappointed in myself. I am supposed to have failed.

But this curvy body feels like a friggin’ celebration.

“Wait for it,” I told Bear, pulling the rabbit dress on in the bedroom while he tested his bloodsugar (diabetes: it always has to get in on the action) in the kitchen.

“Whoa,” he said, when I came out. “Wow. Your body is amazing. Wow.” (The fact that Bear is really articulate makes this an even bigger compliment.)

“Right? RIGHT?”

I’m drunk on it. Thank you, mirror! Thank you, bagels! Thank you, poor willpower!

I’m not sure how I missed this. I kept interpreting it wrong. I kept thinking “gross” instead of “gorgeous.” Those silly G words that end in S. I watched my arm spread along the back of the couch. Was that a dimple, swimming in the fat? Should I kill myself now, or after the third croissant?

“Angelina’s arms are skeletal,” said my friend, who had actually seen the star in person. “She looks like she might be sick. It looks unhealthy.”

First my brain went, “I wish mine were more like that.” Then I said, “That’s really sad.”

I didn’t want to go shopping. I thought, “I can never wear a sleeveless shirt again. Ever. This is the end of sleeveless shirts.”

I thought, “I can never wear a strapless dress again. Ever. This is the end of an era.”

I thought, “Maybe I should grow my hair long again, because only skinny people look good with short hair. There’s some kind of law.”

I thought, “Every single one of my friends is ten times hotter than me.”

Yesterday, another girl asked my friend if she was a model. I stood there and smiled and nodded along. Yes, she does have the bone structure for it.

I will never be asked that question.

I will never have a face for TV. Or a body for a billboard. If I am ever very famous and on the cover of a magazine just because they have to put me there, they will go crazy with the photoshop, in an effort to make me look the way beautiful women are supposed to look and less like the way I actually look. Because the way I actually look is too confusing for popular consumption.

But god, I like this body right now.

I think I might be high on something. Croissants? Whatever’s in diet Dr. Pepper? Life?

No. I know. It’s the rabbit dress.

(click on the last couple photos for a clearer view of the rabbits. I’m not making them up, I swear)

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Anyone else out there enjoying their round belly/weight gain? Are you surprised? Do you have a bombshell outfit?

Unroast: Today I love the way I look in ALL of the photos of me in the rabbit dress. CRAZY.

Other Little Victories posts: “schlumpy phase” and the one about my boobs, which is linked somewhere in the post above.