authenticity

Oh, for the love of all things holy! This is music to my ears! I too have suffered the curse of having the inappropriate emotions for a certain situation. Not ALL situations, just…most one or two.

Haven’t you?

If so, give this a read. If you’ve already read it—read it again. You’ll feel so much better for it!

Carry on,
xox

Dear Ones:

Once I went to visit a therapist because I was afraid I might be a sociopath.

The reason I felt like a sociopath, is because I thought I was feeling THE WRONG EMOTION. Specifically, my story was this: I was a 30-year-old married woman, and I was supposed to want to have a baby — because that’s what married women are supposed to want when they are 30 years old. But I didn’t want to have a baby. The thought of having a baby filled me not with a sense of joy, but with a sense of dread.

So I figured I must be a sociopath — obviously! — and I went to a therapist to confirm this diagnosis.
This woman helpfully explained to me the difference between a sociopath and myself. She said, “A sociopath does not feel any human emotion. You, on the other hand, are feeling plenty of human emotion, but the problem is, you believe you are feeling
THE WRONG EMOTION. “

That’s why my life was falling apart — not because I couldn’t feel, but because I couldn’t accept my true feelings as legitimate. I was suffering and falling into depression because I still believed that there is a way that we are supposed to feel about every single life event (some sort of industry standard) and if my feelings deviated from that industry standard, then there was something deeply broken and wrong about me.

I do not believe that anymore.

We are not Dell Operating Systems, people.
We are people, people.

And we are complex and unique and perfect and true, and there is no one way to feel.
There is a way that culture teaches you that you are supposed to feel….and then there is what you are actually feeling. And if can’t allow your true feelings to exist, because you’re trying to live within the socially acceptable feeling, then you will suffer, and you will try to cram yourself into the industry standard, or you will try to numb your true feelings with addiction or self-abuse, or you will just stop feeling anything at all (to the point that you almost DO resemble a sociopath.)

Oh, my loves, my loves, my loves…
Have you ever suffered because you believed you were feeling THE WRONG EMOTION?

For years, I have collected so many stories from friends about their experiences with THE WRONG EMOTION.

I have a friend who described her sense of grieving — acute, anguished grieving — on her wedding day. That’s THE WRONG EMOTION! You can’t feel grief about getting married when 300 guests are waiting to gaze at you in your very expensive Vera Wang wedding gown! WRONG! And the shame she felt about that feeling of grief was so awful that her internal hard drive basically crashed for several years…effectively turning her into a socially-acceptable zombie, because feeling absolutely nothing was preferable to feeling THE WRONG EMOTION.

My friend the writer Ann Patchett recently wrote a brave and gorgeous essay about the tremendous joy she felt when her father finally died. He had suffered from an awful illness for years, and when he passed away, Ann felt not just relief…but joy! Ecstatic joy! And man, did she take some shit from the Internet for saying out loud that she was happy her father was dead because that is THE WRONG EMOTION. And yet that’s what Ann felt — despite, or perhaps because, of the fact that she had adored her father, and been his caregiver. She felt joy for herself, and joy for him because they had both reached the end of his suffering. And rather than keeping that WRONG EMOTION under wraps, she brought it out into the daylight and examined it, and talked about it openly, and shared it. Good for her.

I have a friend who finally said, “I hate Christmas, and I’ve always hated Christmas. I’m not doing it anymore.” WHAT?! WRONG EMOTION!

I have a friend who doesn’t feel any regret or sadness or ambivalence about that abortion she had thirty years ago. WHAT?! WRONG EMOTION.

I have a friend who stopped reading the news or being involved in activism and politics because he finally said, “Honestly? I don’t care anymore. I just don’t!” WRONG EMOTION!

I have a friend who stopped being a deacon in her church because she finally had to admit that she couldn’t swallow her church’s teachings anymore: WRONG EMOTION!

I have a friend who told me, “You know that expression about how nobody on their deathbed ever said, ‘I wish I’d spent more time at work’? Because family and friends are supposed to be more important than work? Well, I probably will be the one on my deathbed saying that I wish I’d spent more time at work because I love working. I’m crazy about my job, and I love it more than anything! I wish I could work even more hours. My work fulfills me completely. I love my job more than I love my friends — and I find my job so much easier to deal with than my crazy family. Work is where I go for joy.”

WHAT?! WRONG EMOTION!

I have a friend who thought she was insane because — after her husband left her — all she could feel was relief….after twenty years of a “good marriage”. She had given everything to that marriage, and she had loved him so faithfully, and then he bailed out on her. She should have been weeping! She should have felt bitter! She should have felt shamed and betrayed and enraged! There’s a script for how you are supposed to feel when your husband leaves you after you’ve been such a good wife, but she was deviating from the script because all she felt was pure elation that he was gone and she was free. Her family was concerned about her for her reaction because that’s THE WRONG EMOTION. They thought she might need to be medicated.
My mother once confessed to me that the happiest era of her life began when my sister and I finally grew up and went to college and she had an empty nest. THE WRONG EMOTION! Women are supposed to hate the empty nest! Mothers are supposed to mourn and collapse when their children leave home. But no. My mom wanted to dance a freakin’ jig when she dropped her daughters off at college and realized that she was — at last —done with us. All the other moms were weeping, but all my mother could feel was: “Yahoooo!” But she kept that feeling under wraps, because maternal ambivalence is the single most unacceptable emotion in our culture, and a “good mother” (whatever that even means, God help us) does NOT get to celebrate being free of her children, because: WRONG EMOTION. What would the neighbors say?

And here is the ultimate: A beloved friend of mine, years ago, was diagnosed with a terminal illness. This man, who loved life more than anyone I have ever met, admitted to me that his first thought — when the diagnosis came — was, “Oh, thank God.” And that feeling didn’t go away over time, either, even as his disease worsened. He felt such deep happiness. He felt like, “Phew, I’m done!” He was dying! He “should” have felt sorrow and rage and pain and loss. But all he could think was that there was so much he didn’t have to worry about anymore! He didn’t have to worry about saving for retirement anymore. He didn’t have to figure out how to deal with his most difficult relationships anymore. He didn’t have to worry about terrorism and global warming anymore. He didn’t have to worry about getting the roof on the garage fixed anymore. He didn’t even have to worry about dying anymore because now he knew how his story would end. He was happy. And he stayed happy, throughout the whole journey toward his death. He told me, “Look, life is hard. Even a good life is hard, and I’ve had a very good life…but it’s hard. I’m excited that I get to leave this dinner party now. It’s been a fun party, but I’m tired. I’m ready to go.” WRONG EMOTION! The doctors told him he was in shock and kept handing him brochures about grieving. But my friend wasn’t in shock. Shock is when you feel nothing; my friend was feeling something —happiness! The doctors just didn’t like it, because it was THE WRONG EMOTION. Not up to the industry standard. But my friend was standing in his truth – his very own truth — and if sixty years of conscious and open-hearted living do not entitle a good man to stand in his own truth and feel his own feelings at the end of his life, then what is life even for?

My friends, listen: I want you to learn how to feel what you are feeling — not what you think you are SUPPOSED to feel, but what you ACTUALLY feel.

And I want you to guide your own life based on that, and only that.

I want you to remove the WRONG EMOTION! button from your internal keyboard forever.

I want you to throw away the idea that there is an emotional industry standard, and that you must not deviate from it. My friend Rob Bell told me that he used to ask his therapist all the time, “Is it normal that I feel this way?”, and the therapist would always reply, “Oh, Rob…we passed normal a long time ago.”

I passed normal a long time ago, too. I will not inflict upon myself anymore the shame and suffering of questioning my own reactions to life or burying my own true feelings because I am not feeling what I’m allegedly supposed to feel.

If I feel joy than that joy is right and real…for me.
If I feel grief, then that grief is right and real….for me.
If I love someone, then that love is right and real…for me.

If I feel mistrust or aversion to people I am supposed to trust and admire, then that feeling of mistrust is right and real…for me. And if I feel admiration for people I’m not supposed to admire, then that feeling of admiration is right and real…for me.

Nobody benefits when I try to make myself feel ways that I do not feel, and nobody benefits when I try to make myself NOT feel ways that I do feel…and nobody benefits when you do that, either.

Feel what you feel, allow your emotions to be legitimate, fearlessly examine your own reactions to your own life, and live your absolute truth — there is no other pathway to integrity than that.
Anything short of that is truly WRONG. (For you.)
☺
ONWARD,
LG

A reader sent me this video thinking I would be able to relate. I’m sorry it took me so long to view it! I love it—and the message.

Say what you will about Lady Gaga, you have to admit she’s an original—and I think an amazing talent.

But even SHE fell into the trap that fame sets for the sensitive creatives out there.
Forget fame.
Society.
Society can seduce you with its trappings. Wealth. Recognition. Social media “likes”.

It wants to define us. Tell us Who We Are.

It builds us up to tear us down.

Someone wise asked me recently, “How far are you willing to go to make a name for yourself? Who will you hurt? Your husband? Your friends? Yourself?”

Something to think about.

Stay centered. Stay unique. Stay honest.

I believe in you.

Carry on,
xox

“You can’t imagine not being able to find joy. Hating yourself. No matter how much success you have, no matter how many opportunities, fame, fortune, no matter how many accept you to your face, the person that really needs to accept you is you.”

“I realized that part of my identity is saying no to things I don’t wanna do. … It is your right to choose what you do and don’t do. It is your right to choose what you believe in and don’t believe in. It is your right to curate your life and your own perspective.”

“I started to say no. Nope, no, I’m not doing that. Then slowly but surely, I started to remember who I am. That person doesn’t just say yes, they have integrity.”

“No one can define who you are. I’ll be myself until they fucking close the coffin.”

~Lady Gaga

Amen, sister.

“I am who I think you think I am.” – Charles Horton Cooley

This is a trip. And, I think, important to try to wrap our brains around.

Carry on,
xox

“Writers are cannibals. They really are. They are predators, and if you are friends with them, and if you say anything funny at dinner, or if anything good happens to you, you are in big trouble.”
― Nora Ephron

Morning Peeps,
This is from last year but it’s something that happens on a regular basis and it makes me howl with laugher…on the inside…while I dictate notes into my phone.
Carry on,
xox

“I never said most of the things I said.”
-Yogi Berra

Having written this blog pretty much every day for almost three four years now, an interesting phenomenon has started to show up in casual conversation with family and friends.

I’m being quoted back to myself.
“You know that thing you wrote Tuesday about the forgiveness?”  Then they recite it back to me—verbatim.

I just nod, because sadly, my memory has taken a menopause vacation. These days I can barely remember to wear pants.

Other times it isn’t even remotely something I wrote. It has the innate wisdom of a Rumi quote or something Oprah said—same thing.

Anyhow, it still boggles my mind that anyone reads this blog, let alone remembers what I wrote—and I feel immense unending gratitude for all of you.

So there’s that.

Here’s the other thing that takes me aback every time it happens—which is actually growing in frequency.

“This is off the record—I don’t want to see this in the blog”, my friends will whisper to me with pleading eyes.
Even in the car.
Like I’m wearing a wire!

Like I’m a fucking investigative reporter doing important journalistic work for The Huffington Post, The Washington Post or something. Like I’m going to publish an essay about their shitty boss, how much they hate their boobs or describe what their husband’s sex face looks like. And funnier still, that their boss, boobs, or husband would ever get wind of it.

It’s all I can do not to snort laugh when that happens.

The funny part is that when I do mention a “friend” in the blog—everyone thinks it’s them.

“That was cool, that thing you wrote about me yesterday” they’ll chirp with pride, and I don’t have the heart to tell them that most of the friends I mention are compilations, you know, to keep me from getting my ass kicked in line at Joan’s.

So here’s the official disclaimer: If I say “a girlfriend”— it’s not you. Even if I mention your name—it’s probably not you.

Truth be told, the person I out the most—is myself. I gave myself permission to do that—to tell the uncensored truth in the very beginning because what’s the use of writing a blog about your life when you don’t disclose anything intimate about yourself? Besides, the real rewards for doing that have been enormous personal insights on my part—and this response from readers: ‘I’m so glad you wrote about that—I thought it was just me.’

Well, it’s not just you Sheila, I fart in Yoga class too.

Like I said, uncensored.

The second person who has endured being fodder for the blog is my hubby who seems to take it all in stride. It’s like he’s reading about a fictional character called “husband”. He’ll even refer to himself in the third person “I felt bad for her husband today”, he’ll remark after reading the blog.

Other days he’ll walk into the room with tears in his eyes.
That guts me every time.
Here he is, living my life with me—day in and day out—yet, even after all these years of late night pillow talks, patio talks and kitchen talks (If you haven’t guessed, I’m a talker), he’s surprised to read how I felt about something he did or said.

Or the backstage antics of the three ring circus that is disguised as my life.

“I had no idea all that was happening,” he’ll say, marveling at the fact that I can recount all the actual dialogue. “How in the hell do you DO that?”

I just smile.

Then he envelopes me in one of those big bear hugs that I love so much.
And I worry…Shit, I hope he can’t feel the wire.

Be cool you guys, have a great weekend and carry on,
xox

These may look like the random ingredients of a food challenged schizophrenic’s lunch. Or they belong to a Russian peasant whose secret ingredient for her award-winning Borscht — is Fritos.
They are both.
They are mine.

These are the ingredients which will eventually make up my future.

What? I hear you asking. (Actually, I toned it down. It’s still early.)

It’ll make sense in a minute. Let me explain.

My Muse loves Fritos so I snarf them down while I write. They make her happy, so in turn, I suppose they make me happy. And they make me salty. And puffy. And maybe ten pounds over the twenty pounds over that last five pounds I just can’t seem to loose.

The beets were to replicate a ridiculously delicious beet soup I had with my writing tribe in Mexico last month. Yes, beets and delicious belong in the same sentence. Nettie gave us the recipe after observing six grown women reduced to a band of bowl licking freaks. I’m dead serious.

I even used my food processor. I NEVER use my food processor.
I chop, microwave or order out of menus.
My food processor is just for decoration.
It says to people, “Hey, this chick is the real deal, she follows a detailed recipe, processes stuff, and serves it to people who enjoy their food the consistency of baby food.”
Mostly my food processor sits quietly collecting dust. That is until my husband fires it up to process fancy baby food for us to eat.

And it turns everything pink. Like bright magenta pink.
Not the processor. The beets.
And by everything I mean pee and poop. Oh, sorry. Is it too early?

Anyhow, all this to say I have a shit ton of weird ingredients around me these days (because my life barely resembles itself anymore), that make me happy in some way or another. Some I’m aware of, like the beets and the Fritos, others I am not, like the…well, I’m not aware of them so…I’ll let you know as soon as I find out what they are.

When I’m happy I keep moving forward. My feet aren’t stuck in cement and I’m no longer wishing I was anywhere but exactly where I’m standing. It’s fucking liberating.

It’s so interesting to look around and see the actual things that are coalescing to become your future. Blogs, and musicals, screenplays and articles all facilitated by happiness. Simple Frito and beet happiness. And chocolate. Barges and boatloads of chocolate.

Look around right now. What are YOUR ingredients?

Fido. Fido makes you happy AND he gets you out walking which puts your lazy ass in nature and as we all know, walking in NATURE is when all the great ideas come. And it lifts your ass and puts pink in your cheeks.

That bicycle taunting you in the garage. You rode it last weekend, the nature thing happened, AND you met a nice guy when you were stopped looking at the view ( allowing your heart rate to come back to a level that was a little less lethal). When you look back you’ll remember THAT was the day you met HIM.

The invitation to that dinner party you keep forgetting, avoiding to RSVP to, where you will sit next to the guy who will eventually become a good friend and give you the loan to start that business you’ve always dreamed of.

The book on the nightstand that will say something to you that will resonate so strongly that your boobies will tingle and it will change the way you think about things for the rest of your life.

I can hear you. “Wait!”  you say, “Those aren’t ingredients that will combine and lead to my future. They’re just a dog, a book, my bike, and an annoying dinner invitation.”

Are you sure about that?

That feet in cement thing is something I wrote yesterday, as a note, potentially for the screenplay:

“It turns out that by denying the life that was calling me, I kept my OWN two feet stuck in cement. I wouldn’t allow MYSELF to fly.”

That makes me tear up.

Hey, if I cry do you think my tears will be pink?

Carry on.
xox

One of the magazines I read, (it must be a shelter magazine because I’ve let all of my other subscriptions lapse), has a column I love called, Things I Can’t Live Without where a famous designer gives a glimpse into their daily life.
I’m nosey as shit and I’m assuming since you’re here that you are too, and while I’m no famous anything, here’s a list of some of the favorite things inside of my little world.

Deva Premal Gayatri Mantra Chant
I play this every morning. It’s 2 hours long so I just let it run in the background and I swear to god it shifts even the worst morning’s energy from crabby-pants—to tolerable.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BSmToj9VZ4s

I play the chant and anything else worth listening to on this baby The Bose Bluetooth Wireless Speaker. The sound quality is amazeballs.
http://www.amazon.com/Bose-SoundLink-Bluetooth-Speaker-III/dp/B00HWSXVDG/ref=sr_1_15?ie=UTF8&qid=1453319528&sr=8-15&keywords=bose+wireless

Trader Joe’s or TJ’s as it’s affectionately known. If you don’t have one in your town you should start a petition. My friend calls it “the poor man’s Whole Foods”, I call it Mecca.

Chocolate anything. Preferably dark. The darker the better. There have been studies done that suggest that consuming chocolate makes you clever. Who am I to argue with science?
“To win a Nobel Prize you have to produce something others haven’t thought about – chocolate that makes you feel good might contribute”
~Prof Christopher Pissarides

I’ve mentioned these before but Dental soft-picks have saved my life on numerous occasions. No one wants a smile full of kale.

Nag Champa incense. Me love mucho. I burn it all the time mostly because it is brilliant at covering the smell of dog farts.

Trader Joe’s Organic Corn Chips. They are my writer’s crack. I was once caught by surprise on a LIVE Blab Chat fishing one out of my bra. No, I don’t keep them there, I just missed my mouth. #brasnacks

My prescription cheaters. I have about six pairs scattered everywhere. I’ve lost more glasses than Elton John owns.They are 2.0 and I can’t read shit without them because of the other thing I can’t live without—my contact lenses for nearsightedness. I love you eyes but honestly, you suck at seeing.

My half down, half other stuff (I suspect spotted owl feather), pillow. I can’t leave home without it.

MAC Plushglass lipgloss in bountiful. And any good black khol eye pencil to line the inside of my eyelids. This is no run-of-the-mill need. This is a serious “stranded on a desert island” kind of can’t live without it kind of thing.

The Chinese chicken salad at Joan’s on Third. With its perfect ratio of chicken to crispy won-tons and a not-too-sweet dressing, it is a large bowl of deliciousness that I manage to devour at least twice a week. http://www.joansonthird.com

Writing in my dining room surrounded by all of the accumulated art.(photo at the top)

My MacBook Air, iPad and iPhone. I am seriously addicted. “Hi, my name is Janet and I’m an Apple addict.”

My morning meditation. Without it, I suffer. I am a short tempered, maniacal mess with no sense of direction and a complete lack of imagination. Yikes.

The YMCA or the ghetto gym as I call it. Cheap and cheerful, it has all the machines, free weights, lots of parking and absolutely NO attitude—and the boy at the front desk calls me “miss”.

False eyelashes. All day, every day. They are my obsession. The spiky ones make me giddy. I’m convinced I’m Korkie, the missing Kardashian sister—Don’t you dare judge me!

White Phalaenopsis orchids. I have them in the bathroom all year ‘round. They are much easier to maintain than people think, they actually thrive on neglect which makes them the perfect plant for me, AND the blooms can last for up to three MONTHS! Whaaaaat?

The Gap 1969 medium rise/skinny jeans. I’ve tried all the rest, but these fit me the best.

You guys and this blog. I LOVE writing this blog, it makes me so happy. You know it’s mostly for me, right?…and maybe a few of my friends (wink).

I am SO freaking curious about y’all. What can’t you live without? Care to share?
Carry on,
xox

This is riot you guys!
But not really.
Ugh.
I’ve sat at this table haven’t you?

Wait! It gets better. I’ve been that well-intentioned jackass who speaks in self-righteous therapist or guru induced gibberish. That’s not communicating you guys. That’s not even a conversation.
THAT is a monologue.

I want to throw a roll at all of them. Don’t you want to throw a roll?
That’s what they need—a good old-fashioned food fight!

CAUTION: this is what happens when you take “spirituality” to the extreme. You think you’re being “authentic”, self-aware, and just telling the truth when you’re actually looking down your nose at everyone, not listening and plain old just being an ass.

Just goes to show that extreme ANYTHING, even enlightenment—is NOT the way to go.

Carry on,
xox

So here we are at the three-year mark. The third anniversary of the spontaneous creation of this blog.

It has changed me. YOU have changed me. For the better.

You make me want to be a better version of me. To write better. To always tell the truth.

Without your love, support, comments and hilarious off-the-grid emails—I’d have stayed sad and stuck.

I hated stuck. Stuck sucked. So did sad. Sad was like quicksand.

So thank you.

For letting me vent. And rant. And offer advice. And maybe even make you laugh.

You guys are the best, honestly—and I love you all madly.

Color me Immensely Grateful.

Carry on,

xox

I was reminded by Facebook that three years ago this week my dear friend and I attended a Peter Gabriel concert at the Hollywood Bowl. I have a love/hate relationship with that feature on Facebook, but that is fodder for another story.

When I saw the photo of the group of us I was stunned. Had it really been three years?

I looked closely at her face in the picture. She is beautiful in a patrician Grace Kelly kind of way, blonde, cool and collected. But I could see the numbness behind her eyes, and I remembered the fear in those days. It was palpable.

She had been diagnosed with cancer just a week or so before if my memory serves me, and this concert was an early birthday—cheer-up—everything’s going to be okay, present.

I started to get transported back; to the days of chemo, radiation, watching her lose her beautiful long, blonde hair. Back to the day she shaved half of her head and sent us the photo just prior to going full-blown bald. Man, we all cried…until, fuck, wouldn’t you just know it, she had the most gorgeous scalp and perfectly shaped head imaginable! She wore the wigs until the stubble grew in at which point we begged her to dye it platinum and own it. Why the hell not?

She looked like a fucking runway model. I kid you not.
People who hadn’t seen her in a while and were in the dark about her diagnosis fell over themselves marveling at her beauty. I literally saw a guy fall over his own feet staring at her.

Once she found out she wasn’t going to die, the fear subsided. She started to glow from the inside out and not from the radiation.  She glowed because she wasn’t marinating in fear anymore.

Fear is a serial killer. Remember that.

Fast forward three years: Don’t you EVER grow your hair out! we all begged—and she hasn’t.
She rocks that short white hair like a 90’s Annie Lennox, something she would have NEVER done prior to the cancer.

She has been transformed in so many ways they are too numerous to count. It’s no exaggeration to say that pretty much everything is different about her than the woman in the picture—not only different—it’s better.

 I think she walks taller in the world. She waged a battle and beat a pretty nasty foe and she’s got the scars and the swagger to prove it.

She’s a hell of a lot more authentic. She’s becoming more and more who she really is—even occasionally flying her freak-flag—Above is a picture of her this year at Burning Man, a warrior Goddess, who fulfilled a lifelong dream and in the process realized she had found her tribe.

Courage is her middle name now, not Ann or Penelope or whatever it was. I think she should legally change it.

When you go through something like that you can’t help but grow up. She’s a grown-up now.

And a magician.
When she was diagnosed she had been unemployed for a while, broke, with no prospects on the horizon.
I’ve watched her these past three years manifest perfect health, money, a great job—and then a dream job. I just met her for lunch and she’s probably the happiest I’ve ever seen her. Her eyes are bright and wise—her face—serene.

That’s the thing about life you guys. If we only had a crystal ball during the shitstorms that could show us the future—our future.

That not only does everything work out, it works out better than we could have ever imagined!

I’ve always told myself,(because we all know I don’t reside in the real world too much), that after a particularly difficult time—the Universe rewards me. It showers me with magic. I’ve seen it happen over and over again and now I’m seeing it with my sweet, courageous friend.

So let this be your crystal ball. Hang on. Have faith. Be brave. Magic is on the way. I promise.

Carry on,
xox

I’d like to say a few words about…double stick tape.

I went through a period in the mid nineties of dressing, well, like a tramp. All thigh-high slits and escaping tits.

Hence, double stick tape became my indispensable wingman.

You see, the pendulum had swung ALLLLLL the way to the other extreme.

It had followed my monk phase. The five years or so where I denied my ample bosom. Previous to that I was somehow blissfully oblivious.

During this phase my boobs, seeming as big as my head, felt too large for my frame, getting in the way of my arms, hiding my feet, changing the channel on the remote if I sneezed — so I basically bound them.

Figures, right?

Everyone wants tits except the ones who have them. Let me just say right here, they are a huge responsibility and most people don’t realize the implications.

Mine were “real and they were spectacular” to quote the famous Seinfeld episode. Unlike me, my breasts actually received a thank you note in the mail for their spectacularness. No kidding.

But they were wasted on me. Until I learned to embrace my bussomy-ness. Hey listen, when your boobs get mail it makes you pay attention.

So this could either be a “the grass is always greener” story or “appreciate the gifts you’re given” tome.

Instead it’s an homage to double stick tape. The disasters it keeps from happening and the secrets it keeps hidden.

But what exactly IS the deal with double stick tape?
The application is tricky at best and an amateur hour shit-fest at worst.

Kind of like false eyelashes, which I have also mastered.

Here’s the thing: it’s all an illusion.
Kind of like Spanx.

Double stick tape;
false eyelashes;
and Spanx.

Ladies and Gentleman, it’s astounding! It’s confounding! Watch and see if you can figure out just how she does it!

My waaaay-too-short skirt and cleavage down-to-there are masterfully taped so as to only imply indecency; they keep all my bits in place yet they tease and taunt you into thinking you just may see…something…

The eyelashes; if you take the time to learn how to apply them (it took me weeks — everyday) look like you have a lifetime supply of Latisse and you spend an hour and a half in a magnifying mirror getting your fifteen coats of mascara just right. Who’s got that kind of time?

VPL? Visible pantie lines? Not his girl.
No thigh jiggle, no belly wiggle, and no deep breaths. Oxygen deprived. For a decade. Ahhhhh…how I hate you — fucking Spanx.

It looks from the outside like it’s all a walking work of perfection. And there’s the story.

Nothing ever is. Perfect that is.

If the tape lifts, the lashes peel or the Spanx fail — the jig is up.

Just know that the next time you observe “perfection”. It’s a labor intensive magic trick.

Post Script: The other day I used the last of my double stick tape to anchor the corner of a rug. My how times have changed.

Carry on,
xox