I still don’t worry too much about this. I am a size eight, but for the entire decade of my twenties I was a size four. Plus, things have shifted a bit, as you can…never mind…don’t imagine.
The only time I get self-conscious about my weight is when I hear other women being hypercritical of themselves or each other. Every woman I know has to make a comment every time she puts something into her mouth:
“I really shouldn’t be eating this.”
“It’s okay to eat this because it doesn’t have any carbohydrates.”
“I need to get to the gym.”
Here is what I have to say about it all: SHUT UP! Talking about diets and dieting bores the crap out of me. Can we talk about something more interesting? Over a bowl of chips and dip? Because I’m hungry.
My hair is about 30% gray, and I actually had quite a bit of gray hair ten years ago. However, like eating, it wasn’t something I worried about until other people started talking about it. I went to a hairdresser about five years ago for a simple haircut, and (while trying to sell me on highlights) she informed me that my gray hair was unflattering. I thought, this woman must have more money than she knows what to do with, because she doesn’t want my tip.
The State of My Boobs
Before pregnancy and breastfeeding…well…I’m not going to say anymore about that topic because my stepdad reads this blog.
I took an advertising class years ago and we learned about something called an “invented need.” 100 years ago there was no such thing as deodorant, conditioner, and Crest White Strips. It’s the job of advertisers to make us feel very, very insecure. So we will buy things.
Speaking of buying things, I had more money when I had no money. That probably doesn’t make sense, but somehow, with three degrees and a good job, I am more worried about money than I have ever been before. I remember having the thought, when was I ten years old, that if I ever made $12,000 a year I would Have It Made. Bwahahahaha…
Ever since Al Gore’s little slide show heard ’round the world, I have been worried. Worried that I am not doing enough to win an Emmy, an Academy Award, and the Nobel Prize. Thanks for setting the bar so high, Al.
Every crib that has been manufactured in the past twenty years has been recalled. My crib is from Ikea and doesn’t have a drop down side, so I’m sure it’s safe, but lately Oscar has been getting his legs stuck between the bars. He never gets hurt, just annoyed, but I feel like I am unnecessarily torturing my child, something I was hoping wouldn’t happen until he was in middle school.
Other People’s Children
That’s right, I’m talking about you. You and your 9-12-month-old who is already standing, walking, talking, knitting, speaking Latin, eating Brie, and trading commodities. I don’t want to know! I always swore that I wouldn’t compare Oscar to other kids. I’m sure that he’s very cute, very bright, very advanced, and I have nothing to worry about. Now excuse me while my son and I go over some flash cards.
I always knew that cheerios were a part of childhood, but I never knew that I would agonize over what kind of cheerios to buy. Who knew that they made organic cheerios? If I am feeding organic vegetables to my son, doesn’t it follow that I should give him organic cheerios? Which I am happy to do, except that they cost twice as much and taste like something I found wedged in the tread of my car tires. And please tell me, what in the hell is “evaporated cane juice”? Isn’t that sugar? I’m an English teacher, so don’t try to fool me with your fancy rhetoric. And why don’t they make organic Lucky Charms?