Sit-Rep on VD, PT, and My 20

For all the singletons whining about Valentine’s Day, let me tell you: the coupled are just as annoyed by it as you are. Really. I don’t mean that we should be sad for the non-singles; I mean that in a couple, the odds of having the most loving, soul-bindingly romantic day of your life on Feb 14 go up exactly zero. The subset of people who enjoy this antiquated made-up holiday are 1) married people past their silver anniversary who need excuses to go out to dinner, and 2) single clubbers, both fe- and male, to whom any holiday means bargain cocktails and an excuse to rub up against each other while not noticing how tragically Tennessee Williams the whole thing is. Everyone else—dating, married, single & sane—abhors the red foil section of their supermarket and resents the mandatory sentiment they’re supposed to express via their credit limit. Like Joni Mitchell, I have seen this day from both sides now, and I reached the same conclusion you no doubt had before I started typing: If you have someone, I hope you tell them every day how you feel; if you don’t, you don’t really need to be reminded that you would if you did.

And on that note, thanks to all who made my birthday party a rockin’ good time, even if I can’t handle my liquor like the young folks can any more. YOU can’t get $2 dinners at Big Boy, so there.

Shape Magazine’s muscle building program for women, vaguely condescending as it sounds, does not fuck around. I have muscles in my back! Like, ones that can be seen with the naked eye! They’re stringy and weird, but I’m betting that’s normal; it’s just nice not to have a back with the color and texture of vanilla sheet cake. Much more optimistic about the next six weeks where, if these pictures are anything to go by, I will be able to morph into She-Hulk at will.

As for the new deodorant, the negative of ordering it online (stupid mid-MI drugstores) is minimal, since it kicks so much ass it makes me want to do one of those ridiculous woman-kickboxer-who-can-still-make-spaghetti-and-hug-her-kids commercials—except mine would feature tequila shots, because this deodorant rocks so hard it seduces men half its age and gets them pregnant. For a little perspective: I have been killing deodorants—like, apply, dress, sweat through shirt—ever since a switch in birth control about six months ago turned me into a man. After much research into the lady versions of sportsticks (hi, Chris Drue! I know these entries are your favorite!), I have latched onto this. Girly-smelling and no aluminum for that shower-clean, Alzheimer-free feeling, it also keeps one’s estrogen-sapped sweaty bits dry. Seriously, if you’re considering ‘pit Botoxing or HRT, this will keep your neck out of the noose.

And last but oh-so-not-least, the check written for our brand new apartment smells like sweet freedom, whispered in my ear. I hear you, Elton: I’m a butterfly.


mamaclsn said…
I suppose that is one method of birth control that is virtually foolproof, turning yourself into a man.
crdrue said…
We have so much to catch up on.

Popular Posts