Making Out With A Stranger Is Good For Your Soul

I will say that my life is RADICALLY CHANGING in the last several months in, that, many months ago, I wouldn't even be out anywhere that a man would be, in fact, the closet I would come to one would be trudging down to 7-11 in hole-y sweatpants and a crazy ponytail for some "Combos" (They figured out a way to put cheese in pretzels! It's brilliant! It's like a fancy cocktail party in a 2 oz. bag!) and a bottle of cheap chardonnay.

I would see Rajewel look at me from behind the counter, shaking his head at my bed head and bed body as he rang up my purchase, "So sad, you are, little girl. That will be $8.95."

But now I go out and MAKE OUT with strangers in bars. I guess that's what happens when we finally get out of bed, realize there's more out there then there is in here, figure out that the only way out is through and that somethings don't have to mean everything and if I could measure my life in unexpected kisses rather than days in bed, I'd certainly take the first.

Unless I could take them both together.

Making Out With A Stranger Is Good For Your Soul

My Butt is My Own Weapon of Mass Destruction

My butt. I don't like it. It's big. It does not look cute in jeans. As a matter of fact, it has taken on a shape that barely resembles a butt... it's almost oddly square shaped as if the fat doesn't quite know where to go. I HAVE REACHED MY BREAKING POINT.

Apparently, so have many of my girlfriends, which is why we have started a kind of sorta of diet club. It's where we can get together, BE GIRL CLICHES, and obessively compulsively talk about diet and exercise until we (hopefully) give each other eating disorders. Whatever it takes, size 8 (6) here I come.

These last two years have been hell on the body and I feel sad for my little (big) self. Instead of treating my body like a temple, I've treated it like a crack den, if by crack, I meant lots of beer and cheese popcorn.

One of the reasons I broke up with my therapist is she kept insisting that what I weighed did not matter. Which is why I had to fire her because to me, IT REALLY, REALLY, REALLY DOES MATTER. I couldn't help but think after she said that, that after 2 years and 6 months of visits and paying her what amounted to what half a car costs - SHE DOES NOT GET ME AT ALL.

She wanted me to say, "I am not my weight."
ME: "But I am"
HER: "No you're not."
ME: "Yes, I am."
HER: "No you're not."
ME: "Yes, I am and you're fired, Lady!"

Then I flipped over her coffee table and her "Psychology Today" magazines and Co-Dependent No More pamphlets went splaying everywhere and I prompted STROMED OFF.

Okay, that last part might be a LIL' exaggerated. The point is, I AM MY BODY. And this body, with it's round belly and big butt, were hard won by grief, sadness, devastating break-up, unemployment, unexpected parent illness (read: mother going crazy), etc. So if I don't acknowledge that I AM MY BODY it's like ignoring all it took to get me here. And P.S., IGNORING what got me here is precisely what it took to get me here - to SQUARE ASS VILLE.

And when I exchange NEW CHUNKY SAD BODY for OLD SELF BODY WITH A ROUND BUTT, I will still be my body, because my body will reflect that along with shedding some LBS., I have also left behind all the sad things that it took to get me there.

My Butt is My Own Weapon of Mass Destruction