January 21, 2002

You know what would be nice? It would be nice to look good in any of my clothes without having to stand in some awkward, convoluted, hips-thrust-forward-and-torso-twisted kind of pose. It would be nice to wear something other than pajamas and not have it straining across the tops of my thighs. That would be nice.

I managed to avoid a net gain last year (I even got smaller for a few months; of course that reversed), the first time in 6 years, but that didn't make me all tall and thin like I had hoped. Why do I have to be such a pudgy mommy type? How am I supposed to clomp around in this fireplug body and still be a tarty sexpot, like I am on the inside? And it's not like I'm against chub, but my ill-placed chub is not working in my favor. I keep trying for Christina Ricci and ending up all Rosie O'Donnell after Glamour Shots. Very, very bad. (Is Glamour Shots still around?)

And the temptation to rat my hair when all my clothes look shitty is almost overwhelming. I'm dying to chop it all off, but can't abandon the one thing that distracts a little bit from my enormous ass. On the other hand, I don't want to end up with 70s C&W hair. I'd be trying for my mom, circa '69, but get Loretta Lynne, circa '73--which put in those terms doesn't actually sound that bad. Hm. Do I have a ruffly shirt?

Of course, that wouldn't even work for me, because I don't sound like Loretta Lynne. Why can't I do anything well that you can do in front of people? I'd like to be able to sing or dance or play rock music or basketball or write books and hold them up for all to see. I'm sure my thighs would magically diminish when foiled against my impressive talent.

What are my skills? Certainly nothing public. I'm a great cook. I can actually say that confidently now. For years, I was the designated great cook--but only because I was a passable cook and all of my friends were too lazy to go beyond heating up TV dinners. Now, however, I actually can cook. But it's not like I can set up a little demo table at parties or walk around with a cigarette tray full of my wonderful leftovers. I mean, I could--and that does sound like something I might do or even have done--but it's just not practical. And it's certainly not cool. To walk around with leftovers, I mean; the cooking part's cool enough.

What else? I'm pretty good at yoga, but that's not something you can casually display, either. I don't want to be the one employee who always does the splits when she gets drunk at office parties. See, there's someone without a public skill. You get reduced to doing splits at an office party.

I can sew & build web sites & I'm very crafty, but you can't tell that by looking at me. So none of those things make up for my ill-fitting clothes. It's vexing.

I don't even do anything interesting for a living. I don't even know what I do for a living. I should think up something interesting, in case anyone asks. I write self-help books. I design patterns for paper towels. I'm a glass blower. I compile first-persona data from sex workers around the globe and chart sex industry trends for the World Health Organization. I'm a cobbler.

Maybe I should buy a girdle.

01.17.02