Update: I bought new shorts! Details at the bottom of this post.
I have long joked to my friends that if reincarnation ends up being real, I hope I come back as a woman who looks good in shorts.
Right now, I definitely do not. I have always been
afflicted with blessed with thighs. My legs are somewhat long but no matter how fit I am (or how fit I am not) at various points in my life, I have always had thighs.
As proof, here are two photos of me when I was fit as hell and still studying dance of various styles at least three days per week. All I see are thighs. Thighs like giant hams.
My dance studio was involved in a local fashion show
THIGHS like HAMS
Those tights didn’t do me any favors either.
I have no idea what made me think of my first kiss recently, but now I can’t stop thinking about it. And not in a good way.
To set this up properly, here’s a picture of me from the First Kiss Era.
I’m pretty sure I was 14 when the kiss happened (although we all know my memory is Brian Williams-caliber terrible) and I think his name was Mike. We met at the mall where my friends and I would try on Z Cavaricci jeans, loiter and try to flirt with boys for hours. Continue reading
Mom asked me a favor. She doesn’t do that often.
As a result of this request, I’m set to have coffee with her gynecologist’s daughter, who aspires to work in my industry someday.
I refuse to think about the conversation that lead to this favor. It’s better that way.
More than once I have described myself as the unfortunate marriage of Liz Lemon and Bridget Jones. Whether or not you’d agree with that assessment depends on the circumstances in which you’ve witnessed my episodic awkwardness and clumsiness.
This past weekend, I experienced this classic Bridget Jones moment albeit Brooklyn-style.
Fortunately I was able to do an Irish goodbye after three beers. I escaped my building’s roof deck, went back to my apartment and played All By Myself.*