It's tax season which is every bit as wretched as you expect it to be. I'm on my feet for over nine hours a day in the goddamn copy room which is both a safe haven and a prison, depending on the day. My book doesn't come out until August which feels even farther away the closer we get to it somehow, probably because I could have had a baby and a half in the time I'm sitting on my hands waiting for it to come out. I mean, I'm trying to get launch events together for when it comes out but I'm like Ali Sheedy in The Breakfast Club dumping her giant purse out all over the table and no one wants to sit by me. No. One.
I very nearly had, like, the awesomest event ever put together but we had irreconcilable differences over how the bar tab would be handled.
Shirley calls for me to join in/ Next to Fabra’s sweet tenor/ But I don’t see a place for me/ And I’m too quiet to be heard/ But I’m only in time / A sojourn/ With no reasons why—/Just my melody/ So I’ll sing good too/ So I’ll sing good too/ So I’ll sing good too. . .
The intertubes are positively clogged with how to care for trembling, frightened introverts. I say that as someone who is sometimes a scared rabbit herself, as you all know by now. Naturally, this makes everyone who does not self-identify as an introvert ask when does anyone care about how to care for them, the non-introvert identified?
I’m reposting this because it’s getting to be that time of the year for starting to plan how awesome you’re going to be in the new year. You can definitely do this course in a self-guided manner and all the prompts are now posted here.
It must be done carefully, delicately. Too much and you'll tip your hand that you're an imposer. Too little and you are clearly just a poseur. There are always places that are forbidden to you - the velvet rope, the back room, the after party, the inner circle.
Inherently, I don't like meditation because I feel like it's one long exercise of someone else telling me what to do. If you've been reading me for any length of time, you know how well I respond to being told what to do except in very specific consensual contexts. The second you tell me to close my eyes and make that mandatory and not optional, you've lost me.
Needless to say, this has been problematic in my budding yoga practice. It is one of many problems with my budding yoga practice. Almost everyone in my classes looks like a sexy yoga toned sex kitten who effortlessly flows from one movement to another. I spend a lot of time in class wondering why non-waifs don't do yoga. I also spend a lot of time in class wondering if I will ever be able to do half the movements being done as my boobs impede my entire life. Every time I say this, it's like a revelation so I'll say it again. If you are above a DD cup, everything is not awesome. Everything is not awesome at all. First, try spending less than $80 a bra if you are not in the Lane Bryant spectrum. I get three bras at a time and I have to replace them every six months. Yeah. For reals. Second, buying a bathing suit is like the fourth ring of hell. Third, sexy nightgowns? You are the hilar. They don't exist for us. My boobs never fit in the designated boob area. Fourth, athletics are super difficult to do because you have two quart sized baggies of peanut butter hanging from your chest. Fifth, good posture is a pipe dream.
One of the charming comments I've gotten elsewhere is that my definition of glamour magic is wrong. Super cool know more than me about a magic that is very rarely written about and that you can tell me how to do the magic that’s already working for me in my life.
Still. I figured it would be best to clear things up. Merriam-Webster gives two definitions: