I Want Candy

"Hi. I'm Andrea. And I have ridiculously large boobs."

Hi, Andrea!

You know, there really should be a support group. Both literally and figuratively. And major bonus points if there were free vanilla lattes and donuts at the meetings.

Oh, poor you, you and your normal-sized breasts sneer in your best Olivia Soprano voice. You think I'm lucky. You think having triple D's must be the cat's meow. You think you would've totally ruled the school Senior year if not for your average sweater set. But sista, as much as I want to shrug and say vive la difference (and then swear to stop using the term "sista" cuz we all know I'm the whitest woman in America), you're wrong. These puppies are an albatross.

Did they get me free drinks all through college? Certainly. Did they increase my tips by 1000% when I did singing telegrams? You betcha. Have men waxed rhapsodically about being trapped in their splendor? Um, I'm a lady. And a lady never talks. (Translation: Hells yeah.)

But honestly? Because I grew these goombas organically, shopping is a nightmare.

I'm 5'2"-- unless I'm being weighed for something or setting up an online dating profile, in which case I'm 5'3". Because clearly that extra inch weighs 20 pounds. I'm kind of petite except for the giant U-Boats protruding from my upper body (matched only by the hips that ate Chicago— and yes people, it was delicious) so almost any shirt that isn't skin tight is far too big everywhere else. I buy things that don't look low cut to me when I try them on, but which proudly display my titanic titwillows to anyone taller than I, which is pretty much everyone. And strapless or racerback bra required? You might as well ask me to fly (and by the by, while I may be 89 kinds of dynamic, aero ain’t one of 'em).

So today I found myself in a swim suit store in Austin, TX.  I'm here on business and for God's sake, the bathing suit selection for those of us with decadent dirigibles in Colorado is abysmal. It's as if all department store buyers have gotten together and decided that we should just stay home, lounging around in our giant titslingers and eating whatever mystery thing it is that makes us tumescent, and kindly leave the swimming up to the svelte.  But I'm going to Cabo in two weeks and Kauai not long after that and I'll be damned if those aren't public bathing suit events, and despite what my Mother would prefer, I don't want to look like a member of the East German swim team. My current swim suit and faithful companion since Vegas 2011 has done its dead solid best to support me through the Great 2012 Weight Gain of Happiness, but lately has begun to look a bit "MILFs Gone Wild."

Clearly I'm not oblivious to the power that cleavage can afford, I just don't want mothers shielding their trembling children's eyes as my flying buttresses and I go waddling pornographically past at the pool. Nor am I a fan of the nearly inevitable wardrobe malfunction. I've begun to imagine my bathing suit top has a Scottish brogue and is shouting "Damn it, Jim! I'm a bikini, not a feat of structural engineering!"

The relentlessly perky salesgirl that helped me was named Candice. Of course she was, and I have no doubt that to friends and loved ones she's simply "Candy," with her normal sized boobies, perfectly straight hair, and future Junior League membership. I explained my dilemma and she set about pulling every swim suit in the store that might provide the amount of support and coverage that, let's say, two B-52 Bombers might need for a long weekend at the beach. She checked on me in the dressing room every 32 seconds, each time actually pulling back the curtain and catching me in various unflattering wrestling postures, slightly out of breath and wrangling my gargantuan girls into these bikini tops and skirted bottoms, and calling me "girlfriend" through a blindingly white smile because she likely couldn't remember my name.

And suddenly, there it was: The perfect swim suit. Seriously, the only thing perkier than my tomatoes in this thing was Candy herself.

Admittedly, I had to consider my reflection very quickly before Candy reappeared just in time to catch me in all my semi-naked and somewhat sweaty glory, encouraging me to chub-rub it out to the 3-way mirror for everyone to gaze in wonderment upon my fish-belly white, hail-damaged edifice. But I think I may have actually found that elusive bathing costume that is somehow flattering, sexy, age-appropriate and massively supportive. Seriously, if this thing were any more supportive, it would pour me a glass of wine, massage my feet, and ask me quite genuinely how my day was.

Clearly, I had to have it. And so $259 later, we all exited the store, Candy in tow, wishing the 4 of us (me, my two flotation devices, and my miracle of modern spandex) a fabulous trip to Cabo.

Now I'm back in my hotel room and I'm terrified to try the suit on again to make sure I love it. Candy's not here to coo over how hot I look in it and I'm wearing white socks, no make-up, and a creeping sense of failure. I'm not ready for reality to come crashing back in and ruin this for me and my Everlasting Gobstoppers of Joy.

I really need to get to a meeting.

"Hi, I'm Andrea. And I have ridiculously large boobs."

Hi, girlfriend!

I need you, Candy. Wherever you are.

I'm The McRib

The human body is amazing.

Well, your human body is amazing.  Mine is rather an inefficient, codependent mess of barely functioning systems that somehow manage to both keep me almost robustly healthy and completely flummox medical professionals across the country.  Seriously, around our house it's a joke in which I say things like "Well sure, but aside from the congestive heart failure, I'm perfectly healthy."  Or "Yeah, but aside from the asthma, I'm perfectly healthy." Or "Certainly, but aside from the malfunctioning thyroid, I'm perfectly healthy."

If, as John Mayer insists, my body actually is a wonderland, it's a scientific one that I should donate to medical research (you know, after my death).  It's like the biological equivalent of the Gift of the Magi.

Take last week for example.  After a wonderful but late Thursday night with my bestie Vicki in town, I awoke feeling just as poorly as I had for many, many days after inheriting what appeared to be a rather uncommon cold from The Boy.  It had run its course for days:  First a horrible sore throat, then a stuffy/runny nose (how can it be both, seriously?), then a cough.  And then a bad cough.  And then a body-wracking, soul-shaking cough that left me gaping for breath while SEATED.

It's not like I didn't know it was going to happen.

Asthma is a fucking awful thing.  And yes, I'm standing by my decision to invoke the F word there.  It's one of those things that makes you seem like a totally normal person until you find yourself having to run in high heels through downtown in cold weather because you're late coming back from a lunch that your old boss made you schedule with visiting coworkers and which she then chose not to attend...and then suddenly you're late to her ridiculously self-important 90-minute staff meeting (for 2 people) and completely chagrined, fighting for air like a goldfish that has leapt from her bowl onto the counter. Or until you make the mistake of trying to clean your basement shower with a product containing ammonia and realize too late that your puffer is two stories over your head and there's no one around to fetch it for you and you're single and no one even goes into your basement so who cares if this shower is clean anyway and why are you willing to die for it?  Or until your new boyfriend takes you on a hike (which I think was to test my relative fitness level) and then looks on in dismay when you begin to wheeze and sputter and try to maintain some sense of "but look how cute and outdoorsy I am in my new Ann Taylor cargo pants!"

So on Friday my doctor conducted another breathing test on me as I sat all clammy and feverish in his office for the third time in nine months. For those of you who have the luxury of fully functioning lungs and have never had to do this, it involves you blowing as hard as you can into a little tube (insert oral sex joke here and yuck it up, people). The end result is that once the sensation that you're going to pass out subsides and the black dots at the corner of your vision disappear, the computer can tell you the relative age and capacity of your lungs.

Surprise!  On Friday, my lungs were 84 years old.

I'm 46.

I'm forty-FUCKING-six years old and already dismayed at the damage time and gravity have wrought on my face and body (not to mention my discomfort at knowing how close I am to Molly Shannon's skit of "I'M FIFTY!").  Like most of you, while I certainly was aware that an "aging process" existed, I honestly didn't expect it to happen to me. Like I would somehow be that elusive beast that stays looking 30 my entire life-- a wrinkle-free unicorn with taut skin and supple thighs.  But no such luck.

And you know what?  I've earned each of these wrinkles, every bit of the droop, and I've mostly enjoyed the calories that have padded my squishy parts (I could've done without most of the broccoli and ALL of the parsnips).  But my lungs?  I didn't earn that.  My heart that now relies on a battery to kickstart it in the case of a stall?  I didn't earn that.  My thyroid that decided I should gain weight even on a 1200 calorie per day diet?  I. Did. Not. Earn. That.

And, quite simply, I'm pissed.

Pissed that I'm middle-aged (if I'm lucky).  Pissed that my eye doctor has informed me I'm not a candidate for Lasik and will likely need bifocals soon.  Pissed that I'm supposed to tame my hair into something more age-appropriate (although I'm apparently also not a candidate for a Brazilian Blow-out) and slip quietly into irrelevance.

Have I gained wisdom along the way?  Absolutely.  Do I have more economic power than ever before?  Sure. Have I enjoyed a privileged life, many vacations, and lots of luxury that millions of people will never know? You betcha. Have I been lucky enough to be loved fully and truly? Right on, brotha.  Sock it to me!

But what I really want is my 22 year old body back (without having to attend a pedantic and desperate bootcamp kinda gig or actually do any real work for it cuz God knows my traitor of a heart isn't going to allow that).  I want to enjoy it this time around and not lament the tiny flaws that loomed so large when I looked in the mirror at myself back then.  (Note to the Moms out there:  Do not allow your daughter to purchase a magnified, lighted make-up mirror.  Ever.)  I want to embrace that beautiful, optimistic girl and tell her to love herself and to revel in how little she knows about all that will begin to go SO wrong inside of her and on her face.

Me at 22.  I'm sure everyone saw what I saw:  An enormously fat girl  with
a huge nose,  asymmetrical nostrils, a week jawline and bad hair. Oh, to look that awful again.

But mostly I think I just want to wear a mini skirt and not look stupid. Or to elicit a catcall once again (I promise this time I'll appreciate it, construction workers of America!)

And maybe breathe a little easier.

But apparently like a McRib, I'm packed with fat, full of inorganic matter, and only available for a limited time.  So savor me, people.

Savor me!

Sugar Coat

Although I spend my days toiling in relative marketing anonymity for a large company in a cubicle more suitable for raising veal, like many of you I have delusions of grandeur.  And every now and then, one of these delusions becomes a full-blown business plan-- which to me is really just a long, often drunken, rant about something that someone should do or create or stop doing and for which I then design an elaborate marketing plan that no one will ever implement. 

I'm no Ivy League grad-- but that's what a business plan is, right?

And my latest business plan is for a lingerie line that I've elegantly named "Sugar Tw*t."

Why lingerie? you may find yourself asking.  My answer, as it often is when it comes to why I do, think, or say anything is:  I honestly don't know.  It's possible I just wanted to use the word "twat" in a sentence.

Lingerie has little importance in my life, as is evidenced by the fact that every piece of it that I own is sitting in a moving box in the garage-- and has been sitting there for 4 months.  It's been out there for so long that I now realize I need to wash it all because aside from my lingerie and yearbooks, the number one thing we store in our garage is garbage.  Rotting, ickily fragrant garbage.  Seriously-- it's like an episode of "Hoarders" in there.  We had friends over last weekend and I made them promise me they wouldn't go into the garage because honestly, I'm afraid people will think we're insane.  Hey, also just ignore the pile of horse bones in the driveway.  No crazy to see here!

The problem is, there is no trash service in our rural "neighborhood"-- which means to dispose of garbage, we have to pack it into our cars and drive it to the dump.  And I promise you, this is every bit as glamorous as it sounds.  Calling it a "trash run" doesn't make it fun or less smelly. To further complicate things, the dump is conveniently located 25 minutes away and is only open on Saturdays and Mondays until 2 p.m.  To further further complicate things, we're both lazy, I insist on sleeping in every single Saturday and there's not a chance in hell I'm letting The Boy pack garbage into my brand-spanking new BMW X3. Would Molly Ringwald's "Breakfast Club" character Claire do a trash run?  I think not.

I once tried to point out to him that I'm certain there are people who would come and pick up our trash if we put it out-- to which he replied, "Yes, they're called bears."  For me, this caused an immediate and disturbing mental image of a bear (not of the Prophecy sort) wearing my lingerie.  I didn't share the visual with him as there are many mental associations I'd like for him to make when it comes to me-- and a fat, furry, hirsute thing in ill-fitting lingerie is not one of them.

It is truly frightening what one can find on the internet.

Maybe my real issue with lingerie is in its marketing.  Every time I see a Victoria's Secret ad that attempts to show me "What's Sexy Now," I almost black out because I roll my eyes that far and high in my skull.  Apparently "what's sexy now" is super-thin 17-year olds with such massive overbites that they can't even close their lips over their own teeth.  And I can't help but think, "how is that any different than what has always been sexy and why do women fall for this?"  Or, my issue could be that lingerie is really not designed for girls like me...and because when purchasing it I live in fear that the saleswoman will assume I need a gift box.  Um, no thanks.  It's for me. Now, if you'll excuse me,  I've got a date with a McDonald's chocolate shake. And I suspect we're gonna have to super-size it at this point. So, you know, thanks for that.

Or maybe it's just because it's stupid.  I mean, seriously?  Do I have to wear something to make you want me to wear nothing?  I'd think that my ratty rank top and men's boxers would be reason enough to disrobe me.

So, back to my brilliantly-conceived "Sugar Tw*t" business plan.

What I need for you to understand is that I'm not talking about doing something on a small scale here.  I'm going BIG-- with multiple lines of business, retail boutiques, a strong online presence, a definitive social media strategy, and an adorable logo:

Special thanks to Chad G for the logo!

I'd make some effort to have a "typical" line of lingerie that everywoman could purchase at a reasonable price.  This would just be the "Everyday Tw*t " line.

• There would be the "Tw*t Couture" line, featuring avante garde and ridiculously expensive unwearable pieces.
• The "Hot to Tw*t" line for our equestrian ladies.
• The "Sugar Tw*t Tween" line for the Hunger Games set.
• "Sugar Tw*t Tot" for the stylish toddler on the go.
• "Alot of Tw*t" for the plus-sized among us.
• "Tw*t Pour Homme" featuring silk robes and whatnot for the gentlemen.
• A line of marital aids called "Fifty Shades of Tw*t" for the literary submissives.
• A cookbook titled "Tw*t's For Dinner."
• An XM radio station called "Tw*t Talk." 

You could follow us on Tw*tter or even call our Tw*tline (Tw*ts are standing by!).  I mean really, the possibilities are endless.  Well, maybe not endless...but let's face it, I could run this into the ground for a really, really long time. 

I think this could be UGE, people. The kind of huge that's so big you can't even pronounce the "H." 

UGE.

And if not, I can always go with my back-up fashion line for the corporate woman who isn't fond of the sensible pantsuit.  I call the look "Whoreporate."

I really only need a few investors...and I know I can count on you.  You in?

Lord of the Super-Fly

My therapist's name is Yoda.  Well, really it's Karen...but I call her Yoda and she clearly digs it.  I think I'm totally her favorite patient because she says things like I'm "very entertaining" (um, clinically?) and that she can't believe how much happens in my life in one week.  She once showed me a sample of the notes she took during an appointment last fall and they were hysterical.  It was like a dating flow chart.  "Quinn? Still in.  Freddie? Out.  T?  Questionable."

2010 was a rough year.  In fact, 2010 will go down in the history of my life (as if anyone is compiling one) as The Year I Died in Denver.  It started in January when I said goodbye to my foster daughter of 6 months.  It heated up when I lost the promotion I killed myself to get in February.  It continued with my husband almost drinking himself to death in March (he had a .43 blood alcohol level when I checked him into detox).  It kept on rolling when we decided to separate in May and when he finally moved out at the end of June.  And then on July 26, I died on an operating table during the surgery to replace my defunct defibrillator.

(To be fair, they killed me on purpose to make sure that the defib would work properly.  Which to me is a little like amputating a leg to make sure that your artificial knee is a keeper...but I'm sure they know best.)

I started seeing Yoda in May 2010, I think.  So she sort of got onboard the Titanic late, like Jack Dawson and Fabrizio when they won their tickets in that ill-fated poker game.  And she's been helping me analyze the iceberg ever since.

Yoda is very perceptive and a great listener.  She also is maybe the only person who gets my attachment to Barry Manilow and truly understands what I mean when I say that there were moments last summer and fall where I could distinctly hear a huge Barry Manilow song swell up in the background, as if my life were a tear-jerker of a chick flick.

Yoda, listening to some awesome Barry Manilow tunes.

And to be fair, in 2010 it kind of was.  I struggled mightily with depression and with dating and with just about everything else except sarcasm, self-loathing and snarky Facebook status posts.  And during my darkest hours, Yoda was there in my head, guiding and navigating and fundamentally changing the way I think about things.

A sample exchange from last summer:

A:  But how will I shovel my driveway?  I'm not supposed to do anything that strenuous because of the whole heart failure thing.  Who is going to take care of me?
Y:  It's July, Andrea.  How about we just get you through the next 24 hours?

Another:

Y:  What is that you're really afraid of with the heart surgery?
A:  I'm afraid I'm going to die.
Y:  Let's go with that.  So, you die.  Big deal.  Depending on your belief system you'll either go to heaven or everything will just stop.  Either way, no more pain.
A:  Okay, but no deviled eggs on the buffet or non-premium liquor at the bar at my funeral cocktail party.  And my obituary better have a skinny photo of me.  I don't care if it has to be photoshopped.

Then something miraculous happened...I got better.  And on my last visit, we decided that we'd start throttling back my appointments to every other week.  Mostly we're still working on my self-esteem, which ought to buy her a nice weekend place in the mountains at some point.  It seems I tend to base my self-worth on my relative attractiveness to the opposite sex and this isn't really how it's supposed to work.  Who knew?

A sample of our conversations on this topic:

A:  Whenever I get on a plane, I always check the other passengers to make sure I'm one of the most attractive women.  That way, if the plane crashes and we have to build a new society on an island somewhere, I'll be favored as a breeder.  Is that normal?
Y:  I think what you're really asking is "is that healthy?"  And I'd have to say it's on the extreme end of the bell curve.  And by the way, you can't have children, so how would you be favored?
A:  But they won't know I can't have children.  I'd totally tell them I have 4 kids at home.  And then I'd go all Lord of the Flies on them.

It is so strange to me that other people don't feel or think this way.  That some people just have an innate sense of their worth... and don't have to spend thousands of dollars on pencil skirts at White House Black Market to get there.  And what is the point of looking this cute if it doesn't really matter anyway?

So I think Yoda and I will have many more discussions on the topic...as I work my way to the other side of the bell curve, where I'll apparently be wearing Birkenstocks in a Drum Circle, feeling deliriously happy about how spectacular I am. 

Til then, I'll keep trying to appreciate how life looks atop 4 inch stilettos.  Plus, White House Black Market is having a sale!