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.

Spanx For the Memories

Our moms called them girdles.

I remember as a teenager thinking how old-fashioned and futile they were. Of course that's what a size 7 thinks... and cannot fathom a time when she might need the help of Lycra to reign in her nether-regions.

A few years ago, a very savvy marketer came up with a new brand of girdle...and now we all call girdles the same thing: Spanx. The same way that any tissue is a Kleenex, any bandage is a Band-aid and, particularly if you're from the South, every carbonated sugary beverage is a Coke.

I'm wearing my Spanx right now, waiting on The Boy to get home and take me out to dinner. I have this tendency to pick a new outfit and wear it into the ground... and I've been sporting the new red WHBM turtleneck I got from my parents for Christmas with either jeans or a black mini for three days now. So tonight I did a little shuffle through closet to find something new to wear for our date night.

I landed on an INC long, fitted black sweater with a cowl neck and silver sequined pockets paired with black leggings and tall boots. I bought it when I was 20 pounds lighter back in the salad days (and I literally mean salad) of my post-divorce, singleton skinniness. I LOVE this sweater. It's short-sleeved, which works out well for my not-at-all-pre-menopausal-hot-naturedness, it shows off my curves and is just thick enough to hide any lumps while not being thick enough to add bulk.

A quick look in my full-length mirror (which is one of those magical jobs that makes you look scads thinner than you actually are-- a phenomenon of which I was blissfully unaware until one of my friends cruelly pointed it out to me) confirmed the need for body armor...or as we all now refer to it: Spanx. So I dug my flesh-colored scuba suit out of my undies drawer and struggled into it. I told myself that it was just the altitude that caused the struggle-associated breathlessness, but let's face it: When squeezing your Refrigerator Perry-like thighs into a girdle causes you to pant, it just might be time to step away from the Christmas fudge. And cheese. And crackers. And... oh hell, you know the drill.

In less than a week I'm headed to Houston for my bestie Jen's 40th birthday extravaganza. Jenapalooza? Jenfair? Jenstock? Because she runs in a broad social crowd that includes TLF (my first ex-husband, for the uninitiated-- AKA That Little Fucker), my intention had been to lose these 20 lbs prior to the party.

What is it they say about the best intentions?

Sigh, my refrigerator crisper is lined with now-liquified good intentions and all of the candid photos of me taken at D's parents' anniversary party earlier this month would indicate I've been substituting duck fat french fries for salad. Duck fat everything. In fact, judging by those photos, someone lined my beautiful emerald green velvet dress with duck fat.

Jerks.

Tomorrow night, two sweet friends (Coral and Tami) are coming over to give me a sanity check while I do a parade of the closet. It is imperative that, when faced with the miserable son of a bitch who told me I was"too fat to get pregnant" while we were discussing having our first child (ah, the romance!), the man who on occasion would remove my plate of food from me before I was finished eating (and in front of my friends), the absolute prize who cheated on me even after I was diagnosed with cardiomyopathy and told I had a 25% chance at ten more years of life-- it's IMPERATIVE that I feel good about the way I look if we have to be in the same room at the same time for the first time since I divorced his pathetic, almost legally-short ass, ten years ago.

God, how I wish I didn't care. But I am, after all, me.  And me has very little sense of self when it comes to my physical appearance. Yoda or no Yoda.

And The Boy can't go with me on this trip (he'll be stuck at home with a wolf pack of 6 dogs plus 2 cats, long story) so I have to face TLF and the poor, unsuspecting woman he married 10 months after our divorce all alone. In all of my sausage-like glory.

And still, FUCK him, I will look fabulous, right? Right?? Even though I'll be sashaying around with my hips tucked into a modern day version of the Iron Maiden. I always did look fabulous, you impotent midget. And shocker, I'll be the center of attention like I always was during the 13 years he tried to beat me down... once again reminding him of what he said to me during our divorce, that he was "tired of living in my shadow."

My shadow may be considerably larger than I'd like these days... But yeah, I hope he feels cold and small in it next weekend.

Small shouldn't be a stretch.

Life Moments: That One Time I Terrified Russell Crowe

Russell Crowe and I first fell in love in 1999. 

That was the year “Mystery, Alaska” was released.  We locked eyes in that semi-crowded, dark multiplex and though neither of us expected it, our worlds just fundamentally shifted. Sure, he was on the screen and I was seated in the theater with my then-husband Tony (better known to my friends as “That Little Fucker” or “TLF”).  And sure, we ran with different crowds on mostly different continents.

 But we knew it was for real.  There was no denying the attraction.

Seriously, it's almost embarrassing how much he wants me in this photo.

I mean, look at all we had in common!  He was a movie star—I liked movies.  He was rich and famous—and I had always assumed I would be as well.  He was single, gorgeous, and could have any woman on the planet—I was married, 40 pounds overweight, and could have been almost any woman on the planet.

It started innocently enough, as these things often do, with frequent purchases of “People” magazine.  It quickly escalated to long, lazy afternoons spent Googling for the latest news and photos and reading www.maximumcrowe.net.  Let’s face it, we were hooked on each other.  And I knew, I somehow just knew, that one day fate would put us in the same place at the same time.

Being me, I hedged my bets on this chance meeting by cyber-stalking Russell… and my efforts eventually paid off when I learned that he and his band, 30 Odd Foot of Grunts, would be in Austin for a month recording their next album… and would play for 3 consecutive weekends at Stubbs BBQ. Austin was only 160 miles away (I lived in Houston at the time). And my weekends, despite (or perhaps because of) being tied down to the most unlikable man in North America, were unusually free.  My initial thought:  Oh, he will be mine.

My second thought, immediately on the heels of that was: Oh crap, I need to lose weight. And so it began:  My Russell Crowe make-over.  Make no mistake, it was hard.  40 pounds is a lot of weight on a 5’2” frame, and I was almost always hungry.   But was I going to let some jiggly thighs stand between me and the man I was meant to be with?  Puh-SHAW, people!

And so, 3 months later and 40 pounds slimmer, I found myself (and unfortunately TLF as well) standing about 5 rows back from the stage at Stubbs BBQ, awaiting my destiny. I was wearing a black halter top, black shorts and the kind of come hither-stare that one typically reserves for movie stars.

And suddenly… there he was. 

Look, I’m not demented.  I knew I was there with my completely unlikable and not-at-all fun husband.  I knew there was little chance for some sort of meeting of the minds (or bodies, oh yes please, bodies)… so I told myself I’d be happy if we just made eye contact, if I simply knew that he saw me, that we connected for a moment in time.

And you know what?  We DID. 

And that was it.

I returned to Houston, pleased with that moment and yet still unsatisfied.

So two weeks later, I returned to Stubbs.  This time I left TLF at home and brought a girlfriend with me.  We arrived late and subsequently were much farther back in the crowd than on my previous visit. And yet, and yet… I knew it was going to happen. I had come too far.  I had planned too much.  I had lost 40 mother-fucking pounds, for God’s sake.  Friends and neighbors—it was ON.

So the concert ended, the venue emptied, and my friend and I found ourselves standing in the now almost-empty amphitheater, awaiting some new friends we had met in the crowd to return from the ladies room.  The plan was to go hit 6^th Street and drown my unrequited love sorrows.  Wait, I said almost empty amphitheater… right?  There was one man left in the vast expanse of empty space.  One man, and somewhat inexplicably, one folding chair in which he was sitting.  

And because I had spent MONTHS stalking Russell, I happened to recognize the man:  It was Russell’s brother, Terry.  (Terry was a shorter, stockier, and much less rich and famous version of his brother.  Still, he was my TICKET.)

Well, as you might imagine, I just marched right on over to Terry and introduced myself.  We struck up a conversation about the upcoming “Cinderella Man” and Jodie Foster and God only knows what else.  Seriously, I was at my most maniacally charming… and was dancing as fast as I could. I remember at one point, he actually touched my hair and said something about how beautiful it was and I thought “Oh…so…if I can’t land Russell, I think I could nail his brother.  And that would be close, right?”

Listen, I’m not proud.  But at least I’m honest.

Terry invited us to the Afterparty.  He gave us the address of the unmarked private club where we should meet him…and where he’d introduce us to his dreamy brother.  I felt like I might just DIE from happiness!

So off we went.  I had no camera.  I had no pen/paper. I had nothing but my slimmer body, my months of stalking, and my hope.  And oh yes friends and neighbors, make no mistake, hope floats.

We waited outside of the club for Terry to show up.  We said hello to Ron Howard.  We said hello to Sandra Bullock.  Child’s play, people.  I nodded and smiled and said “hi” like they were the janitor in my office building. I was keeping my eye on the prize.

We met the other band members of 30 Odd Foot of Grunts. Like a total weirdo, I happened to know all of their names and momentarily convinced their trumpet player that we knew each other because I was so familiar with him.  I was IN.

And then, a black Ford Explorer pulled up.  The door opened.  And out stepped my future.  The love of my life.  The man of my DREAMS.  He was smiling, looking around…and then he was upon me.  We made eye contact.  He smiled at me, and looked at me expectantly.

This was my moment.  I had spent MONTHS preparing for it.  I had traveled hundreds of miles, dropped scores of pounds.  I had researched this man to the nth degree.  I had chatted up his family and his band mates.  I had learned all of his songs.  I knew what he ate for breakfast, who his favorite artists were, how much he adored his niece. And here he was, smiling at me, looking me in the eye, expecting something.  I smiled back.  And I opened my mouth to speak.

And suddenly and without warning, I started weeping hysterically.

And what came out of my mouth was a garbled and mashed up string of words that made absolutely no sense.  I think I was even hyperventilating.  Through my gasps for air, I managed to say something like “Omigod, yourshowwas sogood, ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod!”  Russell looked at me like… oh, I don’t know… how someone might look at a rabid rabbit that is completely adorable but foaming at the mouth and perhaps even dangerous.

And then, he kept on walking.  All I could hear was my friend whisper “Annie, STOP.  You’re making an ASS out of yourself.”

And then he was gone.  He walked out of my life without looking back.  I think I probably gained back at least 5 pounds in that instant. Fucking water weight.

The next day, my friend and I were driving back to Houston in a companionable silence, when suddenly I announced “You know what?  This is for the best.  Russell and I really didn’t have anything in common anyway.”

She looked at me.  She waited a moment and then said “Really?  You’re just figuring this out now?”

I’m a slow learner.

And then, without ceremony, Russell and I broke up.  It was over.  And I never looked back. Sure, I recalled our summer together fondly…and I knew I’d never forget him…but we were finished.  I went on to divorce and then remarry and then divorce again.  And he married a beautiful actress and had some kiddos.

We were happy for each other.

Until this morning, when I learned that he and his wife had separated.  And of course, my phone started ringing.  I could see on Caller ID that it was a New Zealand number, so I of course ignored it.

I love Derek.  He’s The Boy.

Russell had his chance.  And he blew it.

I’m sure the next time he finds himself in a dark, semi-crowded multiplex, he’ll think of me. And honestly, who could blame him?

Plus, I totally could still nail his brother.

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!

My Name

I didn't even know his name—and I guess that's kind of my point.  He was an outcast like I was, but much further out, circling the other kids in that literal no-man's-land that exists for the kid who has not a single friend.  I hadn't thought of him for more than 30 years until today—when I saw the man he might have become through the window of a Hallmark store.

I remember his round face.  It was sweet and innocent and sat beneath a shelf of sandy-blonde hair.  His cheeks were always ruddy, like the Campbell's Soup kid—the way that a fat boy's cheeks are year-round.  And he was fat, the biggest kid in school by far, the kind of big that's never going to play football or go to dances.  I remember that he wore overalls every day and I also remember thinking this wasn't really by choice but rather necessity.  Back in the early 80's, I don't think there was a "Big & Tall" shop for boys. Levi's made their "husky" line (and I know this because in elementary school, I wore them), but there was nothing out there that would accommodate a boy of his size other than overalls.

He was in my homeroom and sat by himself at one of the large Biology lab tables.  He was quiet—in fact, I'm not sure I ever heard him speak.  And while I don't remember anyone specifically picking on him, I'm sure he caught hell from the other boys.  I imagine him in gym class dreading the showers, dreading the demeaning towel thwumps he must've suffered, the stinging humiliation of it all.  But mostly I just remember his face and the sadness that lived there.

This was 8^th grade-- a brutal time for many children, including me.  It seems some of us existed only to serve as fodder for the popular kids, another reminder of the complex hierarchy that existed long before we walked those halls and undoubtedly echoes there still.  And as much teasing as I endured, as much humiliation as I felt for being unattractive and as much as I ached, literally ached to be accepted, to be "popular," it just had to be worse for him.  I was lonely and mostly alone in school, but I did have friends.  We huddled together at lunch time and between classes at our lockers—watching the popular kids lead better lives, the way we now watch the Hollywood starlets doing it. But Chris—and for some reason as I write this, I think his name was Chris—he was really alone.  I saw it and I pitied him and I wished for him that life would get better, get easier… but I didn't befriend him.

And as I stood in the aisle at the Hallmark store and watched the man who could be him 31 years later, I was wracked with shame.  Shame at how easily I shunned him—him and many others—the same way that the kids higher in the caste system shunned me, unless they needed answers at test time.  Shamed to know that my parents raised me better than that, that they taught me compassion, that as much as I like to think I'm a good person, I never reached across the divide and offered him a kind word.

I remember dreaming of being a cheerleader, or even Homecoming Queen—all those things that are emblazoned on a young girl's heart in Texas.  The wish list I had… but would never see realized.  Because curly-headed chubby girls with bad teeth, well, we may learn to touch the hearts of our readers, but we'll never be the Homecoming Queen. At best, we learn to tame our hair, get our teeth fixed and fight the battle of the bulge.  But the damage of Junior High, the damage that was done before we even had time to know our own worth, it's still there.  It lives below the surface, where it's not readily apparent, but there nonetheless. 

And on those nights when sleep won't come, the nights when The Boy sleeps with his back to me, the hours where my mind tells me over and over that I'm not good enough, I've never been good enough… I wonder.  I wonder who suddenly remembers my face across the chasm of time, and why he never bothered to learn my name.

Boys Are Stupid...And So Was I

It was March 2011 and Yoda (my shrink) was proud of me.

She said that I was approaching my dating life as if I were looking for a new job... sending out resumes, going on interviews, getting rejected and dealing with it, and ultimately learning to reject as well.  I was playing my dating life like a numbers game. 

My coworkers were certainly enjoying it-- we actually whiteboarded my prospects like they were in a sales funnel... and each post-date weekday morning found me giving them the hysterical play-by-play of the previous night's disaster.  Other people in the building that I hardly knew would stop by to see if one of their favorites had moved up in the standings or had been sunsetted.

But after eight months of it, I was playing the game without much joy.

I had been out with architects, TV reporters, pilots, entrepreneurs, dabblers/zombie aficionados, interventionists, executives, plumbers, log home salesmen, general contractors, and people whose careers were so mind-numbingly boring that I can't remember what they did.  Seriously, throw in an Indian and it was like I had dated the freaking Village People. I had wasted countless gallons of hair goop and eyeliner on dates that couldn't end quickly enough to please me.  I had shaved my legs almost raw and purchased copious amounts of new lingerie in the event I felt anyone was worth "greenlighting." I had more scoop-necked clingy sweaters, pencil skirts and stilettos than good sense. 

But I hadn't met "the one."

I had thirty-one phone numbers programmed into my phone with the last name "Match." There was both a Brian and a Bryan, a Greg and a Gregg, a Mike and a Mikael; a Rich and a Rick. I had been out with a man who was beyond morbidly obese (and had both a pronounced limp and facial warts), a man who may have actually weighed less than me, a six-foot-fiver and a five-foot-fourer.  I'd briefly dated a man 12 years my junior and had gone out with several who were at least 10 years my senior. I had made out with and been subsequently drenched by a man who apparently sweats when he's nervous. I'd been out with both a Quinn and a Duke.  I occasionally had more than one date a day.  I met for coffee, for cocktails, for wine-tasting, for sushi, for appetizers, for whitewater rafting and for football watching. I once even met a guy for a first date at a grocery store.

Where was he?

I provided small talk for hours on end, laughed at jokes that weren't funny, feigned interest in stories that were mind-numbing.  I texted and sexted and tried to remain my charming best at all times. I had been stalked. I waxed, I plucked, I shaved.  I colored my hair, did my nails, kept my feet free of dead skin.  I flossed obsessively. I had my teeth whitened and used ridiculously expensive creams on my "dark spots" and wrinkles. I counted calories like my life depended on it and went to bed hungry so often it was almost Dickensian. I constantly re-applied lipstick and powder throughout my work day in the event that a single guy would stumble into the building and notice me.

I was fucking exhausted.

And yet, I was still alone.

With Yoda's help, I had made the very important self-esteem journey between wondering what was wrong with me to wondering what was wrong with everyone else.  One night I found myself on the phone with a friend, ranting and raving about how stupid men were for not noticing what an amazing catch I was. While I wish I had an actual transcript of the conversation because I was clearly having a remarkable moment of high self-esteem that I'd like to roll out for myself from time to time (like when my "fat jeans" are too tight), here's what I remember:

"I'm a green-eyed redhead with a six-figure income and double Ds.  I own my own home.  I am debt-free.  I'm a college-educated award-winning marketer with a great career.  I play the piano.  I'm a classically-trained vocalist, an excellent writer.  I have an IQ of 146. I have a family that loves me and a wide circle of friends who adore me.  I'm quick-witted and highly creative.  I like football, for God's sake. I'm pretty, damn it. I'm well-traveled, well-read and a great conversationalist.  I'm the thinnest I've been in a decade and I'm fucking funny. WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH MEN?  WHY CAN'T THEY SEE ME?"

And I was so lonely and focused on that sense of being alone that I couldn't see that what had been missing all along was finally here.  I didn't need a man to tell me I was wonderful-- I needed to know I was wonderful.  I finally had an appreciation for who I was, for what I had accomplished in my life and for all I had overcome.  If I could travel back in time, I'd smack myself. 

And that's when I stopped looking...and the greatest cliche of all played itself out right in the middle of my life:  It found 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?