Today I want to be the wicked witch

You’re happy and successful. The wicked witch in me plots your demise. Why should you be succeeding when I’m not? In a fair world my (much larger) talent would be rewarded with bigger prizes than what you seem to be getting.

You’re cheerful and upbeat. The wicked witch in me plots how to get you to eat that poisoned apple. I think it might dampen those annoyingly cheerful moods and stop the Facebook posts that are just ruining my day.

Others won’t stop talking about that one thing you did that went really well that one time. Again. And again. And again. The wicked witch in me plans how to burn down the forest, with all your supporters, and end that cycle of congratulations.

Fortunately for you, and the rest of the world, I don’t let the wicked witch out. Not even on Halloween. Especially not when I’m being small and petty and jealous and weak.

But it’s fun to imagine.

I promise not to pluck my chin hair in public

I’ve stopped at a red light and, contrary to my regular obliviousness, I actually look at the drivers in the cars next to me. I almost never do this. It’s a little bit of a family joke that one of them can drive next to me for blocks, miles and I won’t recognize them; I see the cars, but I don’t actually “see” the cars. To me they’re just moving objects.

So when I look at the cars next to me, it’s intended to be a quick glance. But it ends up with me staring rudely into another car for far longer than I should. I know I’m staring. I want to stop. But I can’t.

The woman in the car to my left is plucking her chin hair while we’re at the red light. She has a small mirror in one hand and tweezers in another and she’s plucking hair from her chin one by one, meticulously. Pluck, pause, pluck, pause, pluck. And I can’t look away.

Does she not realize that we can see her?
Is she under the impression that the windows have some sort of privacy blocking feature?
Does she actually think it’s okay to do this in public?

And I continue to stare as all of this goes through my head. And then she notices me staring.

I smile and look away when she glares at me, as if I’ve somehow invaded her privacy by looking into her car and watching her pluck her chin hair … while we’re sitting at the red light. And she gets back to finishing her task.

Then the longest red light in history changes to green and she goes her way and I go mine.

However, I’ve decided that I need to address the issue of whether or not it’s okay to do this in public. I’m thinking that I need to start a viral “I promise” campaign. “I promise not to pluck my chin hair in public. It’s not okay.

Pass it on. Maybe it’ll reach chin woman and she’ll stop inflicting her grooming habits on those of us unlucky enough to be stuck at a red light with her.

And maybe next time I won’t stare.

I am my own worst critic, A.K.A. who is that fat girl in the photo?

I am my own worst critic, A.K.A. who is that fat girl in the photo? (more info at

“Big.” “Chunky.” “Plus-sized.” These are all words my loved ones would use to describe my appearance. Others would just call me “fat.” The medical community would use the word “obese.”

Strangers and acquaintances alike take it upon themselves to try to shame me, to make me understand the way that I’m destroying the world by insisting on being fat. There’s an entire industry (several, in fact) dedicated to trying to solve this problem for me. And I’m told every day, in many many ways, that if I just stopped being fat I would be better, happier.

Most days I manage to drown out the external and internal voices that try incessantly to let me know that I’m a failure, that every “extra” pound is one more mark against me. Most days I’m just louder than the voices, so they don’t make an impact on my day. Some days I’m not.

I want to have the courage to wear a bright red fitted dress without thinking about the muffin top or the love handles. I want to have the boldness to have my photo taken without dreading the split second where I see just how fat I am compared to the others. I want to stop seeing myself, and judging myself, through the eyes of others. I want to stop it all … now.

And I don’t mean that I want to lose weight (though I want that too). And I don’t mean that I want better clothes (though I always want new clothes). I just want to love who I am, in my current size and shape, without having to work at it.

I guess when I achieve that I’ll know I’m actually, finally, a grown up.

In the meanwhile, I’ve challenged myself to try to take more selfies … and I’ve been failing at that too. But I will get better. And I will keep trying. At some point I’ll stop dreading the photo … eventually.

I changed my life … now what?

I changed my life ... now what?

Have you ever wondered what happens the day after “happily ever after?” The day after the revolution? The day after you upend your entire life and change everything?

I did that a few weeks ago — changed my life. Well, sort of ripped it apart a little. Made a change that has an impact on everything. Now I’m wondering what I’m supposed to do next.

We identify ourselves a certain way — by our families, loved ones, careers, achievements, even by our looks — and we get attached to that way of thinking. I am the sum of those parts. When you take away one of them, what’s left?

Don’t mind me. This is middle-of-the-night rambling. I’ll make more sense with more sleep.

What happens in the dim bar…

At some point in the conversation I realize that he’s been flirting with intent. I look at this man across the table from me, too young and too beautiful, and I smile at him. And then it dawns on me that he’s been waiting for me to make the next move.

We’re sitting in a fashionable but semi-deserted hotel bar where I’ve been been entertaining him for the past few hours with the unfiltered words that tend to color my conversations. Really, he’s just been my attentive audience for most of it. Nice scenery to look at while I talk out loud.

The dull roar that swirled around us at the beginning has dimmed to a quiet murmur as fewer people remain. We’ve been camped out in the same place since the business day ended, nursing the same drink for long enough that the waiter stopped coming by to check up on us. We’re both mellow and relaxed.

There’s this moment… a moment of delight as I realize that he’s looking at me with that kind of genuine appreciation that so rarely makes an appearance these days. It’s friendly, but with heat and without pressure. It’s an invitation.

I am shallow enough that I wallow in that look for a long few minutes as I contemplate the possibility of actually giving him a sign, making a move. My mind flits through different scenarios, the pros and cons, in a single second. And the moment holds on, and our smiles remain, and our eyes are still locked, and we’re still silent now.

And then I remember to breathe.

{{Yes, dear reader, that’s all you get.}}

image source: sharonang / Pixabay