She has failed me in every way.

Even after giving birth, she still remains muffin top free.  If she had a muffin top and was confident about it, all women everywhere would be liberated.

Angelina, use your power for good to liberate the everyday woman!!

My faith in Angelina to champion the everyday woman was so great that I wasn’t overly concerned about my muffin top.  After all, I love being fashionable and was prepared with my muffin top when it came to be the next big thing in haute couture.

To be ready for Angelina’s show of daring, I didn’t worry about my random consumption of M&Ms, Doritos, white bread, pastries, and candy.  After all, I didn’t want to get sick trying to get the muffin top back when it became fashionable to have one.

The time has never come.  After 4 years of hoping, I now realize that it’s never going to happen.

No matter how much I go to the gym or try to rid myself of the muffin top, it goes everywhere with me.  There are things women can do to hide the muffin top, such as wear ‘foundational undergarments’ that are akin to a straight jacket.  Unfortunately, I think it’s important to be able to breathe and sit down without looking like you’ve pulled every muscle in your back so I opted against wearing them.

While thinking about how to overcome my metabolism that is slower than a slug’s, I had an epiphany.  I completed a good old-fashioned Google search and found professional help.  Tomorrow is my first appointment for personal training with a man that ‘helps you look good naked’.  I chose him because he’s the closest thing I could find for ‘Muffin Top Slayer’.

So I may be dead after tomorrow afternoon, but if Angelina isn’t going to come through for me I have to change my tactic.

If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.  SIGH.

Even though I am a woman I was never sure why we went in groups; so one day I broke the rule and went alone.

My best friend Nancy and I were out shopping at our favorite store looking for high-end jeans and designer shoes on clearance.  We grabbed a latte to sustain us during our intensive shopping and started combing the racks for fabulous deals.

Halfway through the jeans section my very efficient kidneys got to work on my partially finished latte. I looked up and Nancy was nowhere in sight.  Due to the conditioning of going to the bathroom as a group, I searched the perimeter of the store to see if she wanted to come along to the bathroom.  I couldn’t find her and my kidneys were hard at work.

I went to the bathroom alone.

Exiting the stall, I grabbed my latte and tried to unlatch the door.  It would not open.  I put the latte down and used both hands and all my might, but the door remained firmly locked.  I pushed, pounded, jiggled, and shook the door, yet I remained in the bathroom stall…all alone.

Bewildered as what to do next, I sat down and waited for an unsuspecting woman to use the stall without toilet paper.  I devised a plan that was dependent on the woman not checking the paper supply.

Women in Paperless Stall – Oh my!  There seems to be no toilet paper in here.
DL – Oh boy!  That’s not good!  Do you want me to pass you some toilet paper?
WiPS – Yes please.  That would be splendid.
DL – OK.  One condition though.
WiPS – Conditional toilet paper?
DL – Yes.  I am stuck in here and require a Phillips screwdriver to remove the door of the stall.  I will give you toilet paper if you promise to come back with the necessary tools to free me from this stall.
WiPS – Ummm…OK….

I waited patiently for 20 minutes, yet no one came.

I tried using a dime to remove the door from the stall to no avail.

I was reduced to yelling for help.

Still no one came.

My latte was finished as well as my patience.  I took matters into my own hands.  There were only 2 options of escape; over or under.  Taking into account my tendency to fall over and near death experiences, I chose under.  Taking a deep breath and an assessment of the public bathroom floor’s lack of cleanliness, I dropped to the ground, shoved my purse out ahead of me, and started the task of birthing myself out of the stall.

Halfway through my escape I heard the creak of the door open to reveal a very shocked woman looking down at me.

After 25 minutes of being locked in a public bathroom stall I merely continued emerging from my bathroom prison, stood up, and gathered as much dignity as possible while brushing about a week’s worth of bathroom grime off my chest.

My explanation of, “Umm…Hello…I was locked in…” didn’t help to wipe the look of complete confusion and amazement off the woman’s face.

I was so happy to be free that I just continued to brush off the grime that accumulated on my body during my escape, washed my hands, and went in search of an employee to let them know they were down one stall in the ladies room.

Now I know why women go to the bathroom in groups.  You never know when you need someone to watch your latte or go in search of power tools to free you from a bathroom stall.

I learned my lesson the hard way and haven’t gone alone since.

While talking to a woman, don’t comment on her size – big or small.  Keep it to yourself.

Petite women don’t want to hear things like:

• You’re sooooo CUTE! And little.  Tiny actually.
• You’re how old?  28?  I thought you were 15 because of how small you are.
• Wow!  You’re SO TINY!  I nearly didn’t see you all the way down there.

While listening to these kinds of comments the petite woman can only fume as you’ve just made her into an inconsequential child when she just wants to be taken seriously as a woman.

I’m anything but petite and have been told this very thing time and time again.  I am merely 5’8”, but wear heels that make me up to 6 feet tall on any given day.

From my personal experience non-petite women don’t want to hear things like:

• Wow.  You’re a large woman.
• Where are you from?  The Nordic countries?  All their women are robust like you.
• Can you help me move this?  Looks like you have no problem carrying things with the size of those shoulders.

Ok, so I’m not the typical woman.  But I’m not Attila the Hun either!  I may have been built to work the farm, but it doesn’t mean people should comment on it.

My favorite happened just the other week.

You’re big for a woman, but you carry it well. Then the comment was punctuated by a big slap on the left shoulder.

If you can’t keep your thoughts on the stature of the woman you’re talking with to yourself, make sure to use words like slender, vivacious, and lovely.  If you think you’re about to say something derogatory, please remove yourself from the conversation before you maim her with your observations.

And if you see this woman,

This woman does not want to be described as large or big, thank you very much!

please refrain from telling her she’s large.

I can already hear you asking.  How can I be friends with an inanimate object?

Because it may just give me free shoes…gorgeous, gloriously free shoes.

I have the chance to design shoes with Jeffrey Campell and win lovely, suede, over the knee boots  from ShoeHunting just for giving my opinion.

And I am ALWAYS up for giving my opinion…who knew I could get free boots for doing so?

This may be my dream come true.

Lately, I am totally irresponsible.  I’m not doing crazy things likes shopping for shoes every day or anything.  I am merely a night owl.  At about 8:00 I find myself getting sleepy, and then at about 8:15 I get a huge burst of energy.

This is when I clean the house, write proposals, catch up on email, knit a sweater, tile my kitchen, install a toilet, or bake large quantities of brownies to eat that evening.  I find myself wide awake and coming up with amazing ideas, only to find it’s 1 am.

So I go to bed.  And lay there thinking about my latest great idea, wondering why I am still awake and if the alarm clock will understand I don’t actually hate it when I hit it for the 15^th snooze when it rings in 4 hours.

Night Owl-itis is a vicious cycle to get in.  I see no end in sight as I am merely starting up for the evening.  Pan of brownies anyone?

HELP!

A good morning involves strolling out onto a deck in Hawaii with a cappuccino in hand or waking up with the sun streaming down on your face as a gentle breeze wafts through your window while the birds serenade you.

A bad morning involves parking at the YMCA, grabbing your workout gear, locking the door to your car and hopping out quickly, only to realize that your car is rolling backwards towards a BMW.  Not only if it is moving without you in it, its picking up speed at a frightening rate.

At this point in the bad morning, a complete awakening happens.  All of the synapses are firing at once and words you wouldn’t want to repeat start flowing out of your mouth.

I threw down my workout gear and tried to open the car door to no avail.  Somehow I noticed that the back door of the car was unlocked, so I thought about getting in the back and trying to stop the car from there.  Luckily, I realized my lack of solid reasoning before committing to that plan.

I grabbed my purse and dug for my keys while chasing the car down.  The car was moving very quickly at this point.  I hucked my purse down, contents flying everywhere, and unlocked the car door.  I was able to grab the e-brake and bring the car to a stop before my car had an unfortunate meeting with the BMW.

I stuck the keys in and quickly drove it back into the stall it rolled out of so the three cars queued up to park could go by.  With shame and legs that could barely hold me upright, I meekly gathered the contents of my purse strewn about the YMCA parking lot.

Suddenly I was more awake than if I had drank 8 espressos in a row.  It’s not a good way to start the morning, but it’s a sure fire way to wake up in a hurry!