Grief and thrifting

My boots shuffled along the long aisles of stained linoleum. My hands slid hangers along the rack to look at the jumbled assortment of tops and jeans and kids jackets and pajamas. I did not find a small rain jacket for my daughter. I was not surprised. I wandered along, not sure of what else I was looking for, but I knew that if or when I found it, it would make itself known. I picked up a coffee grinder. I picked up a backpack covered in unicorns. I found a small North Face fleece jacket in a pile of duffel bags and tucked it under my arm. I found a pair of gold Mary Janes just the right size for my kindergartener. In the checkout, I spotted a sudoku book on the shelf next to me and remembered how Riley and I used to do the puzzles together. I fanned through the pages and realized it was unused. I kept it and imagined Riley whispering suggestions to me in the months to come as I attempt to solve the harder puzzles.

Grief is chaotic. Thoughts don’t make sense. The world feels upside down. There were times when I couldn’t believe that walls were sturdy, when I questioned whether everything I saw was a mirage. There were times when I wore the same clothes pulled from the floor next to my bed for nearly two weeks straight. I couldn’t fill out a form that would allow our surviving family members to go to a grief support group. The words didn’t make sense. The questions were too overwhelming. I couldn’t hold a pen. Friends left food on our porch because I didn’t know how to go to the grocery store. Being in public was too scary, too overwhelming, too unknown. I would see women and they would turn away from me. I would see women and I would turn away from them. I was famous in my town, but not in a good way.

I say was because it’s been so long now. People’s lives have moved on. Riley’s peers have moved away. My surviving children’s peers have moved away. Riley’s death is old news. For other people. But not for me. The waves are just as turbulent, though they knock me over with less regularity.

Grief is also full of guilt. I grew my baby wrong. It was a mistake with epic, life-altering consequences. My confidence plummeted. And for many years, I pulled the brim of my hat over my eyes; I kept my eyes down; I sat away from other moms and families at little league or basketball games.

Grief is full of fear. I was fearful of getting other things wrong. And I have gotten them wrong, though with less consequences. I have taken my children to their practices at the wrong times. I have driven to the incorrect locations. I have gotten lost while driving home from familiar places. I failed to renew my driver’s license, accidentally driving around for months with an expired license. I have dropped a dozen eggs. I have had my phone silenced when one of my children needed to reach me. I didn’t fix the gate that separated our dog from our chickens, and the chickens were killed. Most, but not all, of this was inconsequential.

All through the years, though, the thrift store is one of the few places I have felt at home, and I haven’t understood why. But last week, as I did a TikTok about my thrifted outfit with fall vibes that makes me feel cute and confident, I gave myself some space to consider that question. If I could pull a cute outfit from the jumbled chaos of the thrift store, I could bring order to chaos. I could take something unruly and make it orderly. I could assemble a mishmash and make it feel as if it was all made to go together. It gave me a small amount of control. I can accomplish this small thing. Mistakes only cost a few dollars. I am capable. And being capable of this one thing has given me the smallest amount of confidence. 

Plus, putting on something cute and feeling good in my clothes is an exercise in self-care. And that is huge for this grieving mom. 

Love me, this is who I am

“I’m probably going to have fake teeth one day, you know,” I said to my husband as I came down the stairs after looking at my gums in the bathroom mirror. “And I’m not sure my new electric toothbrush can do anything about it.” A birthday is an especially good day to identify all of your flaws and point them out to your spouse because I suspect everyone is a little more forgiving on your birthday. And today is my 41st birthday.

My birthday pie helpers!

“That’s nice,” he said, looking up from the presentation he was creating. “You can always get implants.” And yes, he really was talking about my teeth…

“Just thought you should know what you’ve gotten yourself into,” I said plopping on the other end of the sofa. He knows, boy does he know. I think we’d only been dating a few weeks when I sat him down on the couch of my rental and listed all of my faults, outlined all of my flaws, described the mistakes I’ve made, and detailed the specific type of baggage I would be bringing into a relationship if we really, honestly, and truly were going to have a relationship. It just seemed that he should know it all because if he couldn’t handle it or didn’t like what he heard, well, I wanted to know that sooner rather than later.

And here we are five years later. And instead of talking about my son’s health problems or my varicose veins or the part I played in causing my first marriage to fail (because it takes two people), I get to talk about my wonky teeth. The question then becomes, why does it matter? I suppose it’s because we all get a little vulnerable every now and again and a birthday is as good as a reason as any to feel vulnerable about getting older. Will you love me when I’m wrinkled? Will you love me when I’m gray? Will you love me when my teeth fall out and I need implants? It makes me think of that children’s story “The Velveteen Rabbit.” In one scene the horse is talking to the rabbit about love. It says:

“Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand.”

Then again, I suppose you could say that of all days, a birthday is a day to put all of the things we don’t like about ourselves aside. It’s a day of acceptance, a day to just be who we are without explanations or asterisks. It’s another opportunity on the carousel of life to finally accept who we are, flaws and all. Perhaps in a few more turns of the calendar I’ll get to that place. For now, I’m just getting used to saying them out loud. I think it’s a good step. Plus, we all need a little reassurance now and again that we are loved--and will be loved--no matter what.

A little leg

It was Monday night and it was hot. Really hot. As I rummaged through my closet getting ready for dance class, none of my regular outfits seemed appropriate. My linen pants were too heavy. My flowing ones would keep the heat in. The exercise ones would stick to my legs. Just touching the material made me grimace. I knew that it wasn’t going to get cooler as the night progressed. Body heat contained in our class would only push the temperature up, even if the outside temperature dropped a degree or two during the evening.

So I did something I haven’t done in perhaps 10 or 20 years—I wore a skirt that showed my knees and a half of my thighs. Gasp! I know it sounds silly, even as I tap out the tale here, but fear or shyness or some other ridiculous emotion has prevented me from displaying my legs (and wearing the right clothes on hot days). Whenever I have worn a short skirt, boots were a constant companion. Or tights. Or both. Sure, I’ve worn a bathing suit (water is just as good as a sarong), but not without the accompanying anxiety-driven perspiration as I moved to and from my towel.

I suspect all of us have that thing we don’t like about ourselves. Some people use cover up to hide their complexion, a hat to cover thinning hair, or avoid sandals to hide toes. We wear baggy clothes to hide our shape, and heels to give the impression that we’re taller. The list goes on… But for me, it’s been my legs. For years, I’ve worn long skirts, and pants, or capris. I could outline the boring details of what specifically I don’t like about my legs, but it doesn’t really matter. It’s in my head. I can intellectually say it’s ridiculous, but my emotions have won this battle over and over again.

But on that particular night, I wore the short skirt. As I walked toward the building, I’d wished I’d brought a safety pair of pants in my bag just in case I chickened out. Once inside, I felt as if I wore a gigantic sign above my head pointing to my legs and their flaws. I held my breath as I removed my shoes and self-consciously moved between other bodies as I waited for the music to lead me away from my critical thoughts.

It worked. The music grabbed me and I forgot to care that my bare legs were visible. The pink fabric swished across my skin as I moved. It made waves as I spun. It floated as I leaped. I was alive in a new way. Maybe I’m ready to outgrow caring what other people think—perhaps that’s one of the benefits of approaching 40. 

Sad commentary on society (or me)

I am neither old, nor fat, nor has my image broken any mirrors.

Therefore, I cannot understand why of all the books that I read at Borders last night, the book I thumbed through for the longest amount of time was called, How Not to Look Old: Fast and Effortless Ways to Look 10 Years Younger, 10 Pounds Lighter, 10 Times Better.

I seriously considered buying that book at the store. Then I realized that it might seem a teeny bit vein to buy such a book. It would be more discreet to wait and buy it online (another reason to love the Internet). It's been almost 24 hours since I left it on the shelf, and I haven't given in to any online purchases--yet. Mostly, I'm trying to figure out why my brain seems to think I need such a book.

How CS Mom got her groove back

As a woman who works out of a home office, a reason to get dressed in something that isn't cottony or stretchy is rare. Sure I have the occassional business meeting or networking event, but for the most part it doesn't matter if I'm wearing sensible shoes or a g-string. No one sees me.

I've admitted somewhere along the way that one of my favorite parts about actually going to an office to work is the outfits. I love a reason to color coordinate my favorite lipstick (although I do wear lipstick daily) with my cute businessy attire. That, and the coffee breaks with coworkers. I supposed the glory of seeing my name is print is pretty cool too.

All of this came to the forefront this past weekend during the height of Birthday Season. Many of the people we see during Birthday Season, we only see during this birthday-filled time of year. And I was shocked when I saw Computer Science Mom. She has a whole new look and she was barely recognizable. She was wearing high heels, eye shadow, a sassy low-cut top, and her hair was super cute. She looked fabulous! This is a woman who was in sweat pants nearly every time I saw her for two years. She was a frumpy, albeit comfortably-dressed woman. What's her secret for getting out of her slump? Going back to work.

For me--when I have the rare business meeting or interview--it's a reason to still own those cute clothes. And when I exercise my right to get dressed up, even without something important in my schedule, it's amazing how it makes me feel like a whole different person.

So after that birthday party where CS Mom shone brightly, I decided to take some action to make myself feel better. Sure, no one sees me but the babysitter, but I want to dress the part. I decided the part I'll be playing is that of a successful writer. Or at least the part of a super cute mom. If putting on a flowing skirt makes me feel glamorous and successful, then I'm going for it. What am I saving those clothes for anyway? If I wait too long to wear them, then they are just going to go out of style.

Important life lessons learned by watching Flashdance

As 2008 begins, it is important to consider some very important life lessons from the movie Flashdance. I watched the movie for the first time recently with some of my fabulous friends during one of our nights in. Considering I'm such a huge dance fan, I'm honestly not sure I how made it this far in life without ever actually seeing this movie. Perhaps I was too young--I was only 10 when it was released. Or perhaps I was too busy to watch the movie because I was so busy cutting the necks off of all of my sweatshirts. Without further adieu:

1) At least you put yourself out there.

Getting over the fear of rejection is difficult. I know I'm guilty of this for sure. But if I never try anything because I'm afraid of being rejected or not succeeding, then I will never get anywhere. And I imagine rejection is sort of like playing a guitar: at first it really hurts, but eventually you get all calloused and you don't feel it anymore. And along the way, you learn to play guitar.

2) When you give up your dream, you die.

If we aren't constantly striving for something, what is the point? We should all look forward to achieving something, or going somewhere, or doing something. I believe in my book and my writing. If I didn't, I'd only have piles of laundry, muddy footprints on the carpet, and the whines of wee folk to fill my days. I know there is so much more to me and to life than chores and plugging my ears when my kids are annoying. Even when I'm discouraged or feeling bummed or overwhelmed, deep down I still believe in me. I know I have my husband and my family and friends cheering me on, but when it comes down to it, I need to be the one picking myself up and driving myself forward. That other stuff is hugely important, but I need to be the person who is most clearly looking out for me.

3) Not a quote, but still an important lesson learned: How to take my bra off without removing my shirt.

A timeless skill. Happy 2008!

Drug-induced bliss

To say I wasn't nervous would be an understatement. I was reclined at about a 45-degree angle on one of those hospital beds reminiscent of a Craftmatic Adjustable Bed. I was draped in one of those unflattering one-piece muumuus with the open back and flimsy ties. My clothes had been crumpled up into a clear bag with plastic snaps and stuffed into my canvas bag with food and a Vitamin Water for after my surgery. But none of that matters. I was all alone and it was wonderful.

I had not had anything to eat or drink in 14 or 15 hours. My shoes were off. My glasses were on. My mouth was dry. I did worry that I was going to have a coughing attack and there would be no saliva to swallow to coat my scratchy throat. But I only worried about it for a minute, and then I forgot about it altogether. I was holding a novel and it kept flopping forward onto my abdomen as I waved in and out of consciousness. I could hear hospital staffers rummaging around outside my partitioned space with clipboards. There were voices calling out patients' names. Even though it was just on the other side of the curtain, it sounded so far away. My mind was cloudy with thoughts of nothingness: no kids to feed, no snacks to prepare, no household duties to tend to, no deadlines to meet. Almost an hour passed this way before the surgeon came in to draw a map on my leg with black magic marker. Just as she photographed her art with her camera-phone, a nurse handed me a tiny paper cup with three pills in it--two large white ones, one tiny blue one. What? You mean I didn't already take the pills? They actually double-checked the chart since I seemed so relaxed. Then again...

The Vicodin and the Valium were dreamy and my mind wandered farther still from the daily responsibility of parenthood and my concerns about whether my boobs would burst before I could nurse Baby in Chief again. Finally the time came to be wheeled down the hall to the operating room where my arms were strapped down and I was tipped backwards just far enough so that I wouldn't slide off the table and onto my head. A large blue bonnet covered my hair, but fortunately the nurse allowed me to have my iPod in one of my ears to distract me from the sounds of scalpels and sensation of warm blood dripping down my leg. I don't remember many of the songs that came and went during that hour-long procedure, but I remember singing--loudly apparently--to Ageless Beauty from the Stars. It was sort of fitting since I was in the middle of trying to fix some of the damage that pregnancy and childbearing has done to my body. So I guess it isn't ageless beauty I am striving for, but more childless beauty in the form of nice legs.

As the bandages were wrapped around my leg, the surgeon told me that they never had someone sing throughout an entire procedure before. I didn't care. All I knew was that the worst was behind me and I was headed home to a long nap while Father in Chief tended to the wee folk.

First order of business

Fashions have changed since I was last gainfully employed. And so has my body--for better or for worse. So when I was invited by Photographer Friend to a media networking event last night in San Francisco, I sadly struggled with what to wear. After several outfit changes--complete with a list of expletives to match--I found a compromise that would work for the night, but I felt so outdated that I might as well have shown up in a shiny blazer with shoulder pads.

Over the last four years, my career has shifted from full-time writer/editor/managing producer to full-time parent/activity coordinator/household executive. As a result my wardrobe has shifted. Instead of cute and sassy business-type outfits, I have Capri pants and tank tops. Instead of financial-conference-type slacks, I have sexy dance outfits. Instead of comfortable but fashionable shoes and boots, I have Crocs or candy-red dance shoes. I have held onto some stodgy business-type outfits. But do not have any cute business casual outfits that say I'm smart, talented, somewhat stylish, and I've been shopping at least once this century. That said, I did wear my smart-girl glasses.

Lesson learned. As part of my effort to get back into business as a professional writer/freelancer/author, I need to look the part when the opportunity arises. I will go out and get two outfits that make me feel just sophisticated enough and just hip enough to fit in and feel confident, like I belong. Because as they saying goes: Dress for the job you want, not the job you have. And while my primary job is parent, I don't want that to be the primary impression I give when I'm out mingling with the natives. At least I didn't have any crusty spit-up on my shoulder or breast milk leaking down my front. So I guess it could have been much, much worse.

Too old for Abercrombie

I've been feeling a bit old lately because my nephew just turned 16. I was 16 when he was born. Or maybe I was 16 when his mom (who is a year younger than me) got pregnant. Maybe I was 17 when he was born. Either way, it was a long, long, long time ago. And I realized I'm 100 percent older than he is. And I don't feel that old. Although I have been having a clothing crisis lately. Am I too old to wear this? Can I really pull this off. I never used to wonder this. And now I do. And I used to get carded when I bought wine at the grocery store. Now I don't. If I do, it's a thrill.

Anyway, what to buy a 16 year old? I know what four-year-old boys like, but 16-year-old boys? Turns out that they like clothing from Abercrombie & Fitch. It's a store that I have not gone in since high school. And I'm not sure I went in to it back then either. Whenever I walk by the store in the mall, all I can think is that none of my friends in high school looked like the kids pictured in those larger-than-life black and white photos in the windows. But I pushed forward and got him one of the shirts I've seen him wear in a color I hoped he doesn't own already.

After that, I started feeling sort of blue. It all comes back to that age thing. So I decided the best way to get over this feeling was to go buy a couple of shirts from Abercrombie & Fitch for myself. If this is what the kids are wearing, then I will wear it too. And I will look good. And I will feel young. Because I'm still youngish. When I got home the only thing I felt was lame. I have tried those two tops on in front of my own mirror and they don't look nearly as nice as they did in the store dressing room (does anything ever?).

Those shirts will go back to the store. And I'll just have to come up with other ways to feel young.

Forget the kids--celebrate you

The best way to celebrate Mother's Day is stop feeling like a mom and feel more like a woman, a person! Father in Chief and I had a little date last night. We booked a sitter went out for a drink and some dessert. Well, all I needed to do was to shed my nursing bra for a black lacy bra and matching undies to realize that I am indeed still a woman, even if most days, I'm a lactating, comfy-pants wearing mother.

I really recommend it. It was quite liberating, even if it was short-lived.

And I even celebrated part of today with my kids. But only because my original plan to go to yoga and have a massage was thwarted because I cut my finger Friday night trying to wedge two hunks of frozen baby food apart (now there's a argument for buying the pre-made stuff that comes in jars). Anyway, the knife incident led to a dreadful four-and-a-half hour stay in the emergency room. As as result, my hands were rendered useless for yoga (and typing up until today). I suppose hanging out with the family wasn't all bad. There was breakfast and a lovely picnic in the park. Still, I'm going to reschedule my massage for later this week and hopefully I'll be back to my alternate nostril breathing by next weekend.

In the meantime, I think I'll be sporting my sassy, lacy bra at least once a week to remind myself that under the spit-up and crusty goop, I'm still an attractive female who does own (and occasionally wears) sexy lingerie. Alternatively, I could wear it for a couple of hours each day. Perhaps as soon as the kids go to bed, I'll go up and change into it. And then maybe, just maybe, there will be another reminder that I am indeed an enticing woman. Now if only there was a wardrobe change that was a quick fix for exhaustion.

Don't ever, ever tell me that!

Boy, you look tired.

Gee, that's just what every woman wants to hear. I think that might be up there with, You know, your ass really looks big in those jeans. Anyway, as hard as it is to believe, those words are being uttered out of perfectly well-meaning people. I have been told this hideous fact three or four times in the past couple of weeks. Even if it is true (and I'm sure it is), why, why, why would you ever think that is something that a person wants to hear...ever? It's not! So don't say it, okay?

I try to imagine the real reason some normally kind people would want to share this information with me. I know my family has been through some horrific and stressful weeks and perhaps these people are trying to relay that they understand that these long hospitalizations and surgeries have taken not just an emotional toll on me, but also a real physical toll as well. They most certainly have. There must be some way to say essentially the same thing without making me feel like shit.

How about: I'll bet these long hospitalizations have taken a real toll on you emotionally and physically. Try to rest and take care of yourself too.

Now was that so hard?

Because let's face it. Nothing good comes out of hearing that you look terrible. I know I look terrible. I know that have dark circles that look like I forgot that eye shadow goes over the eye and not under the eye. And sadly, unlike the big ass comment where I might be able to remedy the situation with a change of pants, I can't erase the exhaustion. It's not like you just told me I have some broccoli stuck between my teeth and I can discreetly remove it. Those circles are there. They are going to be there. I know they are there. Now all you've done is remind me that you and everyone else knows they are there too. Can't we just pretend they aren't?

I know I yawn a lot. I know I'm forgetful. I know I'm over sensitive and emotional (just ask Father in Chief.) I know I'm totally exhausted. I know that I'm not very good at returning all of my email or telephone calls right now. Finally, I know that I'm not looking so good. And now all you've done is just confirm that it's not all in my head.

What do you still wear from 1994?

That is an easy question with an easy answer: nothing. I know that I still have a few items from the 1990s, but I can't seem to think of any that I actually wear regularly. Styles have changed. My taste has changed. My body has changed. My wardrobe has most certainly changed as well.

I'm thinking about this because a video clip was forwarded to me from Father in Chief today. This video clip was part of a documentary about the early days of the Excite team (he's been working with some of those guys for the past couple of years), and it included some fun (and dated) images of those good people. The kicker is that one of the guys was wearing the exact same shirt at work today that he was wearing in the video more than a decade ago.

I couldn't help but wonder if he was like that woman from Seinfeld who had an endless supply of the same dress. But even if he did have an endless supply, why that shirt? And what a coincidence to be wearing the same shirt on the same day that this video was passed around.

Seriously, I can't think of a single item that I still own, that I still wear, from 1994. Some contenders:

A college sweatshirt (circa 1991)
I own it (I think), but I don't wear it. If it is still on the high shelf in my closet, that soft gray Northeastern University sweatshirt hasn't seen the sun since it came off the shelf of my old closet and was packed in a box to be moved to the top shelf of my new closet four years ago.

My wedding dress (circa 1998)
I still own it, but I definitely don't wear it. I guess I still have it somewhere, but I'm not sure where. It might be at my mom's house, so I'm not sure that actually counts. It's probably packed up in some silly cardboard box waiting for the daughter I never had to open it and want to wear it on her wedding day.

A winter coat (circa 199?)
Even though I've lived in the Bay Area for 11 years, I can't seem to bring myself to get rid of all those unused winter coats. There must be two or three of them slowly deteriorating in the cedar closet in the garage. That last time I needed a warm, wintry coat, I borrowed one. It was faux shearling.

Burgundy, clunky-heeled dance shoes (circa 1993)
For full disclosure purposes, I don't think I've worn them in a year since I bought my all-time favorite dance shoes at the local thrift store for $6. But I still own those burgundy shoes and I do put them on occasionally when I'm getting ready to go out. Lately, though, they do lose out to my Steve Madden bargain. I guess the difference is that I still like them and probably will wear them again.

I guess I'm not that surprised that the single remaining item from the 1990s that I actually use occasionally is dance related. On the flip side, I cannot think of a single item that I wish I'd kept.

The sicko lactation diet

Okay, here's the real reason I breastfeed: I can eat lots of food and still lose weight. But that's not all. I can use the breast pump in lieu of exercise. For example, this morning while Baby in Chief was asleep I pumped five ounces. Five ounces equals 100 calories. I don't think there is any other way on the planet I could burn 100 calories in about five minutes. Perfect. Now where's my chocolate croissant?

...and then my milk let-down

Baby in Chief is almost four weeks old, and I recently started using the breast pump so that Father in Chief could help out with those gruesome middle-of-the-night feedings. I'd been avoiding the pump because I had used it so frequently when Toddler in Chief was nursing--to establish my milk supply when he was born and hospitalized for the first three weeks of his life, to always have milk to offer after every feeding at the breast (because breastfeeding is hard work and was sometimes too exhausting for TIC when he was brand new), for the two weeks he was hospitalized for his second heart operation, for the six weeks he was on a non-fat diet after his surgery, for relief from engorged breasts, or just a night out.

I was standing in the kitchen assembling the pump and the freshly boiled assorted accessories when I had a funny little reminder about how my body remembers the pump...my milk let down. Most women get that when their baby cries or they think about nursing. Not me. I just need to see an assembled breast pump.

Oh! Baby: Isn't not just about the boobs

We all know that breast is best when it comes to food choices for babies, but is it the only choice? Is making a choice to formula feed versus breastfeed really just about whether or not what's best for baby? Sometimes I'm envious of the women who choose to bottle feed their kids. Their bodies are their own and they get to share those overnight feedings. No swollen boobs. No clogged ducts. No pumping. It just seems that there are so many other factors involved in deciding how to nourish the babes.

Check out this week's debate over breastfeeding on Oxygen Media's Oh! Baby Opinionated Parenting blog.

It's the new cleavage!

I used to joke with Toddler in Chief's pediatrician when he was growing two pounds a month and subsequently out of his clothing. I would say with a big smile on my face, "Gee, I wish I could get new clothing as often as he does." And then his pediatrician would so eloquently put it all into perspective: "Not because you keep outgrowing the clothes you already own." True and true!

Babies and kids aren't old enough to torture themselves with the mental mind-fuck that goes along with needing larger-sized clothing (I don't think that starts happening until they are 10 or so, right??!!). But no grown-up--man or woman--ever wants to admit to themselves that they no longer fit into their favorite jeans, pants, T-shirts or any garment of clothing in general. And Bethany over at Mommy Writer had a very entertaining post about finding and purchasing the right pair of jeans for your body type. She wrote:

Now, imagine yourself slipping into those too small jeans. And yes, they are too small EVEN IF YOU CAN STILL ZIP THEM UP. Do you bulge over the sides? Are you love handles more apparent? Still not ready to admit you need to go up in size? Where a form fitting T-shirt and tell me how you feel?

I believe the tortuous process of buying pants that fit (no matter what size you are) has been exacerbated by the fact that women's fashions--women's jeans in particular--have made it extra difficult for anyone with any curves whatsoever to feel good in. The low, low, low rise cut is the height of fashion. Women even need to buy special low rise underwear to fit under their ultra low pants.

This look was designed by someone who never, ever needs to sit down. Not on a bus. Not at a desk. Not at a restaurant. Certainly not at the playground. Not anywhere. If you do, you ultimately end up with the "I'm-working-under-the-sink" look. I've always been extremely private when it comes to matter of the throne, and I certainly don't want to share my derriere with the group of moms and kids at story time at the library, or with all the folks getting their morning brew.

But my fabulous and gorgeously curvaceous Therapist Friend helped me see things in a new light. She said, "Ass-crack is the new cleavage!" As a women in my early 30s, I might be too old to be that self-confidant. But perhaps with the proliferation of tight tees and low-cut jeans, that bulge in between will become the new thing to have and to flaunt.

But, with any luck, I'll be able to score pants that are just high enough and shirts that are just long enough to meet in the middle. That way, I can accentuate my other, more traditional assets.