You’re not even a good fragrance of douche.

A few months ago I posted about a man from a neighboring office in my building. I pass him in the hall sometimes and we exchange workplace pleasantries. That day, though, he asked if I’d been dieting, because I looked “really good” and “like I’d lost weight.”

I’ve seen him a few times since, and we were back to, “Good morning, how are you?”

But I just saw him again and he said, “That’s a REALLY nice dress, it looks great on you!” And elevator-eyed me.

Dude, did you skip an HR seminar or something? The last time anyone looked at me like that at work, he and I were screwing around in office closets.

I feel like a hypocrite, too, because I wouldn’t have minded the compliment on my dress coming from a man I was attracted to, or even a man I knew. The phrasing of his weight loss/diet comment was unacceptable from anyone, though — was I previously too much of a heifer to look good?

*sigh* I need another shower.

Weight a minute…

I’ve talked about diet and exercise here 100 times before, so I’m sorry I’ve been Captain Do-Nothing. But I was chatting with my lady contingent, and we all seem to have had some form of weight-related trauma this week.

My clothes have gone from “saucily clingy” to “Oh, honey…,” I’m always tired, and even if I got off the couch to exercise, I’d probably collapse within 5 minutes. Plus I couldn’t donate blood today because my iron levels are too low, as if my steady diet of animal crackers and barbecue chips isn’t providing sufficient nutrients (pfft).

My friends have similar concerns. There’s a general consensus that although we are obviously sexy as fuck at any weight, exhaustion and ill-fitting clothing aren’t as much fun as you’d think.

So. To quote one friend: “We can do this. We are a formidable trio of badass bitches, and we can do anything we set our minds to.”

^ Now, I understand that statement is not WHOLLY true. I seem incapable of getting over relationships, sticking to a budget, or performing neurosurgery. But I can sure as fuck eat a carrot and take a walk now and then. (Well, as soon as Philly isn’t so humid that it feels like we’re being suffocated by ball sacks. But indoor workouts are a go.)

Family, Food, Facebook, Fat, Fuck.

I had written all this high and mighty shit about feeling bad for my mom, because she’s so worried about her weight that she deprives herself of delicious food. I prattled on about how I was glad I let myself enjoy food, because pfft, I’m clearly SO above those outdated ideas, and fuck it, we only get one trip through here, so we might as well have cake.

Aaand then my brother Facebook-tagged me in some party pics from the other night, and you know those weight-loss ads where the women are all, “I saw myself in a photo and realized I am a giant fuckoff hambeast?” Yeahhh… I’m gonna have to rebuild some of that body confidence I’d been having.

Cameras lie, though. They are tricksy and false. Basically wizards. Shifty wizards, in cahoots with angles and lighting. That’s right, I said it — cahoots.

Still, maybe some exercise is in order. We all know I’ll do whatever Shaun T tells me to.

No kale, though.

Fuck kale.

“I’m gonna dress you up in my [self] love…”

And speaking of party dresses…

Whenever you put on a piece of clothing, look in the mirror, and think, “Is that MY body? GodDAMN, I want to have sex with myself!”, you need that garment in your life.

Perfect mindset for tonight’s family party, no? (Hush, there’ll be other people there.)

Via LOFT:

I’ve been digitally Naked Manned

First message from a man on OkCupid whose only profile photo is a bathroom mirror selfie… of his butt-naked body with his penis obscured by a Photoshopped flesh-colored oval: “You have really nice photos! Very pretty and cute, and sexy! I just wanted to tell you that and yes I meant what I said. I hope you dont get mad but your photos turn me on so much.”

I’m confused. Why would I think you didn’t mean it?  Of course you meant it — you’re trying to put parts of you into parts of me. It would hurt your cause to be like, “You’re hideous and make my dick soft.”

Besides, I KNOW my photos are cute — that’s why they’re my photos.

Your naked body isn’t bad to look at, sir. Thanks for that. Let us retreat to our respective spank banks and call it a day.

I need. To see. Your FACE.

Honestly, I MIGHT have sex with you! But you need to have a face! I can’t know if I’ll want to kiss your dick if I can’t tell if I’d kiss your face.

Get a face.

P.S. I’m a little embarrassed at how long it took me to realize his message could easily be copy/pasted and sent to a million other women. I’ll give him credit for that. And for his body, because JAY-sus — dude has a better curve on his ass than I do on mine.

Walking around naked. Like ya do.

The other day, my amazing friend* ran a body confidence class at the sex shoppe (yep, shoppe). For “homework,” she assigned us to go home and spend an hour naked, checking out our bodies, noting the good, disregarding the bad, and just getting comfortable seeing them.

So I just emailed her and said, “Just letting you know I’m walking around naked. Carry on.”

Not gonna lie, I’m NOTICING the bad. (“Really? Those are my boobs? Huh…”) But overall, I’m kind of adorable.

Also, the heat in my house is up to like 80 degrees because brrrrr.

Also, I may have strange friendships. But they’re the best.

* FYI, the friend is the lovely and talented Yvette St. James, and you should follow her on Twitter and attend all her classes because they’re super fun and informative.

“How YOU doin’?”

A happy bonus of working in a huge office complex is that, walking through the halls, I often see new people who work in other offices.

New, sexy people. With penises.

And sometimes I see them on casual Friday, when I did realize how clingy my outfit is, but it was too late to change it, so, “Hello, sir. Please behold all the best bits of my body — an hourglass with just the right amount of extra sand in it.” (“Allllll the right junk in allllll the right places.”)

I love my job.

Whippersnapper! Get off my lawn!

Sometimes I’m at a decent peace with my body.

And then sometimes I see the 24-year-old assistant leaving the office in her yoga clothes.

Right, then. Never eating again.

(And because I’ve spoken to nothing but just…fucking idiots all day, please don’t make me explain that it’s a joke.)