A terrible feminist and probably an awful human being

I am a terrible feminist and probably an awful human being.

Everyone on board?

OK.

I definitely have my moments where I’m like, “Man, I’d kill to be built like Kerry Washington” or whoever.

But last night I watched Chicago again (for burlesque research!), and I realized, “Goddamn, I would much rather be built like me than like Super Thin Renée Zellweger any day.”

I sincerely hope the most prominent feature of my chest is never the bones in it. (I can’t even see those bones, I forgot there WERE bones there.)

I could floss with that woman.

I know, I KNOW. I shouldn’t judge another woman. There’s room for all of us (ahem — especially her, she’s basically vapor), and we’re all snowflakes, blah blah, bliddy blah, sisterhood, traveling pants, etc. FINE. I’m an asshole. We’ve established that.

Also, while she’s tiny, I’m sure she does crazy yogalates-ninja-reformer class or something and could kill me with her pinky finger. Plus, she’s a floppity-bajillionaire mega-star who can sing AND dance AND act (I’m told), and I live in a studio apartment and have 45 Facebook followers, so who the hell am I? She gives no fucks what I think, and rightly so.

Now, don’t get it twisted — if you offered a trade of INCOME, I’d be on that shit like white on rice. (Not that she knows what rice is, but you get the idea.) But body-wise? I’m glad I’m me, is the point. Flat ass and all. I’m not a hater — this was a self-esteem epiphany. So there.

A fun post to balance the feels…

When I did the burlesque class a couple weeks ago, apart from being inherently rigid and prim, I also couldn’t really get into any of the music. I’d never heard any of the songs before, and the instructor kept looking at me like, “Bitch, what music do you need to relax your stupid, uptight hips?”

THIS. I needed this. Bring me back that chair — I’ll make it my bitch. I could burlesque the shit out of this.

“Run your fingers through my hair,
I want you to touch me there,
But I will not open up my thighs
When you’ve got bourbon in your eyes,
You’re the one that makes me smile,
And I know you’d make it worth my while,
But she’s waiting for you and I think she cries,
When you’ve got bourbon in your eyes.”

Or, hey, if we’re going for something more (incredibly) obvious, can I get a little Aguilera up in here?

“You’ve been a bad bad boy
I’m gonna take my time, so enjoy
There’s no need to feel no shame
Relax and sip upon my champagne
‘Cause I wanna give you a little taste
Of the sugar below my waist, you nasty boy…”

COME ON.

New plan for the evening: My own burlesque playlist and workout. I have Sex Kitten capacities, dammit. I am a WANTON, SULTRY STRUMPET! HMPH! (Just…you know, don’t look at me or anything. Because then I just get awkward. And not in a cute, Deschnanelly way — it’s got a li’l Gollum on it, frankly.)

Unloading some family issues

One of the platitudes I resent most is, “You’ll miss your family when they’re gone.”

I have no doubt I will, and hey, thanks for making me feel like a dick, but the fact that I’ll miss them eventually doesn’t change the fact that right now, they’re being assholes. Not everyone is the Cleavers, people — some people have issues.

I’ve been in therapy for months and we’ve barely gotten into my family. Yes, it’s likely that’s where all my shit comes from*, but two things:

1. I am a grown-ass person and don’t want to blame Mommy and Daddy for my ineptitude or unlovability (I KNOW, I’m just being petulant today).

2. My issues are so textbook I feel like it’d be almost insulting to the therapist. Not even textbook, it’s fucking “Cat’s in the Cradle.” I’d explain what’s wrong and the therapist would be like, “Really? You want to pay me to fix this? Go listen to some pop music and Google some shit — you’re smart, you’ll figure it out.” (My therapist gives me an inordinate amount of credit — she’s super impressed when I take out the garbage and thinks my navel-gazing introversion is a good thing — she calls it “self-awareness,” I call it “narcissism.”)

* I have a friend who’s like me in being a complete stubborn ass about therapy, like we KNOW we need it, but UGH. Because I can’t speak for him, but “my problems aren’t real problems, I should just learn to deal.” So when I told him my therapist was a LMFT — licensed marriage and family therapist — and worried if that was really what I needed. And my FELLOW STUBBORN ASS says, “I don’t know… you have a LOT of issues with your family.” So… I guess I can take that to the bank. Or to the therapist. FUCK. I have to talk about real shit and not just “stepping out of my comfort zone” by attending a burlesque class. Tell you what — I’ll do burlesque FOR A LIVING if I don’t have to talk about my family. (<– That sentence right there? Part of my patented Prostitute Starter Set. Thankfully I’m too old to be a profitable prostitute. I CAN, however, troll the dudes on OurTime.com and give them a helluva Girlfriend Experience.)

…I’ve lost control of this post so I’m going to go get more coffee.

Je m’appelle Uptight ’80s Virgin

A lady-friend who’s my opposite in all the best ways told me she chose “Yvette” as part of her burlesque stage name because it was her name in high-school French class.

MY French class name was Claire, which I didn’t even consider at the time was the name of the uptight virgin in “The Breakfast Club.”

This seems fitting.

Embracing my sexuality via total embarrassment.

Today I took an Intro to Burlesque class at Kink Shoppe, which means I turned BEET red as I flaunted my flat ass in front of a room full of people, took my shirt off (tank top underneath), and had it reaffirmed that it’s hot when I play with my hair.  

My inner goddess is still super awkward.

I just registered for an Intro to Burlesque dance class, because clearly I don’t feel awkward ENOUGH on the daily, I have to pay to be reminded I lack sex appeal.

Selecting the proper workout ensemble has never quite felt this important. I wonder what the odds are I could configure a bra under here. (Yeah, I know — slim to none.)

#JustSayYes