Ugh. It’s like my therapist wants me to feel…BETTER.

Tonight I told my therapist I’m going to a doctor for a yearly checkup. She said, “Suppose the doctor says your bloodwork is fine, and your only prescription is more exercise — that a consistent workout regimen would definitely make everything better. Would that motivate you to make it a more regular habit instead of just once in a while?” And I told her no. I wouldn’t take a “real” doctor’s order any more seriously than my therapist’s. I know hippies will sing the praises of exercise until the goddamn grass-fed, rainbow-raised cows come home. But I’m waiting for the day they say it’s all horseshit, like they just did with flossing. Dentists have been up our asses with floss for, what, 50 years? Then suddenly they’re all, “NOPE, it’s just minty string.” (I don’t necessarily believe that, I’m just being petulant.)

But I get it: “Exercise gives you endorphins. Endorphins make you happy. Happy people just don’t shoot their husbands. They just don’t.”

Fine, I’ll add more exercise. Fine. FINE.

Sorry, Folgers: Happy lady parts are a far better part of waking up. 

Via HelloGiggles: This alarm clock wakes you up with an orgasm.

In the immortal words of Elle Woods, “Excuse me. I have some shopping to do.”

And in the words of the friend who sent this to me, “I don’t see how it would prevent me from falling back asleep.”

Truth. Orgasms are how I GET to sleep half the time.

Still, we agree we should try it for research. For SCIENCE. FOR THE SISTERHOOD.

My family shuns my food baby.

I spent the day with extended family, which first means I can’t handle anymore noise and am incapacitated in silence on the couch. But it also means I spent the day being lauded for being “so petite!” and looking “so cute in skinny jeans!” Because apparently that’s an achievement. “I could never wear those, I’d look like a beached whale!”

Oh, it’s TOTES easy, you guys. All you have to do is upend your entire adult life: lose two consecutive jobs; get your heart broken twice (once in love, once in friendship); move apartments twice; doubt your overall worth; get fat; see therapists you can’t really afford; get prescribed drugs that make you lose your previously voracious appetite; get thin because you’re eating half as much; and constantly worry that even this tiny rug of vague stability you’ve managed to weave for yo’ damn self is going to be pulled out from under you.

In the words of Elle Woods: “What, like it’s hard?”

I don’t know why I waste my time on my silly blog when I could clearly be writing the next big self-help book.

I was also told how “natural” I looked holding Baby Cousin, and got the “Maybe you’ll change your mind someday, you never know.” Um, well, first, I’m 40 and single, so time’s a wastin’, and second, I was sure enough to end a decade-long relationship over the matter, which you’re aware of, so I think I’m set. Thanks for the reminder, though. And also you’re a dick.

Besides, in our family, being skinny vs. breeding seems very much an either/or situation. I’m gonna need you to prioritize your pressure. If I’m understanding correctly, being fat is acceptable as long my fat is the result of creating a person? But it’s not cool if it’s just a food baby?