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?

Slutty von Slutwhore and the Blown Goat.

Recently a friend told me about a writer named Brené Brown, who I guess is a “self-help” author (I know, I rolled my eyes, too), and talks a lot about fear, shame, and vulnerability. I liked her approach, and have been mainlining her lectures on YouTube. (For someone who writes a sex blog, I have a LOT of self-slut-shaming issues…among others, obviously. It’s part of why I started writing it.)

Anyway, I reported back to my friend that I found Brown’s perspective helpful, and because my friends keep shit real, she said: “That’s great!…You know you still need to find a therapist, though, right? This isn’t a substitute.”

Yuuuup. Yup, I do. Bleh. Feelings. UGH. I’ve maxed out my coverage on “friends as therapists,” and Lexapro is lovely, but it’s probably not helping as much as it could if I would just stop being so…ME about this.

“I think I have a problem, and I just… I need some help. But here’s the thing — no family stuff. No childhood shit. I JUST need some strategies.”

(I’m not naive enough to think I’ll ever fix my Slutty von Slutwhore problem without discussing family/childhood shit. This is gonna blow, like, several goats. But it needs to be addressed.)