Residual effects of being raised by the Wakefield twins.

OK, look, I try my best to be all body-positive rah-rah. I’m working on it, and I do think I’m…cute. I do OK — I’m not hideous, I give enthusiastic blowjobs, and I don’t make my men watch The Notebook. So yay, me.

But sometimes… Goddammit, there’s a woman in my office I would make a weird Twilight Zoney pact to look like. She’s tall, but not TOO tall, and lithe and blonde and her hair is perfect and her nose is adorable. She’s a woman you’d watch The Notebook for, just so you can sit near her and bask in her beauty. In fact, maybe I just use that Notebook thing as a defense mechanism to compensate for my averageness. And oh, God, what if my blowjobs are enthusiastic but AWFUL?!

Ugh.

I know, I KNOW. I’ve already told myself that we’re all special lady snowflakes, blah blah blah. I understand my brain is not currently accepting logic — all those Sweet Valley books I read as a kid can still infiltrate occasionally. In the time it took me to type this, I kicked that gremlin in the face, put on some lipstick, and charged ahead like the fine-ass lady I am. Still not 100% on my blowjobs, but…men keep letting me do it, so I can’t be THAT bad at it.

Wolf convents and my breasts.

A friend and I have a running joke about me being overly modest about my cleavage. She says I was raised in a convent. (Sidebar: I’ve never seen Star Wars, so I may also have been raised by wolves, and I think we can all agree that a wolf convent would be pretty badass.)

Anyway. I texted her a photo of the shirt I wore last night, and asked, “Proud of my cleavage?”

Her response: “What cleavage? I’d wear that to church. I’m proud of your attempt at cleavage.”

Me: “Goddammit.”

Whatever. Men eat up that modesty shit. My niche is “girl next door…who says ‘fuck’ a lot and won’t make you watch The Notebook.”