If I Were You
I am a former supermodel but was ousted from the industry. Other models complained that I was underweight, therefore a poor example for young girls. Further, their jealousy was fueled by feedback regarding my work which unanimously concluded that my features are enviably classic, my complexion like a fairy’s brow dusted with sugar and my eyes portals to Eden. Okay, seriously. My mom did some work as a model. I look exactly like my Dad. It was Nature’s mistake. I’ve made a lot of mistakes, too. My high school yearbook is filled with anecdotes beginning with, “Remember the night you had to get a skin graft on your tongue?” or “I’ll never forget the time you used a lighter to get rid of your underarm hair.” My utter lack of forethought has rendered me supremely qualified to deliver written guidance on avoiding life’s catastrophes. The following is a bit of counsel from If I Were You, a humorous survival manual for women. First, stay off your back. Mom’s “Cow and Free Milk” lecture has merit despite its correlation between women and barn chattel. And I’m not judging. I, too, am guilty of premarital, shall we say, lactation. Speaking of ill-timed amour, what is with this “cougar” thing? Since when is “Mrs. Robinson” a rallying anthem for suburban moms? Those kitties should consider the variables. For example: Will a pregnancy-scare send the boy-toy running? Of course, in this case it’s probably just menopausal onset. When I was a kid, our mothers were suitably sexually irrelevant. They wore Hillary Clinton-esque pant suits or baggy sweatshirts with huge Tigger and Eeyore appliqués. They didn’t parade their Pilates-honed figures around our boyfriends. I’m just saying...
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