Dear PDV readers, I turned 40 this month! And for that I get a mammogram. In honor of getting to be a part of this wonderful rite of passage into awkward adulthood, I’m rerunning an oldie but a goodie (much like me) from my former blog Childhood Relived.
I have a question that’s been gnawing at me for nearly 25 years. It relates to something that really traumatized me as a kid. Continue reading
My darling K,
This note will start out kind of depressing, but I promise that, as in every good piece of writing, there will be a turning.
My memories of my early life are murky, but I think I was about six years old when kids started teasing me by calling me fat. That would have been first grade. Remarkably, I wasn’t particularly fat; big-boned, my mom called me, and that was accurate. I liked to eat and was more bookish than athletic. I had a round little tummy and probably had to wear clothes from some embarrassing fashion line called “Sturdy Gurlz” or similar. But kids can be mean, and this particular group of mean girls figured out that the word FAT held a lot of power over me. Continue reading
…at least until the humidity drops below 75 percent.
Here’s a little something about running, motivation and energy that I wrote for TueNight. It was picked up by Huffington Post. The best part about appearing in HuffPost was the bizarre amalgam of ads and suggested stories that ran beneath my piece: 7 Ways to Find Her Clitoris (sponsored); 26 Hottest NFL Wives; Python Swallows Crocodile Whole.
Do they know my demographic, or what?