K-F%&K

I admit it: I have a negative inner monologue in my head that narrates my life, and I’m willing to bet you do, too. Maybe yours is a combination of voices - my friend, Kimberly, refers to hers as “The Committee,“ while Jilliene named it “The Lynch Mob.“ Whatever form it takes, that nonstop nattering continuously poo-poo’s your good intentions while locking in the freshness of your past failures like mental Tupperware.

Welcome to K-F%&K.

“K-F%&K is the 24-hour radio station in your head that plays ’All Doom-and-Gloom, All the Time,’” according to my bestest friend ever, Tami.

It might be a radio station, but Easy Listening it ain’t.

I can usually keep K-F%&K’s nasty naysaying at bay with positive affirmations - hey, fake it till ya make it, right? But there are some times when it gets real loud in there. And just when I want to dial it down, the volume control breaks off in my hand. It’s enough to make me want to take all the leftover painkillers from my gum surgery and wash them down with the Christmas kahlua.

So what do you do when K-F%&K starts running an endless loop of
your emotional train wrecks in agonizing slo-mo? Kimberly practices deep breathing and meditation; Tami counters K-F%&K’s siren call with, “Thanks, but I’m going to do it anyway” - out loud, when necessary. Some people use food, or its evil twin, exercise, to calm their spirits. I’m sure there are folks who have an toy chest at the ready - booze, stimulants, booty calls - whatever it takes to drown out K-F%&K’s dismal drone.

As for me, music helps; the sound of a beloved tune can put
K-F%&K in the background, if only temporarily. But it’s the voice of a trusted friend, a voice from the outside giving encouragement that can make K-F%&K to fade altogether.

And I’m always ready with the “Atta Girl’s!” to help lower the volume of my fellow Vixens’ personal K-F%&K’s.

For me, friends are the ultimate antidote to K-F%&K.

Lingerie and Sausages

At a recent reunion of old friends, one of them asked, "I don't remember the big boobs, Lea (that's what they call me). Did you have work done?"

(Lest you think this question is too personal or rude, you have to understand that we still see each other through our 14 year old eyes, which means that sometimes inappropriate things fly out of our mouths, and we love each other for it.)

"No, the boobs are real," I answered honestly.

I didn't mention the tummy tuck that made them look bigger. Because she didn't ask.

Also, I didn't explain that I have a Victoria's Secret bra which uses levers and pulleys to gather all my upper body flab and transform them into two large mounds of flesh. I don't understand all the science that goes into the design of the bra, I only know it beeps when I walk backwards.

The old saying is, If you love sausages, don't watch them being made. Likewise, if you love seeing a woman in lingerie, don't watch her squeeze herself into a tiny outfit made of satin and mesh. It's not a pretty sight.

What's worse is that lingerie is disproportionately expensive: it's made up of the smallest amount of material, for about the price you pay for a nice pair of stiletto heels. And it stays on for the shortest amount of time! No fair!


What follows is a true account of a recent attempt to grapple with lingerie's insidious

A bustier and microscopic panties lay on the bed before me. I am gripped with trepidation - they seemed to be taunting me: "Go ahead. Try us on. See how far you get."

The ritual begins with the unlacing of the ties in the back - wider, WIDER! Then the step-in; putting it on over-the-head would mean my face would get stuck in it and I would have a hard time breathing with all the black lace up my nose. I pull it up, praying my butt is not acting as bouncer and turning tight clothes away. Soon I am emitting groans and cursing like a longshoreman. If you didn't know better, you would think I'm having really hot sex.

Success! Everything's on! The bustier has worked overtime - do I smell smoke? - to lift and tuck and re-shape my body to fit the sausage casing's tiny dimensions. Hooray! There is even a great deal of spillover up top. The thong panties save me from worrying about tush coverage, but then, I've never worried about my butt too much because it's behind me and I don't have to look at it. 

And speaking of what's behind me, those laces have been loosened so much that my entire back is exposed.

Hey, even sausage casings expand to fit.