May 27th, 1997
“What’s a Powerfest without a Miss Hot Rd Bikini Contest?”
I hope I never know.
Mon and I made it back to Brooklyn from Pensacola with nary a plane crash or any other manifestation of my “something horrible is bound to happen” fears.
The crazy cab driver who liked Pink Floyd, thought people who say “God loves you” are “wee-yard” (“How do they know God? God does not speak to me. When I call him, he does not pick up.”) and referred to our neighborhood as Park Slop was crazy, but not so crazy as to take a shortcut through a side alley and bludgeon Mon and me to death.
Two nights ago, I was all hoochied-out with my bare midriff. Fifteen minutes ago, I was scrutinizing my clavicle, torso, back and shoulders, trying to separate the precancerous dyplastic nevi from run of the mill moles. But this legitimate fear-fraught search was quickly replaced with a disgusted grabbing and flexing examination of my lumpy ass.
I hate myself when I’m standing with my underwear at my ankles, mirror in hand reflecting the rearview in the mirror on the wall, trying to see how my butt looks to others. I write articles and helpful sidebars about how this behavior is stupid and a waste of time, but who am I kidding? If I had a grand and time to spare, would I have the fat sucked out? Even though I know it’s totally anti-feminist and bad for our whole gender to perpetuate the quest for perfection? Hm.
Then again, think of how much more I could accomplish if I didn’t waste so much time staring at my ass.
