Tag Archives: paranoia


When I won tickets to last night’s Adele concert at Radio City Music Hall via a congratulatory email, I was certain it had to be fake. I never win ANYTHING. The email said I had 8 hours to respond with a copy of my ID and a signed affidavit. I simply didn’t trust it.

“How do I know this is real? What if it’s ISIS?!” I asked Eric in a panic.

“You’re insane.” He replied. “The email is from Columbia Records. You entered through Adele’s website. It’s real.”

“But…but…how do you know for sure?!”

The email provided a number to call should I have any questions about the contest, so Eric suggested I call it. “But what would I even say to find out if it’s real?!” I said.

Exasperated, he took matters into his own hands and dialed the number himself. It rang once and someone picked up.

Person: “Columbia Records.”
Eric: “Hi, is this real?”
Person: “Yes.”
Eric: “Ok bye.”

Eric (to me): “It’s real.”

(It was real, though).


Me: “Can depression and anxiety cause sensory issues? I just feel like I’m SO sensitive to the feel of certain clothing on my body.”

Therapist: “Sensory issues can definitely be comorbid with anxiety. But give me an example.”

Me: “Like, for instance– bras. I can’t STAND wearing a bra. I feel like I’m always tugging at it and feeling suffocated and honestly, sometimes I just take it off in the middle of the day because I can’t stand it anymore. And I feel like it’s not normal to be THIS sensitive to it, and it must be related to my mental health issues, right? Or a side effect of the Prozac? Or maybe it’s a whole other disorder I didn’t even know I had?”

Therapist: “When was the last time you bought a bra?”

Me: “Ummm…” <thinking hard. A good 30 seconds pass>

Therapist: “Yeah. Your bras don’t fit.”

Me: “You think?”

Therapist: “Yes. Go buy new bras.”

Me: “Oh. Ok.”

Too Tan For This Date

When I go on vacation, I take my tan very seriously. I work hard to achieve that perfect healthy sun-kissed glow, ignoring the fact that “healthy sun-kissed” is in fact an oxymoron, particularly when melanoma runs in your family. As I’ve gotten older, I have, of course, become much more responsible about this practice, because I understand that a super-dark tan looks far less sexy on a 32-year-old than it does on a college student. I also understand that when I lay out for hours roasting in the sun, I am slowly poisoning myself. I’ve actually always understood this, but recently I’ve become less comfortable with the idea of a shorter life span in the name of temporary beauty. It’s called maturity, people.

All that being said, I fucked up in Mexico. I forgot that Mexican sun is 60 times stronger and more orange than normal sun (FACT), and I got too much of it. I’m too tan. I am WAY. TOO. TAN.

Unfortunately, I had scheduled a first date for the first night I was back in NYC (last night).  But I was feeling super self-conscious about my tan. I polled my friends and they all agreed that no, “too tan” is not an acceptable reason for a functioning human being in society to cancel a date. I begged to differ, so in a desperate attempt for back-up, I texted my friend Gabi, who had been in Mexico with me and knew exactly how too-tan I was. But even she agreed I had to still go:


So it was settled. I sent a pre-emptive warning text that went as follows: “I feel it’s necessary to warn you, Kevin, that I have never been this tan in my life. I am too tan. No one should be this tan.” The following exchange then ensued:


Ok. Phew. Settled. I felt much better that at least he knew I knew I was too tan. That was much better than him sitting there thinking, “I bet she thinks she looks great, but she is too old to be this tan. How sad for her. And society. And the world, really.”

I did what I could with makeup to calm the orangey glow but it was no use. I sighed, accepted my fate as the too-tan 30-something, and left for the date.

When I arrived at the bar, he took one long look at me and, genuinely confused and 100% serious said, “I don’t understand. You’re not even tan.”