Honest Letter to my Younger Self

Yo, younger self, how’s it going? I guess I should really know the answer to that – but my memory is admittedly fuzzy in my forty-something-th year. I am not proud to admit that I abused all manner of substances in the 80s — mostly hair products — and at times it’s difficult to discern my childhood experiences from those of Buddy on “Family”.

But first things first: Go take a look at your neck in the mirror. The harsher the lighting the better. I know it sounds weird, but go do it. I’ll wait.

(SFX: Impatient humming.)

Okay, now savor that image for the rest of your life. Appreciate it. Adore it. Spoil it rotten. The neck is the first thing to go — in a super stealth way. You never notice it until one night you’re on your way to a fancy party in a kick-ass dress you just dropped a few C-notes on… and you’re like, “damn, girl. You’re rocking that frock at forty”… and you sashay into that gala looking “all that” … and you step into the powder room – not because you have to go – but you just want to get a glimpse of that sexy broad one more time… and then – BAM – there it is – in the lit-up mirrors … your head appears to be propped up with skin that would result from Larry King having his way with a mummy.

While we’re in the admittedly superficial looks department, here’s another tip: Wear a bikini as much as you can – while you can. I’m serious – wear the shit out of that bad girl – to the grocery store, on dates, walking the dog, taking out the garbage, to funerals — everywhere but the beach. There you should go topless. (With all due respect to its keeping your feet on the ground, gravity is ultimately a jerk.)

Also, be religious and rigorous about sit-ups lest you wind up waiting for a beach volleyball player to die tragically and donate you her abs.

Another thing to at least consider: Don’t have children. They will, sadly, inherit the worst of your husband’s and your traits. They are overrated time, money and energy sucks – and the ultimate example of delayed gratification (which you are not good at). The nicest things they’ll ever say about you will be at your funeral.

Raise Golden Doodles instead.

Think about becoming a lesbian. I know; I know, you’re either born that way or not, but men are extremely hard to live with. They’re emotionally needy, yet give next to no support back. They snore and fart and grow hair in weird places. They all eventually become your dad, grumbling from a recliner, “Who are you texting now?” and then falling asleep in a fit of their own midlife regrets and rage.

If you must get married, do it for money. While it’s true that you can’t buy happiness, being poor makes you really, really sad.

And never date a Republican. They feel you have to work for everything, and this can spill over into the bedroom.

Again, think about those Golden Doodles.

A few random tips before I close:

Write a movie with talking penguins. Save your cowl necks and leggings.
Don’t get sucked into “Desperate Housewives” or “Grey’s Anatomy” – they only get worse with age. Stick with the Green Bay Packers – they are the only men who won’t let you down.

Oh, and it’s not you, it’s your mother. (Just saved you twenty grand in therapy.)

I’ll close with the very serious subject of alcohol (which I know you enjoy) and the potential abuse thereof. Listen carefully, as this is advice that could one day save your life.

“Liquor before beer; everything’s clear. Beer before liquor; never been sicker.”

Okay, girl, I think that’s enough for now. Lots to chew on. Stay strong. And remember, everybody will someday disappoint you – don’t disappoint yourself,



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10 thoughts on “Honest Letter to my Younger Self”

  1. LOL, I’m leaving myself a post-it note, “Remember to enjoy the three-way-mirrors in the dressing rooms because they will become your worst enemy later on!”

  2. “They snore and fart and grow hair in weird places. They all eventually become your dad, grumbling from a recliner, “Who are you texting now?” and then falling asleep in a fit of their own midlife regrets and rage.”

    I’m off to cry myself to sleep.

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