A letter to the Frenemy to read today

My dear Frenemy,

Did you know that I'm probably twice your age, have never met you, and have a girl crush on you? For you, I coin the term, "grush" (girl crush) -- which sounds like something vaginal and unpleasant, but under the circumstances, perhaps that is appropriate.  I hope you don't find this creepy (even if I do).

So. Here we are. Do you watch TV? I thought of you this weekend when I was on the Stairmaster and I saw a commercial for a feminine wash, the gist of which was, "Someone told me I stank down there, which let me tell you, is really learning a lesson the hard way." I thought, damn, I'm sure I can't find that ad online and comment accordingly, but I bet the Frenemy can. And then I thought some more, my thighs surely growing ever more taut with every step, how if I were 20 years younger and lived in Brooklyn or wherever the hell you live, surely we'd be friends, and then reminded myself that oh, no, we wouldn't be because I'd be so upset that you were so much better at being me than I was. You are the best me EVER. You are the me that never was.

Can I tell you how unhappy I am that blogging didn't exist when I was twenty-something? Think about that. I was perhaps my most ripe for blogging in 1992, when the Internet (and you) barely existed. But I digress.

Sometimes I think about what I would tell you: For the Frenemy: Lessons I Have Learned. Some are deadly important: (Don't dismiss finding a rich guy; and for that you must keep a tidy purse); some are less so, such as: be prepared, if it hasn't started already, for the urban garden of wiry hairs that will arrive out of nowhere on your upper lip and chin -- they'll be like weeds on the sidewalk. You'll wonder if your friends notice that you have a habit of running your forefinger over the right corner of your upper lip, and you'll hope that they think you're just being thoughtful, but really, you're thinking, Jesus, get me to a bathroom so I can get the tweezers and I really fucking hope I can pull this one out at the root and if I really had it together and were the type who kept a tidy purse I'd also be the type who would get those spiky strays lasered.

But now I have to go because I have to go pick up my son, who is two and I am trying to teach not to pick his nose, much as that is sort of hypocritical of me because more than once I've caught myself picking my nose when I write. Like my subconscious thinks that boogers harbor great ideas.

More soon, I promise.

P.S. Call your mother.