Recently, for an important meeting, I wore what I thought looked professional: a beige sweater set, a black straight skirt, and pearls. But I felt like a douchebag.
I don't have to worry if my clavicles gleam like Kate Moss's, because the collar of my shirt covers them. I don't have to compare my thighs to Gwyneth Paltrow's, since I cover them with a properly fitting skirt that covers my knees.
Before I ate the pizza, I was content and generally rocking out at life. By pizza meal number three, I was convinced that I was the biggest professional failure to ever grace the blog-o-sphere.
How is it possible to marry someone without a test drive of ye olde chemistry? What if he turned out to be a slobbery kisser and a dead fish, and I was stuck with him for life?
I won't eat pizza slices with toppings other than plain cheese because I think that the vegetables could harbor more pathogens than plain cheese pizza. I know. It's kind of bonkers.
When you slam Orthodox Jews because you think you're defending or somehow liberating the women of our communities, you're actually doing us a huge disservice.
Chemical deodorant allows us to feel like superior beings -- like people who have the power to transcend our grody natures. It's a smidge of enlightenment packaged in a plastic tube.