If I Were You

I am a former supermodel but was ousted from the industry. Other models complained that I was underweight therefore a poor example for young girls. Further their jealousy was fueled by feedback regarding my work which unanimously concluded that my features are enviably classic my complexion like a fairy's brow dusted with sugar and my eyes portals to Eden. Okay seriously. My mom did some work as a model. I look exactly like my Dad. It was Nature's mistake. I've made a lot of mistakes too. My high school yearbook is filled with anecdotes beginning with Remember the night you had to get a skin graft on your tongue? or I'll never forget the time you used a lighter to get rid of your underarm hair. My utter lack of forethought has rendered me supremely qualified to deliver written guidance on avoiding life's catastrophes. The following is a bit of counsel from If I Were You a humorous survival manual for women. First stay off your back. Mom's Cow and Free Milk lecture has merit despite its correlation between women and barn chattel. And I'm not judging. I too am guilty of premarital shall we say lactation. Speaking of ill-timed amour what is with this cougar thing? Since when is Mrs. Robinson a rallying anthem for suburban moms? Those kitties should consider the variables. For example: Will a pregnancy-scare send the boy-toy running? Of course in this case it's probably just menopausal onset. When I was a kid our mothers were suitably sexually irrelevant. They wore Hillary Clinton-esque pant suits or baggy sweatshirts with huge Tigger and Eeyore appliqués. They didn't parade their Pilates-honed figures around our boyfriends. I'm just saying...