Last week, a dear friend and former flame (you know who you are) accused me of writing a blog for "Fat girls with cats." I was furious. First of all, I think that's a line from Season 4 of Ugly Betty--that, or something similar. I don't know why it hurt me so much--I don't write about my wilder exploits because my sister reads this, and so does my daughter, and frankly neither one of them needs to read about my intensely private albeit almost non-existent private life. I'm so circumspect I won't even allow myself to be photographed with a cocktail in my hand. (Teaching license, you know.)
Then I realized something: I'm not a Fat Girl with Cat (no offense to writer Cheryl Peck, whose books "Fat Girls and Lawn Chairs" and "Revenge of the Paste Eaters" are brilliant and some of my favorite reads) but rather, a Former Fat Girl with Dogs. There's a world of difference, and it irked me to no end that this man to whom I had bared my soul, not to mention my uncovered thighs, didn't see it. This probably explains why we don't date.
I wonder if I will ever grow up enough simply to be a person with pets, or in press-speak, "A gifted and stimulating writer whose compassion extends to her collection of rescue animals." I'd write more about the subject, but Duchess and The Emperor need a walk, and I haven't done my morning 5,000 steps yet.
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