Apocalypse Now-ish?

Hi there, Lovelies. How the hell are you?

Soaringly anxious? Justifiably outraged? Feeling like we’re living in a Cormac McCarthy novel and in much need of levity? Maybe you feel like shouting, “NICE try, Coronavirus… I was already crazy and out of shape before you came along.” Perhaps you’re experiencing an inaugural epic WFH fail… and accidentally texted a colleague your entire household grocery list and told him to make sure to get tampons.

Alas, there are still some good things in the world…

Give author Sara Benincasa’s new Apple podcast, Well, This Isn’t Normal a listen.  Her book Agorafabulous!: Dispatches From My Bedroom is also a riotous, relatable gem for this new era we’ve entered.

WTIN

Speaking of eras, Dan Chiasson’s thoughtful meditation on our shifting sense of time during the Coronavirus gave this girl comfort as well.

You might also like Dr. Kathleen Smith’s fab newsletter The Anxious Overachiever… it’s crazy-practical and actionable. She’s my favorite stressed-out therapist these days.

If you need some funny… Dave Pell’s piece on McSweeney’s FAMOUS LINES OF POETRY REVISED FOR THE AGE OF CORONAVIRUS is such a chuckle.

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If you’re one of those folks who has to keep moving to stay sane but are now quietly panicking in the linen closet, this is a wonder of an online community: My Peak Challenge with a new Daily Social Distancing Workout.

Lastly, if you’re feeling a bit randy, check out this thoughtful piece by Elyse Martin on How a Book of Medieval Sex Tales Can Help us Through the Pandemic…

Ok, that’s what I got… Stay safe and stay home, Lovelies – xoxo – gg

Girl Swallows Sun

Hello, Lovelies, How the hell are you?

I think Sara Benincasa called it correctly yesterday. There is nothing sexier than a French fireman rescuing art. Between, the accent, the bravery, and the overall cultural redemption… serious swoon.

In 2015, my facial nerves were severed. No more feeling, no smile—only a smirk after many months of ridiculous face push-ups. I remember wanting to feel a kiss so badly. I’d watch husbands, wives, and lovers at school drop-off and just long. Perched on my stoop, full of pins and plates, I’d close my eyes and imagine a man kissing me on the very sexy-ticklish spot where my earlobe becomes my neck. I’d feel the bristle of his well-trimmed scruff against my cheek. My face, unafraid, cradled in his hands, the laughing play of whispered jokes. The warmth of lips would always become this girl-swallows-sun glow I’d carry around all day.

It’s been four years since I’ve felt a kiss.

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I’ve almost started forgetting that it’s even possible, which means I mourn it less. Last week on the anniversary of the beastly day, friends took me to lunch for an amazing re-birth-day. For the last few years, I’ve regarded the date itself with a mix of superstition, gratitude, and regret. Somehow, this approach and comedy have saved my rag and bone hiney, but yesterday, watching Notre Dame burn amid the quiet shock and then the hymns, I re-remembered love and missed it deep in my bones. I’d been in love there once.

I would like a French fireman, please? Preferably one who reads?

French Firemen

Thanks to those of you who wrote in to tell me I had Trump hair. Arya Stark voice back at you: A girl has toner…  and a list. But don’t get me started on that despicable Cheeto.

Stay rad, Lovelies – xoxo – gg