If You Want to Look Good, Check This Out

Although I cannot be bothered to wash my face on a daily basis,* I am excited to link to my friend's blog, Ask An Esthetician. She is a licensed esthetician who is giving out excellent (free!) advice on beauty, particularly skin care. I know that most women are not slovenly shlubs like me who wander around with uncombed (albeit usually clean) hair, un-moisturized skin, and legs and armpits that make them look like Chewbacca's midget sister, so I thought I'd do a public service promote her blog.

*Despite this gross habit, my skin is pretty clear. I am not sure why this is since in my pre-teens I was a horrid pizza face on the way to scars that would make Norriega look like a beauty queen. My mom insisted that I go to a dermatologist even though I protested, and the antibiotics he prescribed made a huge difference. (Thanks, Mom!)

After years of happy skin, I was covered with cyst-like zits in my early 20s. Another dermatologist gave me drugs, which did not work well, and he said I should consider Acutane as an option. No fucking way was I going on Acutane. In addition to requiring me to take birth control pills (which I was on anyway) and submit to regular pregnancy testing because it is so dangerous to fetal development, and cause hair and skin to fall out in chunks, it could cause people with depressive tendencies to commit suicide. I told him I'd rather be zitty than dead and fleshless.

Survey on Grooming Habits

I found the following message in my in-box:

Schlesinger Associates is currently looking for females to participate in a paid online discussion on the topic of Razors from September 23-27. For this study we'll ship you a Creative Vado Pocket Video Camera (yours to keep upon completion) to record and post your responses to a secure website. It'll only take you 20-30 minutes each day for a total of about 90 minutes of your time, all from the comfort of your home! At the completion of the study, you'll receive $65 in compensation, in addition to the video camera.

Normally, I wouldn't bother responding to a focus group that pays less than $100, but the free video camera made up for the low pay. OK, that's a lie. I really, really, really, really wanted to talk about shaving. Honestly, I couldn't wait to fill the market researchers' ears with my insane rants about the tyranny of the blade. Plus the opportunity to film myself shaving struck me as hilarious. I might have done a focus group like this for free.

I took the qualification online survey. The last question was, "How often do you shave your legs?" Options were (I'm paraphrasing here, except for options a, d, and e):

a) six or more times per week
b) something less than six but more than once
c) once a week
d) once a month
e) less than once a month
f) I never shave my legs

I debated how to answer. If I average my shaving over the course of a year, it probably comes to about once a month, so that's what I chose. I sort of wanted to pick a, though. The next screen said sorry, but I did not qualify. What a lost opportunity!

Merry Xmas

Husband and I are departing today for our fabulous road trip up the coast of California. As I finalized our itinerary on Sunday night, I realized the difference between arrangements Husband made and those that I took care of.

He booked lodging in Santa Monica, Santa Barbara, Sacramento, and San Francisco. Three of the four hotels he reserved rooms in are free, thanks to his extensive travels for work and the points that he racks up while traveling and charging everything on his Starwood awards credit card. The hotel in San Francisco is particularly over the top - the St. Regis! When Steph, who is meeting us in San Francisco and staying with us, heard what hotel we'd be at, she wondered if they'd even let us (me and Steph, that is - Husband will be fine) in their luxurious halls. Then we laughed maniacally.

It was not until I checked out the hotel website last night that I realized that this might not be a joke. Damn, that place is swank! It even has an indoor pool. Steph said she was glad that I gave her time to de-fur herself, which is when it occurred to me that if I am to frolic in its waters, I should probably shave off my overcoat as well.

I found us a place to stay in Big Sur. It involves yurts.

The Mad Hatter

As an American Jew with Eastern European origins, I am pretty damn pale. I also have very dark hair on my arms and legs (if I don't shave the gams, which usually don't, but did recently so I could wear a skirt to work), not to mention my pits and nether regions, and increasingly, my chinny chin chin. I decided that the dark hair is nature's way of protecting me from the sun. Other people have pigment and melanin, I have lots of dark hair for the rays to penetrate before giving me skin cancer. It's almost ingenious, except that I do not really have enough hair on my face, neck, shoulders, chest, and back to wander about uncovered without endangering my supple and youthful skin. (Uh huh.) So it's either sunscreen, which I hate on my face because I swear I constantly feel it, or a large hat.

After discovering yesterday that wandering around the Upper West Side does looking like Little Bo Peep in a wide brim straw hat with black ribbons that tie under my chin does not deter people from asking me for directions (perhaps if I had taken Missy's suggestion and ate the strawberries in my cooler/"basket" while walking around and sweating profusely, that would make me scarier, not that I mind if people ask me for directions), I wore a different hat this morning. I figured that the good people of the south Bronx are significantly more likely to mock me while I walk down the street to work than the batty old ladies wearing similar hats in my neighborhood. My blue fisherman-style hat (reversible to orange!) is also ridiculous, but it does have the Mets logo on it since I got it free last year at a Mets game. The orange side (which I never wear facing out - I'm a winter, and I learned in the modeling class that I took at the community center when I was in 4th grade that winters should never, ever wear orange!) also has a gas company logo, but on the blue side, I glued a Cubs patch over the Gulf patch so that I could show my dual team love. It's awesome.

Anyway, by the time I arrived at work, I was a sweaty mess, and I was sure that I would have a vile case of hat head that would be hard do fix once the sweat dried into a hair-spray like substance. I immediately ran to the bathroom and looked in the mirror to fix things up. To my surprise, my hair actually looked better than it did before I put the hat on and left my apartment. Go figure.

Springtime is For Shearing Sheep and Women

I posted an essay about shaving my legs and arm pits over at BlogHer today. It's one of the best essays I think I've written in a while. (It's weird how the MFA application process sapped my writing inspiration and abilities for a few months.) Synopsis: When I was young and idealistic, I didn't shave my legs or arm pits as a political statement and way to rebel again patriarchal beauty standards. Now that I am old and cynical, I don't shave my legs or arm pits because I am lazy, but this makes me embarrassed in public, so now I am stuck with the razor during the revealing months of spring and summer. Good times.

Birthplace of Democracy

When I voted in Tuesday's primary, I felt like I did my part for democracy, rather than what we've had for the past two presidential administrations, which is democrazy. While I believe that Sen. Clinton's health plan is superior to Sen. Obama's, I also think that Clinton is a candidate I don't entirely trust. Of course, she's far better than any of the Republican candidates and I will do everything I can to make sure she is our next president if she is the Democratic nominee, but today I cast my vote for Obama. I think he would make a fine president.

However, if in November, we do somehow wind up with another four years of Republican theocracy (theocrazy?) and fiscal corruption, I am moving to an island in Greece. Why an island in Greece? I wish I could say it is because I want to return the roots of Western civilization or something profound like that, but the truth is that I am obsessed with Greek yogurt. Until my friend Mara introduced me to it in early December, I had no idea that yogurt could be so thick and rich. Not to harp on my pudding obsession, but seriously, Greek yogurt is like yogurt pudding. To live among a people who produce such amazing yogurt would be an honor.

Also, I really love feta cheese. This actually makes a lot of sense because I am a Capricorn (aka The Goat), and as the nutty talk show host Mike said to me this summer, "Beavers suckle beavers; sheep suckle sheep. Why should babies drink formula?" Of course, that sentence just me laugh at the time, but now I see its truth: as a human goat, I obviously prefer items made from goat milk. (There's an extremely icky path we can also go down here about making cheese from human milk, but let's not.)

Not understanding Greek is going to be a large obstacle for me, but really, when learning any foreign language, it's all Greek to me. (yuk yuk.) I'll fit right in amongst the furry goats and hairy people anyway. While my dream of living on a goat farm in Greece is tempting, if not extremely smelly, I really do hope that it does not come to fruition. Let's go Obama! It's time for change in the US.

Husband and the Furry Guy

I told Husband all about my wacky time in the sex shop with Des on Thursday evening, including how the store sells a mesh tank top for men.

"You would look like a furry animal caught in a net if you wore that," I giggled.

Husband made his exasperated/indignant/mortified face, which involves frowning intensely while narrowing his eyes and jutting his chin forward. "It's not funny. I am a furry dolphin!"

"Caught in a tuna net?" I laughed.

"Obviously!" He batted his eyelashes and sighed.

I do so adore him.

A few days ago, I read a blog post somewhere (my brain is beyond fried, so I have no idea where, sorry) about how women want to be taken seriously and not judged solely based on their looks. This statement made a lot of sense to me. Then I read one of the comments, in which the writer begged to differ that women don't want to be objectified. Compelling evidence was presented in the number of plastic surgery procedures conducted on women each year. When I read that, I sighed because I can't really disagree with that point entirely.

Sure, there are a lot of reasons why women undergo plastic surgery. Even I submitted to the knife, although it had nothing to do with how I looked. (Only plastic surgeons do breast reduction procedures and I needed to unload half my chest before my damn shoulders and back caved in from the weight dragging me down in front. I honestly thought I would look worse after the surgery. I'm happy that I was wrong.) Can we really separate out the effects of living in a world that so values feminine beauty and sexiness (demonstrated by only a very small variety of body types) with someone wanting plastic surgery for her own self-esteem? I don't know. For example, there are a number of women I know who chose to get breast surgery after having a baby so that they could look like they did before pregnancy changed their bodies. That doesn't strike me as buying into some beauty myth since they were just trying to return to themselves.

It's hard not to want to look good in a world that places so much value on looking good. While I put about zero effort into my appearance, it doesn't mean that I don't obsess about it, too. I know that I will never have a flat stomach and lean thighs. It is just not my body type, and wrangling myself into a shape that is unnatural for me would mean that I could never eat ice cream, cake, or cheese. No thanks. At the same time, I cringe when I look at my "big" hips in the mirror or when I notice my bulging thighs when I am sitting down. I don't care enough to wear make-up, shave my legs, do my hair, or strut in high heels let alone get plastic surgery, but I'd be lying if I said that I don't want to be considered attractive.

Are there any women out there who don't worry about their looks? Do women care much more about how they look than men? Statistics tell us that increasingly this is not the case. Still, I have to agree with both the blog poster (we want to be judged on our abilities) and the commenter (we want to be objectified). We live in a world that splits women in half. What we want and what we can achieve within its social structures make us schizo. As a result, generally, most women want to be judged for their abilities and objectified. It's fucked up.

More Beaver Suckling

From now on, I pledge to say, "This suckles beavers," rather than,"This sucks," when things are not going well. When I was in college and people pissed me off, I used to scream out, "Suck my big fat clit!" This always brought out some reaction, often laughter, and the situation was diffused. Shock and amuse - that's my motto.

Yesterday, Sara/Farf gave me a tank top that says, "My Bush could do a better job." I wear it with pride as I set off for the Jersey Shore this morning. (Yes, I know I just got back from Chicago.) If anyone gives me gump about it (last year some douche bag told me that I should "thank Bush for making this country safer" when he saw me wearing my "Bush is a Tush" t-shirt that is now too small on me), I plan to tell them to, "Suckle my big fat beaver." In preparation for the beach, I did manage to shave my pits and lower legs. Board shorts that reach my knees take care of the rest, so the bikini line is untouched. Yay.

Speaking of beavers, Husband, Rebecca, and I watched Alex Elliot on our DVR. Our jaws dropped wider and wider as we watched Mike and Juliet, who are seriously the dumbest TV show hosts on the planet. Worse, Juliet is completely inarticulate. The show suckles beavers, although once again, let me iterate how awesome Alex was on TV.

I'm Gonna Be Rich!

I'm sitting in a workshop on how to monetize your blog. Advice I received thus far is to use key words that will lead lots of people to my site (e.g. - "Jewish pussy"), then cleverly blend paid links and ads into my site. If I follow this advice, I will become a wealthy blogger and a fine pillar of the porn industry. How exciting is that?

On top of that, some people who sat at my table for lunch tried to convince me to do affiliate selling. That means when I complain about Brazilian waxes, readers will be able to click on ads for home snatch wax kits or pubic hair dye! Isn't that awesome!

The downside is that the blog pimping session led me to realize that Blogger templates are motherfucking (see? I'm using a key word! If only I had a paid link to people who fuck mothers, I'd make $1!) impossible to customize, so unless I switch to another format, we'll more or less be keeping the pepto pink. So it goes.

Given my options, I will leave the moneymaking to Husband. He likes that shit anyway. My life is definitely too hairy for all that. Ha ha.

Hell is Just Around the Corner, I Think

It's not just the state of the world which makes me think that hell is just around the corner. (No, if it were solely politics and such, it would be clear that we already live in some outer ring of hell.) A few weeks ago, I said it was hot here. I was wrong. Not a clue as to what I was talking about. Because it is so fucking hot here right now that I swear the dry hairs on my legs could serve as tinder and spontaneously burst into flames in my jeans. That would suck.

In order to prevent barbecuing myself, I was forced into drastic measures. I acknowledged that I could not wear jeans without making myself swoon. Then, I shaved my legs. I figured if they could become inflamed in my pants, I probably was not much safer with them exposed to the elements. Because it is that fucking hot out.

High Up on a Ridge

While waiting to get a table at the infamous Rendezvous BBQ restaurant in downtown Memphis (1/2 a block from our hotel, but not 1/2 a mile from the Mississippi Bridge as far as I know), I felt something fluttering my nape. Swatting at it, I knocked what appeared to be a roach to the ground. Then someone stepped on it (not on purpose; they were just walking along) and its guts squished out. Yeah, that made me really hungry.

Actually, it's a nice metaphor for my feelings about Memphis thus far. It is a fun city, with so much to see and do, and yet there's a side to it that is disgusting. For example, Confederate Park and the statue of Jefferson Davis. Jefferson Davis is not a hero. He is a traitor. He led a group of traitors who defied the Constitution and seceded from the US. According to the Constitution, he should have been killed when caught. Instead, this betrayal is celebrated throughout the South as if it is not something people should be ashamed of. Southern heritage, in my mind, is as horrific as Nazi heritage. At least the Germans are smart enough to be mortified by their past actions.

Not that I think the North is better when it comes to racism. My hometown of Chicago has a vile racist past and remains the most segregated city in the US today. In New York City, my current home, I read infuriating accounts of police harassment of people of color. A memoir I just read, "Jesus Land," documents thoroughly the sick mentality of ignorant people in Indiana. So no, I am not saying the North is perfect. However, I also don't see statues and monuments to people who dedicated their lives to preserving institutions of hate and bias any where in the North. We don't deify these people, even if we aren't honest about ourselves, either.

Anyway, now that I am all worked up and frothing at the mouth, I am excited to be leaving for Graceland in a few minutes. Nothing is as soothing to the soul as Elvis's jumpsuit collection and ingesting a fried PB, banana, & honey sandwich on the premises. Then we are off to the Civil Rights Museum, which is in the historic Lorraine Motel where MLK Jr. was assassinated. It sounds like it will be a transformative experience, and just the honest look at racism and discrimination in the US that I want more of.

Laziness Pays

New York City is enveloped in sauna steam. Everywhere I go, I must use my mental machete to cut paths through the heavy air. Buckets of sweat ooze from me. If anyone had the urge to interview me for a news program, I would certainly not agree to do it outside. Even if I didn't wear sunglasses, my sweatiness would make me look guilty.

Tuesday night I sat around my apartment reminding myself that I should shave my legs and pits so that I could wear a cute navy sleeveless dress with beige stitching to my big meeting at work in the morning. Hours later, I still had not touched either my razor or my electric depilatory machine thing that removes hair with dozens of rotating tweezers that supposedly yank hairs out by the root so I needn't bother with shaving again for weeks, but it never lasts longer than a few days. Pants and a blouse were thus donned Wednesday morning.

My laziness wound up to be beneficial, as a few minutes into the meeting, a woman wearing the exact dress I had planned to wear waltzed into the room. I breathed a sigh of relief. How awful would it have been if there were two of us in the same dress?!?! You know how women are; the whole meeting would have bombed, and thousands New York City's children would continue to be deprived of quality child care. Ha.

At the end of the successful session, I approached my middle-aged wardrobe twin.

"My laziness prevented us from an awkward situation," I began and told my tale.

She laughed. "Well, there aren't too many options for us petite women out there. I have a colleague who has all the clothes I do. When I know we have a meeting, I make sure I don't wear anything from Ann Taylor."

Now I know that we will pull off the new child care system. People with such extensive planning skills can achieve anything.

Fans of a Hairy Situation

Last night during a minor fit of insomnia, I discovered that CUSS is referenced on an English language French chat room dedicated to the sexiness of hairy women. (The person who linked to CUSS was a little disappointed that I don't write more about unshaved snatch, but recommended it nonetheless. Whoever you are, email me for stickers!) This discovery amused me to no end, although it did not help me sleep.

On a related note, it is hot as balls here in New York, and I considered shaving my pits and legs so that I can wear a sleeveless dress to my consulting gig without looking "unprofessional." The folks who like us furry ladies will be happy to know that I didn't get around to it. They will also be disappointed that I will refrain from exposing myself to the general public as a result.

This also reminds me that Dr. P suggested that we use the pool in her complex while I was helping her move. I didn't pack my bathing suit and board shorts (which go down to my knees, thank you) as I didn't think we'd have time for frolicking (I turned out to be right, sort of). Dr. P said I could borrow one of hers. To which I refrained from reminding her that her neighbors might go blind if I were to go out in public in a normal suit, and I didn't think we had five hours to spare so I could make myself more presentable to the general American public.

There's no point to this post. I just felt like I should write something about not shaving. Hope the random anecdotes entertained at least a bit.

Preparing to Meet My (Book) Maker

There is a closet-size designer boutique a few blocks away from my apartment that sells utterly adorable little outfits. Since they are utterly adorable designer outfits, the prices are not remotely adorable. But they have blow out sales at the end of the season, and that is when I scooped this rockin' suit up for 40% off, although mine has a skirt instead of pants.

By then I had been unemployed for several months, so I had no where to wear it. I bided my time. Thursday, May 31, the day was right.

Scorching sun and high humidity blessed us New Yorkers. I thought a cutesy skirt suit would convey to Publisher that I was a Serious Author, yet also fun. The only problem? I had to shave my legs to wear it. Sometimes you just gotta make sacrifices for the greater purpose, you know.

Later, I called Agent Friend and said something about wearing a suit.

"You wore a suit?" he asked.

"Um, was I not supposed to? I knew I should have called you and asked!" Panic rapidly set in. I hoped I didn't blow my chances by being a stiff.

"Most authors just show up in a shorts and flip-flops, so I think that was good."

"Well, it was a creative looking suit," I explained.

He was still impressed by my fanciness. He should've seen me in a sari. (Foreshadowing...)

Living La Virtual Vida Barbie? Loca!

As I recently confessed, I was not always an unshaved, misanthropic feminist. Nope. Back in the day, I was a fat nerd hiding from the onset of puberty and playing with my Barbies while the other 4th graders at my school experimented with dating and read stolen copies of their dads' Playboy magazines. Sure, my Barbies were horny gals out for some action with my one Ken doll, but isn't that more innocent than me being a horny 10 year old looking for ass? I think so. The point is, I loved Barbie.

Hence it is ironic that I was sent by Bugaboo magazine yesterday to cover the global launch of Mattel's new Barbie product, Barbie girls. I admit that I was eager to see what sort of sexist stew they had concocted to feed our kids. I wasn't disappointed, at least in the sense that they lived up to my lowest expectations. From the press release (which I am pleased to note they distributed on USB ports):

NEW YORK CITY (April 26, 2007) –Today, Mattel unveiled the next generation of fashion doll play with Barbie Girls™, an unparalleled, hybrid play experience that blends fashion, music and an online virtual world. Representing the true evolution of what today’s girl loves and opening the door to how tomorrow’s girl will play, Barbie Girls™ fuses the best of virtual and real life for a fresh, new experience. At launch this week, Barbie Girls™ first comes to life via www.BarbieGirls.com, the first global, virtual online world designed exclusively for girls. At BarbieGirls.com girls can create their own virtual character, design their own “room,” shop at the mall, play games, hang out and chat live with other girls. In July, Barbie Girls™ will take shape in the real world with a sleek, handheld, 4 ½ -inch portable device that serves as a music player and fashion statement-in-one, while also unlocking new content within BarbieGirls.com.

According to the Chief Barbie Girl's presentation at the launch, girls today love music, shopping, and being online. A group of hired minions – er, I mean "real girls" – stood around shouting out their agreement at this statement, and as Chief Barbie Girl walked us through the virtual world that is supposed to represent tomorrow's girl, they kept whooping their approval at all the "cute outfits and cute accessories and cute pets" that a girl can virtually acquire by watching "movies" (aka commercials) on the Pepto pink site. (OK, I probably shouldn't criticize the color, but CUSS's Pepto is irony, damn it!) The games offered on the site, which also help a girl earn virtual dollars which she can then spend on clothes and furniture, involve painting digital fingernails and giving Ken a makeover. I detected nothing game-like in this.

The point of all this is that Mattel either believes that girls only care about shopping, fashion, and looking good while hanging out with friends online, or they are reminding girls that obviously this is what they should care about. Even the virtual park is for hanging out, not for playing soccer or running or anything sporty. Need I mention that the Barbie girl avatars look like Bratz, but without the thongs? Oy. As for the Barbie girls MP3 player, well, Barbie's finally an official 'Pod person. (Ha! I kill me.)

Of course, I will write a nice little blurb about the product in Bugaboo. My interviews with minions – er, I mean "real girls" – (ages 10 and 11) will appear at BlogHer in early May. (They made me want to poke my eyes out in despair for the future.) At least they don't spell "girls" with a "z," right? Also, they had some great fucking food at the launch. Not that real Barbie girls eat mini sandwiches with cheese (the horror!), but I put the Barbie-as-surrogate-Suzanne away a long time ago, so I stuffed my face most unceremoniously.

Another Deep, Dark Suzanne Secret

I loved Barbies when I was a kid. I played with them until I was 10 or 11, when other girls in my school had given up on dolls already and gone on to dating. I was in no way, shape, or form ready to handle real relations with boys, so I retreated into my little Barbie world. They put on pretty clothes and dated and had sex with Ken. In retrospect, it was sort of a proto-Bachelor situation, since there was only one guy and lots of ladies clamoring for him. I personally continued being a nerd. Life was good.

Ironically, although I loved gussying Barbie up and pimping her out, when it came to my life, I realized quickly that I hated heels, tight clothes, and makeup. I also was one of those no-sex-until-marriage types (shocking, I know) until I was 16 or 17. I left high school still a virgin. And I'm a hairy legged feminist to this day. In fact, as I leave for Florida for my writing retreat, I am gleeful that Minnie long ago suggested that I wear board shorts over my bathing suit so that I needn't worry about shaving the old bikini line. (I am not into shaving snatch, but I am also not into pubes hanging out of bathing suits. It's the worst damned if you do, damned if you don't situation a curmudgeonly vacationer faces...)

Two Peas in an Extremely Out of Place Pod

I must bring attention to a comment that my mom left on my post about being uncivilized:

Suz, remember when I chaperoned your 7th grade dancing lessons? It was right before the holidays, and Vanessa's mother requested I dress up and wear a skirt. My response:"That will be fine if you want to see my hairy legs!" Bottom line- I wore pants.

Incidentally, Vanessa’s mother was a former Miss Illinois who lived in a mansion. (A lot of kids who went to my school lived in manse-like estates, though.)

I think this comment explains so much about me, but let me say more because it also explains the community in which I grew up. The “7th grad dancing lessons” my mom refers to were known as “social dancing” (and I swear it was in 6th grade, not 7th – I shall confer with the Sauce, who I have been chums with since 4th grade, about this). It involved teaching the eager adolescents of Marie Murphy Junior High School important things like the cha cha, fox trot, and some other stuff I forgot/blocked out of my mind. It was not taught as part of gym class, but as an evening class that cost money. You had to go, though. Even the Sauce signed up. It was the whacked out social event of the year. (Which is why I think it was 6th grade, not 7th. By 7th grade, the bar/bat mitzvah circuit opened up and a new type of social event of the year took place. By 8th grade, the bar/bat mitvah circuit was been-there-done-that, but I digress.) If you didn’t go, you were ostracized. In my case, I was ostracized anyway, so I might as well have saved the money and not gone. Nothing like standing around and not even getting asked to cha cha by the nerd boys, not even your kindergarten crush and fellow outcast who has gone on to Hollywood. Oh la la. (Someday I’ll post the hilarious picture I have of us slow dancing at my bat mitzvah. Gotta get it from home to scan.)

Surely you are now wondering two things: what was a nice Jewish girl like Suzanne doing at a Catholic school and why did this Catholic school have a bar/bat mitvah circuit? And that’s the rub: Marie Murphy Junior High School only sounded like and functioned like a small parochial school. It was really a public school in which the preppy community treated like a private school. When my mom suggested that she not wear a skirt unless people wanted to see her hairy legs, I am surprised that they subsequently let her serve as a chaperone. I mean, what kind of role model would she be? Further, my mom was pretty much the only mom who went out in public wearing sweat pants. Maybe other moms would be caught dead in a coordinated jogging suit, but not likely. Only Jewish white trash would not think twice about something as horrifying as hairy legs and sweatpants.

Now you see how I turned out this way. Thankfully. And I can still dance a mean cha cha, so I guess social dancing was not a total waste of funds.