Free Has Anyone Seen My Pants? by Sarah Colonna Page A

to tell me to send the flowers and disagreed that it had any kind of negative impact on our blossoming (pun intended) relationship.
    “He probably doesn’t even think about it,” Tara chimed in. I wasn’t sure if that was good or bad, but I hoped she was correct.
    Eager to show off my ability to travel like a big girl, I booked a huge suite at the Four Seasons. Fuck it; I’d been working my ass off. At this point I’d been out of town almost every weekend and my personal life was still suffering. I couldn’t meet men when I was on the road. I couldn’t “hook up” with guys I met at my shows; I didn’t want that kind of reputation. However, I could fly up to San Francisco and let a Major League Baseball player put it in me (by “it,” I mean “his penis”). Plus, I was pretty sure the only people who would know about my slutty adventure would be the friends I told, and I wasn’t telling many. I suppose this chapter kind of ruins that theory, but I’m trying to paint a picture for you guys of what this certain period of my life was like, okay ?
    Steph’s statement about “a ton of twentysomething-year-old girls after him” stuck in my head. I needed to compete with more than just my pretty-decent income. I needed to pull out the big guns.
    So I booked a series of body wraps.
    The woman at the spa I made the appointments with was a little crazy, in a good way . . . whatever that means—I think it’s some sort of compliment.
    Body-Wrap Lady poured me tea, measured my body fat, and made me drink alkalizers. I didn’t know what an alkalizer was; it sounded like something you’d use to measure your blood-alcohol content. Actually, I didn’t know what any of the stuff she was having me ingest was or what it was supposed to do, but she seemed to think it would make me thinner, and she was the pro, so I drank it.
    She wrapped me in towels that were soaked in some sort of detox concoction and talked to me about what I was “holding on to” in my body that made me feel bloated. She got very philosophical about things and during each appointment I shed water weight in both sweat and tears. The tears came when she would diagnose some sort of mental or emotional block in me that caused my body to “grab on to fat and never let go,” but they probably had more to do with the fact that it was like one hundred and forty degrees underneath all the towels.
    I ended up spilling my guts to her; I figured why hold back secrets with someone who had seen me completely naked, covered my body in a charcoal scrub, and wrapped every inch of me like a mummy?
    After hearing all the details I could remember while suffering from heatstroke, Body-Wrap Lady told me I was being too assertive with Baseball Player. She said he couldn’t feel likea man if I was flying myself around and putting myself up in a hotel.
    WAIT, WHAT?
    This was the opposite of what Tara and Steph told me. So I explained to her that I was showing him I could do my own thing, unlike the twentysomethings who were chasing him around. She shook her head and said, “A man still has to feel like a man.”
    She suggested I take photos of different parts of my body—like my leg and the “sexy” part of my arm (wherever that is)—then tell him there was “more to see” when I met him in the hotel.
    This sounded kind of fun, and it didn’t involve a picture of my boobs or my Tweaky (I started calling it that when I was six years old). So that night I put on a little black dress and a pair of heels and attempted to take a sexy shot of my leg. But with every photo, I found a weird freckle or angle that I didn’t think was sexy. I tried to hike my leg up into a really flattering position and fell over, landing directly on the iron I had used on the little black dress just moments before, which was still scalding hot. Now I had a burn the shape of an iron on my ass and not one sexy photo to send.
    Mission aborted. I decided Body-Wrap Lady was good for losing