Free A Woman Trapped in a Woman's Body by Lauren Weedman

this time wrapped in a towel, and apologize profusely, “I’m sorry you had to see my naked body before you’ve had a drink. Sorry I’m disgusting. Sorry, I’m a fatty fatty fatty.” I’d continue my rant as I went into the closet/office/second room to dress. “That must suck, always having to see me before I get into the shower, all naked. I know you’re not really turned on by my body. No, wait. You said you like my ankles and my waist. Maybe I can have some operation where they make it so my waist went right into my ankles.”
    When I finally emerged, fully clothed, I kept right on: “Don’t worry! It’s all over! I’m clothed! Just take it easy! You can digest your food now!”
    To which Mathew would respond with a weary, “Lauren, I just want to read the paper.”

    When I complained to my friends about Mathew’s lack of physical attraction to me they would often blame me, citing circumstantial evidence, like how I don’t like to be touched. It’s true, even a hand on my shoulder causes me to jump. And when anyone tries to hug me they can feel me pushing them away. (If that doesn’t keep folks from hugging me, the aggressive and constant patting on the back throughout the whole embrace does the trick.)
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    After a good day and half spent weighing my options (and nursing my freshly waxed butt), I put my profile back up on all the Internet dating sites. Last night’s date was my sixth in two weeks. And it was just as disturbing as the other five. I’ve been holding my pee for the last hour hoping Jay will leave the house. I’m guessing he wants to leave but just can’t make himself without first hearing about how my date went.
    I’m just about to pee in my purse when I hear the front door open and close. Except for Jay’s screeching lovebird, the house is quiet.
    The minute I open my door Jay yells (from the front door, which he’s opened and closed in order to get the show started), “Heyyyy!” and comes pattering down the hallway to catch me. The lovebird is on his head, and all three dogs are running right behind him.
    â€œSo was he better or worse than Bumpy Tongue?” he asks me as he detangles the bird from his hair.

    Bumpy Tongue was Monday night’s date, and the guy last night was actually worse. At one point he told me that he and his friends, who are all white tax accountants, like to “talk black” to each other. He said it like it was their hobby. (“Oh you know, I like model trains and talking black ...”) He referred to Phil, his business partner, as “my nigga.”
    At one point we were walking on the beach and an African American woman passed us. He whispered, thankfully not loud enough for her to hear it, “What’s up, my sistah?”
    â€œUh-oh,” I said, looking at my cell phone, which was turned off.
    â€œWhassssssup?” Snoop Goober Dogg asked.
    â€œWell, the dogs that I’m taking care of have all been spotted running along the 405 headed toward San Diego.” Making up excuses on bad dates felt like the most divorced thing I’d done since standing in line at the courthouse to file my papers.
    In the car on the way home I was dry heaving at the thought of all the things I had told him about myself.
    There seemed no story too personal, shameful, or damning for me to tell. I told him stories that most people would save for their deathbed. At first the obsessive self-divulging was my form of flirtation. It was “I’ll show you mine,” only in the form of “I once took my wedding ring off at a party,” in the hope that he’d show me his. Also, if I told him the worst thing about me, he’d know what he was getting into.

    But once I realized I didn’t want to get into anything past the first drink, I kept talking just to keep him from telling crazy stories about his “crew” down at