"I have a confession," I say, the second I sit in her chair.

"Okay..."

"See, I trimmed my own bangs. And totally screwed them up."

"It's not so bad," she begins, until I spread my bangs, which I've swept to the side, across my forehead to reveal the damage.

She gasps. Other people turn to see why she has made such a horrified noise. And then she starts to laugh.

"I know, right? It's TERRIBLE! I just...I tried to cut them fancy like you do, and this is what happened! You make it look so easy, but clearly there is true skill involved."

She's still laughing. The kind that involves bending over at the waist and sucking in air between guffaws. People turn to look again.

"I kept thinking I could fix it, and so I kept cutting," I explain.

"Oh, honey, that's the worst thing you can do."

"Yeah. I get that now."

She inspects the carnage more closely. "What's this one really long piece at the side?"

"Oh, well that strand somehow evaded the snipping. Which was fortunate, because I've been pulling it over here to hide the rest. A bang combover, if you will."

She starts laughing again.

"I thought about calling you for an appointment after I did this, but I figured there wouldn't be much you could do to fix it."

"No, I couldn't have done anything. Except laugh."

"Yeah, and my husband already had that covered."

Just trimmed the hair that hangs over my eyes all fancy like my stylist does, snipping somewhat randomly at strange angles. Now thinking perhaps there was an actual method to her madness, a method I missed, because I now have bangs that weren't there before. Notched, blunt bangs. With a bit of a gap in one place.

Fuck.

As Rob and I sit on the beach, I begin pointing out beautiful women. "She's gorgeous," I say, nodding my head toward a woman walking past us.

As Rob follows my gaze, I notice another woman walking through the water in a dark bikini. "There's a woman who definitely belongs in a bikini," I say. "Look at her."

"I can't believe I'm checking out women on the beach with my wife," Rob says.

"I love checking out women," I say, shrugging. Of course, he knows this. Usually I'm pointing out a woman's shoes or cute top, but sometimes I'll remark on a particularly nice butt or, like today, the whole package. The female figure is a beautiful thing to behold, and being a heterosexual woman doesn't make me unaware of that. In a similar way I appreciate the sleek strut of a cat, moving its perfect proportions with a touch of prissiness.

We're still staring at the woman in the dark bikini.

"That's an hourglass figure," Rob says, in a way that suggests he's never before seen a more definitive example. Neither have I.

"I don't understand how she can have such a small waist," I say, "and yet still be so voluptuous at top and bottom."

"She's not really voluptuous," Rob disagrees.

"No, you're right. But her ass isn't flat, and she's got good boobs." I'm making an unspoken comparison to myself - my curves are considerably straighter than hers.

We pause in our commentary for a moment, and then Rob adds, "Her butt is tan."

I look at him quizzically, this comment seeming a bit random. "Why do you say that? I mean, it is. But why are you pointing it out?"

"Compared to you, I mean. She's tan all over. And you...you're whiter in some places."

"Well, she's probably been here all week." There is a touch of defensiveness in my voice. "If I'd been here all week, I'd be tan all over, too."

"Oh, I know. I was just making a comparison."

I raise an eyebrow at this. "I didn't realize we were making comparisons."

He is smart enough not to respond.

"In that case," I continue, "she has long hair. There's a comparison. Also? She has a big-muscled man."

And so ends our babe watching. We stick to admiring the view of the ocean for the rest of the day.

I've never been a woman who claims PMS. As a teenager, I thought girls who sighed heavily and then said with a grumpy pout, "I have PMS" were melodramatic. As a woman, I consider it pathetic to play the PMS card. The symptoms may be legitimate, but there is no need to throw them about as an excuse for everything from missing work to being a bitch to everyone who walks by. (Not that there's anything wrong with being a bitch - but embrace it, for pete's sake. Don't make excuses.) I just think this makes us all look bad. It furthers a stereotype I'm not comfortable with, one with which I'm associated just because of my gender. In school I remember being enraged when some boy would mutter "PMSing" about a female student or teacher who happened to be in a bad mood. But I wasn't annoyed at his immaturity as much as I was frustrated with the women who've made that an acceptable assumption.

I feel the same way about crying. There is nothing wrong with crying, for men or women. But because crying is considered stereotypically female, and negatively so, we absolutely cannot use it intentionally for our own gain. And I feel the need to guard more carefully against it in public situations, even when it is sincere. There's a scene in Sex and the City that perfectly illustrates my view on this. Samantha loses a potential client because he does not want to hire a woman. Her reaction - to cry, out of anger and at the injustice of it - is perfectly acceptable. But she waits until she has the privacy of the elevator before she allows herself to break down. Because she knows that to cry in front of this man is to further the very stereotype that caused her to lose the job.

I've cried in public once. I was in high school, and the moment caught me completely by surprise. Something had happened during lunch that was emotionally intense. I knew I wasn't responsible for the issues of the other person involved, and so it hadn't upset me all that much. But it was intense, and when I walked into biology class right after lunch and saw my closest girlfriends, I just burst into tears, in front of everyone. My friends escorted me to the bathroom. (I know, right? Talk about a female stereotype.) When I returned to class, completely composed, the male teacher was clearly uncomfortable with how to handle me. We were taking a test that day, and he came to my desk and gently whispered, "Do...do you need a pencil, or anything?" I glanced pointedly at the pencil I was holding in my hand and replied, "No. I'm fine." At the time I found it amusing, and maybe even a little bit sweet, that he seemed so concerned about me, that he acted as if I might break at the slightest provocation. But in fact, the most important thing I learned from him that year was in that moment. I learned that a woman who cries in public is immediately seen as weak, and this perpetuates the incorrect stereotype that females are fragile.

We are anything but fragile.

Right now I'm trying to understand, and articulate, my negative reaction to teary-eyed Hillary. If her emotion was premeditated, then I think I have every right to be angry. Tears are not tools we should use for getting out of traffic tickets or winning a primary election.

But even if her tears were sincere, they still bother me. Or maybe what bothers me is the reaction to them - that, in fact, there was a reaction at all. This article in the New York Times explains my perspective pretty well. It seems that Hillary's crying was the turning point in the decision of some New Hampshire female voters; in exit polls, the distinguishing characteristic these women mentioned wasn't her intelligence or her policies but her tearfulness. Her fragility. It seems to me that, as women, to exploit and encourage the stereotype of our fragility is to betray the strength we possess.

It should go without saying that a woman can be just as effective as a man in the role of President. But it should also go without saying that a woman can become President without playing the victim or using pity to propel herself.

(I'd love to hear your thoughts on this one.)

Yesterday at Target I ran into a good friend, JC, from high school. We see each other from time to time - not as often as we should, but enough that we know what's going on with each other.

He works with another guy who went to our high school, and JC told me that just the other day the two of them had been talking about former classmates - where they are, what they do, that sort of thing. And this guy, who was good friends with Rob in high school, commented to JC that he hadn't seen Rob in a long time, and then added, "I hear Kelly is pregnant."

When JC relayed this to me, I think I gasped. "What?!"

He chuckled and said, "Yeah, I told him I didn't think so. I said I hadn't seen you in awhile, but I was pretty sure that wasn't the case."

"Where would he hear such a thing?"

"I asked him, but he couldn't remember."

It's not a big deal, of course, but I am rather perplexed by how such a rumor would get started. I mean, there are some rumors that would not surprise me. Like that I am a stripper. Anyone who saw me walk into Rob's company party last week - wearing my hooker boots and a coat longer than my dress which totally made it look as though I didn't have anything on underneath - would assume I was there to provide entertainment. Totally understandable. I also wouldn't be surprised to learn that it's rumored we have 12 cats. Because, really, it's only a matter of time. Or to hear whispers that I'm having an affair with John Stamos...Okay fine, I'm totally the one who started that rumor.

But the pregnancy one has me flabbergasted. Who, huh, what? Maybe people just assume we're having a baby since we've been married for more than, oh, 3 weeks. Or maybe I've been confused with someone else? I keep coming back to this mystery, trying to figure out how this could have gotten started. And then today the thought hit me - what if someone saw me earlier this year and thought I looked pregnant?! Gah! I didn't think I was that squigy around the edges, but perhaps I should have been sucking it in.

For some reason I feel the need to set the record straight. A friend of mine, who has also been married for five years, recently did just that. I think every woman of childbearing age in her husband's family has recently announced a pregnancy, and so she felt the need to make things perfectly clear. And so at their Thanksgiving meal, she said, "I'd just like to announce that I'm not pregnant." It was a joke, and I'm sure everyone laughed. But I imagine it also did just what she intended, which was to stop them from wondering silently or asking aloud, "Are you pregnant yet?"

I think that was the smart way to go. Because apparently if we don't nip these things in the bud, people simply start rumors. As if saying it aloud WILL MAKE IT SO.

There needs to be a person in every retail clothing store whose job is to give honest opinions about the clothes that customers are trying on. Not a sales person, because you could try on a burlap bag and they would swear that it looks fantastic on you and is so this season. No, it needs to be a person who can fill in for a girlfriend when you're shopping alone, someone who will tell you honestly, "You're wearing a fucking burlap bag, do you realize that? No, no, NO."

Rob's company holiday party is this evening, and a few days ago I went shopping for something to wear. I had in mind exactly what I wanted, which is never a good idea because of course I never ever find it. There are things that closely approximate what I'm looking for, but I'll pass those over in hopes that I'll find an exact replica of the picture in my head, as if I'm certain that some designer out there somewhere can read my mind. And maybe she can, but considering that I refuse to spend more than $40 on any article of clothing, I probably can't afford her anyway.

This time, what I was looking for was a dress...and that is a phrase I hardly ever say. There are only three occasions for which I've shopped for dresses: prom, weddings (only ones I'm in), and Easter (when I was a kid). I don't do dresses; I'm a pants person. Cute stylish pants, but pants. I like my legs, but I'm shy about showing them. Plus, dresses feel too open. The air swirls around inside the skirt and suddenly I'm aware of a vortex of air heading for my vajayjay. And that's just not right. Wind chill factor, hello!

But recently I've decided I should reconsider this stance. There's a woman I work with who often wears skirts and she always looks adorable in them, and I've realized that I'm overlooking a whole category of cute fashion opportunities. So, I went in search of a dress for this event. A dark red sweater dress (thin and flowy, not bulky and body-hugging) with longish sleeves and cut just above the knee.

And? I totally found it! That has never happened before. I was just browsing around Target, not finding anything, and then WHAM! There it was, what I was looking for! Except they only had one left. And it was an XS. I am not an XS. I am small, but I'm also tall, and thus my total square footage does not easily fit within the confines of XS. But it was the only one left, and it was otherwise perfect. What choice did I have?! So I tried it on.

And here is where I needed the advice of an impartial person, preferably someone not on commission or over the age of 65. Of which there were none. The dress actually fit great. Except it was short. Too short. Or maybe not, I couldn't tell. I thought it was too short, but then I realized that seeing even an inch of bare skin above my knee would have been shocking to me, given that I never wear stuff like this. So I decided that it was actually pretty hot. But then I remembered the Dressing Room Lighting Effect, of which I've been a victim before. You can look like a fucking supermodel at the store, but when you put the outfit on at home and look in the mirror, you think there must be some mistake because this is not what you looked like! And then you realize that the dressing room must have had Tyra Banks painted on the mirror, wearing the outfit you were trying on, and you totally thought that was YOU. And now don't you feel stupid? And frumpy.

In high school one of the dress code rules stated that our shorts had to reach past our fingertips when we stood with our arms down by our side. This dress met that guideline, so I concluded that if I would be allowed to wear this around hormonal, sexually-frustrated teenage boys, then how bad could it be? Plus, with black tights and knee boots, there will be no skin and very little leg revealed. That makes up for the fact that a little of my ass cheek hangs out, right? Maybe?

I bought it. And I am planning to wear it tonight, although I may put it on this evening, take one look in the mirror, and totally chicken out. Of course, Rob will be no help giving an accurate opinion, because husbands aren't exactly the best people to consult when wondering whether you're too scantily clad. Too scantily clad? they think. IS THERE SUCH A THING?

Yes, in fact, there is. It's a fine line between sexy and slutty, a line I'll gingerly be walking tonight as I try to ignore the breeze blowing between my legs.

Well shit. My breasts have gotten smaller. This was so not part of the plan.