Memoirs of a Fat Girl

Only freaks go to the Self-Help section. Of the few sure things in life, this is one of them. Have you ever seen that "Sex and the City" episode where Charlotte wants to get that book on second chances in love (or something like that) and decides to brave the Self-Help section of the bookstore? Yeah, it's not pretty. Someone is always crying, someone always has bad roots bedhead, and someone in sunglasses is always lurking around the Dr. Phil section to snare a copy of "Self Matters" when they think no one is watching.

Misunderstanding tantrum time! Why THE HELL do they call it Self-Help? Those in marketing should know this only pushes our buttons of denial and self-loathing to the extent that we feel more worthless for even being seen near the part of the bookstore that screams, "I can't afford a shrink but I can afford what they write." It might as well be the Wailing & Whining section, or the Pathetic section for all they care. We go to Self-Help either because we can't get or don't want professional therapy, and because we don't want the whole freakin' world to know that we want help to begin with.

I think Well Being section sounds so much nicer. I also think that the Inside & Out, Reach for the Stars and Yellow Brick Road sections are very pretty too. Or how about the If You Read It, It will Come to You section? That makes me feel a little more positive and fuzzy inside, and like less of a moron for frequenting the "I'm screwed and damned" corner a couple of nights back. Yes my darlings, I was in the Self-Help section, or as you may now refer to me, Helloooo Loser! I wasn't crying, in sunglasses or in danger of bedhead, but a couple of gray hairs have come through meaning that I definitely fit into the "bad roots" category. Fuck it.

I was feeling sucky and wanted to buy a handful of "How to get over your Breakup" books, since I take huge comfort in the written word, but leafing through most of what was available I found them badly, seriously lacking. It seemed like half those books were about becoming the independent, man-twisting siren that will have your ex drooling and on his knees. Well, I don't want to concentrate on him right now, I want to concentrate on me. That's most, if not all of the reason that I feel the way that I do, and why I'm Helloooo Loser and in the Self-Help section to begin with! The selection's other half was all about hand holding and positive affirmations that will yank you out of the metaphorical cookie dough vat in 30 days instead 31. No thanks. I may feel sucky at times, but I don't need to read all about the Little Engine that Could every fucking morning to get me out of bed.

So I found one doomed relationships book that looked pretty good and seemed to tap into my heart: "It's Called a Breakup because it's Broken". Straightforward and to the point. If anything can bitch me into shape, maybe it will be this.

Then out of the blue, the strangest thing happened. I wasn't intending on buying anything else but suddenly, mystically, luckily, everything seemed to inspire me. I might have ended up with a *teensy* bit more than I expected:

The Creative Habit: Learn it and Use it for Life
French Women Don't get Fat
The Quest for Peace, Love and the 24' Waistline
You can Do It! The Merit Badge Handbook for Grown-Up Girls
How to be Happy, Dammit: a Cynic's Guide to Spiritual Happiness

Wallet dumbells, or, I'm so Positive I'm Glowing now. With bankruptcy. Albeit I could have afforded an hour or two of Psychiatrist time with that book bill, but do I really need to hear a powersuit in an Eames chair asking, "How do you FEEL about that?" Nuh uh.

I'm just a hokey l'il loser, but I have all the hope in the world. I'm looking forward to digging in, and this journey is looking just a bit more bearable now. So let me hop along and read something.

(Oh and by the way, a massive power outage hit the bookstore while I was in the Self-Help section. Twice. A bit freaky for the freak, no?)