Bless this age of television. I mean truly, grab your hands, put them together, and bow your heads in praise of this content avalanche.

Without so many choices, we’d be up to our eyeballs in pretty young things. And if you’re like me, you do not watch anything to feel your age. I want to know when I turn on the TV, everyone is vaguely ten years older than me.

It is entirely disconcerting to know that Hulk Hogan—who always looked a thousand years old, give or take 200 years because racism—was exactly the age I am right now during his Wrestlemania prime. Or that Princess Diana died at thirty-fucking-six. Which is a year YOUNGER than me.

Depending on how hateful I feel is how fast I bring up a Google age search. Like, there is a journalist on ABC Nightly News, Tom Llamas, who looks 25 but is in fact forty-something; and I have never loved a man more. And I married a dude.

I watch Nightly News just so I can feel young. Which completely disregards the fact that 1) I watch the Nightly News 2) follow it with Jeopardy and never know shit 3) Always need a shower immediately thereafter to wash the geriatric away.

I play this game called Guess Their Age and I always wanna be wrong so I feel better about myself and how little I’ve done with my fucking life. But deep down I wanna know I still have a chance to make shit happen and I can’t do that if everyone is younger than me on TV.

GIMME SOME HOPE I AM DESPERATE OUT HERE IN THE SUBURBS.

So it would seem entirely off brand to watch Riverdale—with all of its young man candy, showing off their hairless chesticles like that isn’t a thing that makes me think of fetuses. Because that’s exactly what happens every single episode. I feel like it’s every episode. Those guys are always taking their shirts off, it’s very Chippendales meets Twin Peaks.

When I dove into Riverdale, I did so on the recommendation of a friend of mine who gave me the show’s bona fides like it’s from this showrunner who wrote these comics and he has this horror background, but she didn’t reveal the cast. So when I started watching the first episodes as they aired like a 20th century old head, I had no idea LUKE FREAKING PERRY was on the show.

And then the mother of all goddamn reveals happened: Skeet Ulrich came upon the screen.

Yes, that SKEET, the awkwardly named Not-Johnny-Depp-But-Could-Be Ulrich of SCREAM and THE CRAFT.

My vagina damn near exploded from pent up 90s thirst.

Skeet is our replacement Johnny. He’s always been set up that way, and damn has it not worked out with Johnny being rather assaulty as of, apparently, forever.

Next up there is Marc Consuelos of Kelly Ripa’s husband fame. He’s a little short for me with not enough scruff but still a zaddy in a binder full of them so I will take it.

Then, there’s Sheriff Keller played by Martin Cummins and he was shirtless and also hairless in an episode, and it gave me a creepy American Beauty vibe so he’s also a pass. But only for me—Cummins is a fine piece of older man for another friend of mine who’s perimenopausal and needs a sacrificial man feast before her body combusts into flames.

There’s another dad in Riverdale but I’m going to skip right over him. He was in Scary Movie, and he’s like a condiment on the zaddy table — you squeeze him onto a Luke/Skeet man meat sandwich and indulge. Or just go ahead and remove him like a pickle.

Watching Riverdale is the TV version of my really, real life. Like a few weeks ago at the strip club when I turned to my bestie and drunk slurred to her, IT’SSSS LIKE WE’RE 25 AGAINNNN and she looked at me like, WHAT.

If we were really 25, she woulda heard that shit.

It was such Bad Moms level trash moment but it was OUR TRASH.

And that’s Riverdale. Luke Perry is never gonna be Dylan and Skeet is never gonna be Billy again but deep down my lady boner thinks it’s possible. And that counts for something.

Because they’re clearly ten years older than me.

The post This Level Of Thirst For The Riverdale Daddies Cannot Be Quenched appeared first on Liz Henry.

I went ahead and stopped smoking.

I decided I like buying trash more than wheezing at night. My kazoo breathing would send me into I’M A GONER panic attacks and I was convinced I’d never wake up again. I’d toss around like a baby seal caught in a net of terror palpitations.

Now instead of hate sleeps I put the money I’d spend on cigarettes into an envelope labeled SEXY FUND and buy things like Kylie Jenner lip kits, a shimmery rainbow fanny pack, Jo Koy tickets and I’m deep into the dark web looking for a sequin blazer—so hopefully soon I can look like I’m a 90s WWF tag team manager.

I’m absolutely in love with the this level of care — where I burn money just like I used to but with less cancer.

In a further attempt to give one-half of a shit about my myself, I started going to doctor appointments for a range of maladies that ladder to I’M OLD AND I GAVE BIRTH SO THINGS IN LADY TOWN ARE FUCKED. And it was at one of these appointments where I told my doctor I stopped smoking.

Y’all the praise heaped upon me was presidential fitness award-level but before troll fingers grabbed the throne when it sorta meant something. I remember sitting in my middle school gym surrounded by other motivationally challenged youth in a Hole t-shirt thinking to myself, six-minute mile WHAAAT-EVV-ERR nerds. I’m gonna need to call the corners after school.

Then I went to another appointment and this new doctor didn’t even weigh me.

THIS NEVER HAPPENS. If doctors were comedians, fat shaming is both their opener and their closer.

It was at this very moment I realized you could go ahead and tell your doctor you were freebasing crack while driving 90 mph inhaling a double whopper but pulled over to throw rocks at toddlers and the doctor would be like: “keep doing what you’re doing!”

WHY DID NO ONE TELL ME THAT QUITTING SMOKING ABSOLVES BAD CHOICES?

I mean this is pertinent information, folks. I don’t even care if you’ve never smoked in your life, just tell people you did and recently quit — it’s the only thing they’re gonna hear.

Nope, didn’t wash my hands. I just quit smoking.

I love straws, hate turtles, and I quit smoking.

I absolutely watch The Kardashians. I quit smoking.

I read 100% of your texts and responded to zero. I quit smoking.

I made cauliflower mac and cheese. I quit smoking.

Misandry is my favorite hobby. Just let this one roll, it’s a great choice.

I quit smoking is like the poo-pourri for verbal diarrhea confessionals—you get to be emotionally slutty but no one judges you for it. Which is exactly the kind of world I want to live in.

It’s so much better for your health.

The post Why Did No One Tell Me Quitting Smoking Absolves All Bad Choices appeared first on Liz Henry.

I bought wide legged pants from Lane Bryant, and the thins love them.

What fat hasn’t been waiting their entire life for this moment? The chance to turn to a regular ol’ size eight and be like, babe, eat a cookie and then sashay right the fuck out the 7-11 with their Big Gulp body and wide ass pants like it’s Drag Race.

I don’t know a one that hasn’t.

Let me break down these pants for you because they are a thing of beauty that flow like ocean waves with each stride. They’re soft like clouds with an elastic waist for days in an eggplant purple that match every skin tone but not every size. Technically we’re talking the smallest you can be for this glory is an eighteen.

Here’s a photo of these pants that shine like fat justice:

These things were made for fats to show off their babe-ness in comfort with exactly zero promise of athleisure — an oxymoron of thinness if there ever was one. How do you both “ath” and also “leiz?”

It’s one or the other motherfuckers.

NEVER BOTH.

Athleisure sounds like sleeping on a high school wrestling mat and then going ahead and accessorizing with ringworm. And then I guess the see-thru thigh panels are for ventilation cause it smells like cheesey balls fermenting in a sauna.

This is why I’m a fat. I think too much.

When you’re a thin you have options. You get to walk into store and be like, bless this abundance. There’s racks on racks on racks. Fashion square footage for thins doubles like this is the Wizarding World and they get to be Harry looking for a horcrux in Bellatrix’s Gringotts vault.

You know, chosen.

When you’re a fat babe, you get accessories. Maybe a hat. A pair of earrings. And somehow this fabric drought is supposed to sustain you in sustenance while your friends are RSVPing to every fashion forward thread Bangladesh exports.

But the thins are thirsty for these plum pants.

I’m gracious in spite, “Thank you, they’re from LANE BYRANT.”

I say it like I’m ALL CAPSing in real life ‘cause I want them to know there is no seat as this table.

Is it petty?

One hundred and ten percent, yes.

It’s an absofuckinglutely on the fucking lutely scale of HOW DOES IT FEEL.

As a fat, you gotta find your petty and grind it into a soft powder then sprinkle it like you swallowed Tinker Bell and out came Ursula with the realness.

Because Ariel is basic and the only thing that made the Little Mermaid worth seeing was that fat sea queen in her red lips and delicious brow arches almost bringing down patriarchy.

What was Ariel gonna do with that voice anyway? Stan for basic boy, Eric.

I mean C’MON.

So whatever you own that’s just for a fat, say it. And then let that smile spread like butter.

The post Pants So Bright They Shine Like Fat Justice appeared first on Liz Henry.

When I arrived home in the wee hours of Wednesday morning after Donald Trump won the presidential election, but not the popular vote; all I heard was Whitney singing:

Didn’t we almost have it all
When love was all we had worth giving?
The ride with you was worth the fall my friend
Loving you makes life worth living
Didn’t we almost have it all
The night we held on till the morning
You know you’ll never love that way again
Didn’t we almost have it all

Didn’t we? Didn’t we almost have an example. Didn’t we almost have an advocate. Didn’t we almost have a woman that wasn’t tossed out, rendered useless after her prime. Didn’t we almost have the power. Didn’t we almost control our bodies. Didn’t we almost break the glass ceiling. Didn’t we almost say, unequivocally, women matter. Didn’t love almost trump hate. Didn’t we almost lean in. Didn’t we almost not have to work twice as hard for half as much. Didn’t we almost not have to tell our daughters, “he won.”

Didn’t we almost say, “a good man isn’t just hard to find, he does not exist” plan accordingly.

Didn’t we almost rise above a racist, sexist, homophobic, anti-semitic white supremacy. Didn’t pussy almost grab back. Didn’t we almost listen to Black women. Didn’t we almost believe our white friends would protect us.

Didn’t we almost not repeat the Salem witch trials. Didn’t we almost not threaten a woman with violence to shut her up. Didn’t we almost believe her.

Didn’t we almost recognize he’s half the man, and she’s more than a woman.

Didn’t we almost avoid telling her she was “asking for it.” Didn’t we almost believe women deserve privacy—that, in fact, a “public and private life” is a thing all of us maintain. Except for women.

Didn’t we almost believe that if you’re qualified, you’ll win.

Didn’t we almost not tell her to smile more. Didn’t we almost not feel threatened. Didn’t we almost not have to bake cookies as a duty. Didn’t we almost let her keep Rodham; and her glasses; and her brown, mousy hair. Didn’t we almost let her be smart. Didn’t we almost not hate women.

Didn’t we almost not cry.

She couldn’t, though. And she did not.

It’s about time our daughters know the truth, and the truth is almost.

A mess has been made, and we’ll do what we’ve always done, survive. This is the story of women’s lives. We almost had it all.

The post Didn’t We Almost Have It All appeared first on Liz Henry.

I am old, and my life is riddled with friendships I shouldn’t have spent two seconds trying to cultivate let alone years. Snap judgements are a thing I need now like oxygen. But the vast majority of judging is basic and unreliable, and also takes too much time.

I don’t want to nibble on people like they are a box of indiscernible chocolates filled with nuts or some kind of Robitussin goo slowly savored on a park bench until I’m in too deep and left gagging.

Nope, I need a sign — a trigger warning if you will — that let’s me know if the people I meet are worth knowing.

Have you ever noticed that anyone who buys two-ply toilet paper — your Charmin, Quilted Northern, Angel Softs of the world — is a total nightmare?

I have.

I mean real scum of the earth: gaslighters, ghosters, Pepsi-drinkers, swipe-lefters, the Trumps. They cannot, for whatever reason, live on the edge like the rest of us budget conscious folks by wondering: is today the day I accidentally finger my asshole and then carpe diem that T-P and go for it.

Unless you buy two-ply. You’re the exception. There’s always one.

I want to know folks who appreciate the art of wrapping thin toilet paper into a mitten and going to town on their tampon tunnels.

I want to know people who wipe through burrito-induced redhole and come out of the bathroom like a goddamn soldier instead of sashaying into the living room because their balloon knot was graced by the preciousness of cashmere two-ply.

I love people who can handle a pain in the ass instead of being one.

I want to know the kind of toilet paper purchasers who buy in bulk waiting for just the right night to send their Saturday morning-mowing neighbor a crystal clear message that their sleep is not to be messed with — and they’ve got enough off-brand rolls to level the damn block if he even dares start that fucking thing before 2 PM.

Two-ply buyers are the kind of people who insist on backing into a parking spot like the only thing I have to do is wait for them to learn how to drive.

They run marathons on the weekends posting pictures of themselves at the finish line while the rest of us are like, yes, Netflix, I am still watching.

They gave birth to you.

Your Charmin lovers show up to the abortion clinic with fetal dismemberment posters like that’s apparently a thing that exists and your Scott wipers show up like:

You’re Quilted Northerns of the world are like oooh, let me turn up this Taylor Swift. And the off-brand wipers are all: I like that old Kanye. 

The Angel Softs of the world say shit like, “it’s wine o’clock.”

What I’m saying is the next time you’re invited somewhere with someone you don’t want to know, head to their bathroom. Look at their toilet paper purchase. What are they packing? Reach out and grab it. And then judge them accordingly. Because if they believe angels are a thing who need to clean their brown holes you’re fighting a losing high maintenance battle. Just wipe and dash, get the hell out of there.

The post Life Is Like A Toilet Paper Roll appeared first on Liz Henry.

History was made. Hillary Clinton is now the first woman to clinch a major party nomination for president.

Wonderful.

Powerful.

And now can we get to that bag of bones she carries around her neck, Bill Clinton.

I couldn’t hear Bill last night over my fear he was going to croak on stage at the Democratic National Convention. I know he has heart disease and I know he used to hit the fries hard, but he’s barely breathing up there, folks. And his speech was heavy on sucking the lifeblood out of you like a porch vampire . He assumes you have nothing but time so he’ll hit you with forty years worth of autobiographical anecdotes just for walking past his porch. He’s THAT GUY.

Back in 2010 Bill had two stents inserted into his heart because heart disease. My father has the same medical condition so don’t think I don’t have the feels for people with chronic health issues. I do. I just don’t have the feels for Bill Clinton who’s supposed to turn my lady parts into mush with the gravitas of his personality.

You mean the personality of the Poltergeist 2 preacher? Because that’s the vibe I was getting last night.

In the 90s of my youth, Bill was Runner-in-Chief. He jogged on the campaign trail, he jogged as president in shorts worthy of slut-shaming they were so ball-huggingly inappropriate. His dad bod and thunder thighs were ahead of their time.

So much ahead of their time that now every runner who thinks they can run themselves right into immortality should be cringing at the creaky thing before their eyes. Last night Bill took the stage, lifted his arm for a wave, and I held my breath because I wasn’t sure he was going to make it.

He looks that exhausted by life.

Hillary is known for jewel-toned pantsuits, drinking whiskey, unfortunate haircuts and not running. It’s like the only thing she hasn’t supported. Or flip-flopped or been pressured to address: working out.

As I think about this more, she’s becoming a real person to me. Like, she completely knew the jig was up with Bill and she let him go out there and look a fool and then laughed at his dumb ass — putting his leg up, making dignitaries perform cardio, letting his balls stank up the breeze.

Hillary probably looks appropriately older because she slept in and gave zero fucks about jogging and then got shit done.

This woman is a hero.

Why have I given her such a hard time over the past two years? She’s down with everything I’m down with: no running. A brisk walk will suffice. She probably loves gluten, too.

Hillary for president!

The post Bill Clinton’s Dad-Bod Glory Days Are Clearly Behind Him appeared first on Liz Henry.

There’s something fun about driving a bona fide piece of shit. Maybe it’s because I’ve watched too many movies. Like, when I’m driving my 1988 Buick Regal Custom with 60K miles that cost me $500, it’s like I’m channeling my inner Lebowski.

If The Dude had a rug that really tied the room together, this car is probably the most honest thing I’ve driven — it ties my life together.

I think there’s zero expectations when you drive a piece of shit. If there are any, it’s that you’re a mess. I know when I drive past the mother of a childhood friend, she thinks my life is shitty. I mean logically–and based on the car I drive–this isn’t a far leap. Without a doubt, if I saw someone driving my car, I’d think their life had gone terribly wrong, too.

And my life has gone terribly wrong, but that’s not the point except it kinda is. You can, in fact, have a life that has gone so terribly wrong and in so many different ways that you’ve polished a turd and turned it into, nah, nothing. It’s still pretty shitty.

But you can, on really good days, feel like you’re living in a movie that didn’t quite make it in theaters, but has a cult following. That’s how I feel.

Now, when I pull into my kid’s school I’ve dropped the pretense of right angles and overcompensating first impressions and I’m Uncle Buck — all PhD in hardknocks with a piece of shit car as my participation trophy for trying to play it straight.

They don’t make cars like this anymore. They don’t make people who want to drive large cars with ashtrays and bench seats and tape decks with a turn radius like maneuvering the Titanic. We like money. We like being healthy. We like staged lives.

I was there. It felt empty. I’m happier driving the piece of shit.

I don’t have to pass for anything but what I am, where I’ve been, where I’m going. When I pull into the driveway of the house I don’t own riding on one donut and three hubcap-less tires, it’s DEEZ NUTS spray painted on a concrete wall behind the house greeting me like I’m a modern day Gatsby who’s keeping it so motherfucking real even my literary devices have a sense of humor about the nosedive my possessions have taken.

Passing is too much work. It’s exhausting. I may drive a shitty car and DEEZ NUTZ may be my beacon, but I’m in the best shape of my life. Not physically. Fuck that. I can’t bend over to save my life, and I got winded on the treadmill while two 60-year-old dudes tag-teamed me last week with goo and electrodes while I was half-naked for a cardiovascular stress test, but I’m living. I’m rolling around in a death metal couch, with my smart phone plugged into obsolete technology and I’m as chill about it all as an Earth Wind and Fire song.

Marc Maron, my favorite, said “I personally don’t have a lot of respect for people that don’t have the courage to lose complete control over their lives for a few years. You know, right down the fucking hole.”

Buddy, I’m there. In the fucking hole.

Alright, not exactly. But three years ago I was definitely Kenny Powers sans the drugs crying in my bed like a little bitch over my mommy didn’t wuv me enough and my daddy was an asshole, and this is all tragedy not comedy. So yeah, I was there, but now I’m three-quarters out and What About Bob babysteppin’ and doing the work.

When you lose control, you don’t have the time to keep up appearances. If you get fatter, you buy a bigger size. If you’re at the cardiologist, you disrobe at your largest give a look like feast your eyes fuckers, blast me with the medical jizz and let’s get this over with. You give up wearing a bra and shoes because you now work from home and anything within a mile of your house is considered “the cafeteria.”

You like this kind of honesty. It’s DEEZ NUTZ honesty. It’s riding on the donut till the wheels fall off of my 1988 Buick honesty. It’s I bought the ticket now I’m gonna take the ride honesty. It’s Lebowski with some fucking Creedence tapes honesty. It’s pure, electric joy honesty.

Some folks climb a mountain to get where they’re going and the rest of us, well, we’re clawing to get the fuck out of a hole we didn’t dig. Either way, it’s worth it. Solidarity.

The post I Drive A Piece Of Shit, And I’m The Happiest I’ve Ever Been appeared first on Liz Henry.

That’s from High Fidelity, and while Rob spends an entire book and movie battling through to realize it’s actually what you’re like that matters, Treat Yo Self doesn’t care. Here are the things I like this week. 

BEYONCE ART PRINT | by MARITZA LUGO | $17

I follow Martiza on Instagram, and her art has been featured on Vice, Broadly and more. She’s Mindsay Mohan on Instagram. I bought this for the house I will one day own.

FEMINIST WRAPPING PAPER | SHE PAPER | $12

DOPE. There is no other way to describe this feminist wrapping paper by She Paper. Their site launched in April 2016, and their collections include Funny Broads (pictured above), YAS Queen, Women Who Are Unapologetically Themselves, Women Who Have It All Figured Out, and more. I don’t have any, but I will. You could actually wrap stuff with this or craft like a motherfucker.

BLACK MAXI DRESS | OLD NAVY | $27 (use a coup tho)

I went to the ends of the earth to get this dress in an XL at a physical store because I’m cheap. I nailed it for $12 and too much work. Then, because I’m vertically challenged, I had the dress professionally hemmed. I already know it’s going to be my summer uniform. I’m wearing it right now. You can dress it up, you can sloth around in it for days as a work-from-home, cats-are-my-coworkers type, and you can even sleep in it. Or, wear it over a bathing suit. Whatever, do you, but also do this maxi.

The post Beyonce, Feminist Wrapping Paper and A Black Dress appeared first on Liz Henry.

I’m not proud of this, but I spent about two weeks checking into the gym and then leaving. I straight up would go in, have the front desk clerk scan my card and then peace the fuck out. Why would I do such a thing?

One. Because I was facing a serious case of personal resistance.

Two. As part of my health insurance plan, I needed to make an appearance X amount of times within X amount of days and then I’d receive a full year of membership for free.

Even with a deliciously sweet incentive, I could only half motivate myself.

The best part is I was proud I showed up, met all of the anxiety of what will the front-desk clerk think, faced it, and then left anyway. In my head I was flipping off the man, but really I was fucking myself.

If fucking myself was a stock option, I’d have capital gains like Amber Rose has Kanye clap backs.

Look, I said to myself, you can’t keep doing this. You have got to get it together. I know you’re living the slacker’s dream right now with your roll out of bed, walk two inches and you’re at work by a crisp brunch hour, but there’s gotta be some movement somewhere in your day. Otherwise, you’re gonna be Jabba the Hut with the heart rate of the Crypt Keeper and you just can’t have that.

Faced with continuing to fuck myself and the anxiety of the front-desk clerk’s judgement (which they are not paid for or have even hinted they know I exist) I thought: What is something that happens every day that will trigger me to get up, stop what I’m doing and go?

If “stop whatever you’re doing and go” sounds familiar it’s because that’s what Elmo tells potty-training toddlers. I have no shame in that. Elmo helped me. So fuck you, Liz Gilbert et-al; all I needed was a red monster with a hand shoved up his ass with the voice of a three-year-old to motivate me.

The thing that happens everyday is my kid comes home from school. Monday through Friday, the door bursts open, I elicit the kind of enthusiasm reserved for boy bands by a tween girl and then I resume my troll-like position at the laptop and she shuts her bedroom door until dinner.

I haven’t ticked off five consecutive days yet, but I haven’t swiped and dashed either. In fact, tonight I headed out to the swanky, resort-like gym my kid attends for a mentorship program.

Everyone at the gym is in BEAST mode. I mean these people are on the balls of their feet, arms flailing around, sweat pouring like Niagara with neon, match game vibes. And all I can think is: thin needs better PR.

I pass a dance instructor who’s rivaling Sebastian the crab in red skin. She’s terrifyingly enthusiastic with her hip hop moves lacking irony. I don’t know what the fuck is going on in there, but I know I won’t survive it.

Then I pass a guy walking backwards on the treadmill like that’s apparently a thing that isn’t stupid.

Or how about the toddler that just lapped me and didn’t break a sweat.

After the toddler, there’s the couple who insist on walking side-by-side and lapping me so many times I’ve lost count. I give them a minute in that relationship because the only successful workout routine I know is the one where you agree to an every-man-for-himself pace with your partner. Like me and Slasher. Who is miles behind and IDGAF.

Love is defined at arm’s length, bitches. Arm’s length. Or, a football field. Anything closer is Stockholm syndrome.

I’m not at the gym to create a personal best, I’m there to be average. If Average Joe’s Gym was an actual gym, that would be my gym. Where you roll in whenever, maybe play some dodgeball, lift a five-pound weight every three minutes and then head to the backdoor for a smoke break because you’re exhausted from trying.

That’s where I’m at in my life: completely unwilling to give up small joys for gains I’m not even sure exist. I’d like to look down and not have a double-chin in the way, but I’m not prepared to slice and dice my body to make it happen or turn over tires or run a marathon where I’m the human canvas; fire extinguished with neon at the finish line. In my twenties, I was almost that person. But now I’m comfortably thirty-something and fresh out of fucks. There’s always a bigger size. There’s always a smaller one too.

The post Thin Needs Better PR Because I Can’t Even At The Gym appeared first on Liz Henry.

I like makeup. I’ve always liked makeup. Back in college, I wrote a terrible slam poem about being a feminist who wears makeup. Then I abruptly dropped the class because I couldn’t go through with actually performing that piece of shit. I mean, can you imagine? But in my head, I think the professor thought I was talented because he looked at me once.

Back to Ulta where it is bright as fuck. Brighter than bright. Bright like the Griswold house at Christmas. Bright like everyone who shops there has seasonal depression. Bright like a sanitarium. Bright like you’re Harry Potter, and look there’s Dumbledore and am I dead or what?

Seriously, there is no reason for this place of cosmetics to be brighter than Snooki’s veneers. Or whiter than Taylor Swift. I mean, my god, hallelujah, because I think I just saw Jesus in the self-tanner aisle.

I stop by Ulta occasionally. It shouldn’t come as a shock to assume I avoid the place for its french tip mani color palette. But sometimes I need to go in there and only under these conditions: buy two, get two free WITH a $3.50 off coupon in hand. I like hand soaps. I like them a lot. I also enjoy Yankee Candles, cats, granny panties and my un-manicured lady lawn I’ve nicknamed “the turnpike median.”

Every time I go into the store, I make my way to the hand soap pumps where I grab four bottles of stuff that smells like fruit with micro-beads. As I make my way down the aisle, something will catch my eye and I’ll pause just a second too long and — this never fails — a girl will approach. And before I even turn around I know exactly what she’s going to look like:

Every Ulta has at least one 1990s WWF wrestler waiting to scare the shit out of you with her Expendables machine gun set to contour. I mean, I’ve been to drag shows with more subtle layers. And yet, the Ultimate Warrior of Ulta is practically divine intervention — she puts everything into perspective. She’s been there too long, she’s a total junkie. And you’re just, you know, there for the soaps, which are supposed to be a gateway purchase.

Ulta makes their stores biblically bright so no matter how good you look outside of the store, inside you’ll look like Sloth — all droopy-eyed and sweaty, with pores the size of craters and a t-zone doubling as a water slide to One-Eyed Willy’s pirate ship.

But the Ultimate Warrior, bless her heart, snaps you out of your self-hating, gotta-buy-all-the-stuff-to-fill-the-void lull so you can peace the fuck out with your soaps and middle fingers ablaze. Because you got out of that place in one piece and didn’t get stranded in the light like Carol Ann. It’s that bright.

The post Why Is It Bright AF In Ulta? appeared first on Liz Henry.