Dear Nickel,

I watched Animal Planet’s “My Cat from Hell” for the first time last week. In fact—don’t judge me—I watched it for nearly five hours. What a trip! Jackson Galaxy (I’ll refrain from commenting on his name) walks into these homes, a tattooed mix of Dr. Phil and the Dog (cat?) whisperer. And while the title puts blame on the cats, in a successful attempt to gain viewers (prejudiced ones to be sure), bad pet parenting is the actual culprit. I can’t believe the number of couples, roommates, besties, who are considering splitting up because they cannot properly set boundaries for their furry friends! And what is more astonishing is my compulsion to spend hours watching the travesty. Of course, I shouldn’t be so hard on myself. After all, it’s what has become of our society: a stupefied audience unable to look away from the proverbial train wreck. Ah these degenerate times.

Speaking of degeneration. We’ve established the shameful shape of our rears! Or at least my own. I was not joking when I outlined for you the sad mushy geometry of my 31-year-old cheeks. They no longer form a smooth and pronounced arc against the perfect column of my hammies. No in fact they now seem to form a cottage cheesy slope. My derriere and legs have united: the dreaded butt/thigh condition I unaffectionately call the mashed potato effect. Perhaps you are aware that potato in French is ‘pomme de terre.’ That’s right, ‘apple of the earth.’ It precisely depicts the situation at hand, for Apple Bottom Jeans can’t help me now, not while my rear is plunging itself toward the earth!

In all of her verve, Sarah tried to help me recover a more apple-bootied shape last night at the Y. We planked and bridged, lunged and squatted. But alas…. Maybe the Kardashians will design a booty-pop bikini bottom. Perfect! I’ll stop burdening you with my trivial midlife probs. How is the great house cleaning venture of 2013 going?! I haven’t received any T-FOADs today (that’s: texts full of ardent despair), so things must be looking up!

 Much Love,
(insert cute nom de penpal here)

P.S. You must find a name for me. I thought about the Spanish word for page (pagina) a nickname first given me by a dear college roommate. But I think we can be honest about the inevitable misreading and mispronunciation! Next thing you know someone will petition a writing of the pagina monologues; surely they’d be entertaining, but what a scandal!