I had a sex dream about my daughter recently. I woke up feeling dirty and mental, and told my personal training clients that very morning. So I dreamt I schtupped my kid! I announced as they did a warmup set of plank rotations. I joke that I am a fitness bartender. Or a stand-up comic working out my set. I work blue, I warn boot campers. Subtlety and appropriateness are not my forte. And the more personal the subject matter, the more likely I am to offer it up like a half-priced pashmina shawl.

After the initial shock tamed, we had an intelligent discussion about it since we are educated and were fully aware that this was my SUBCONSCIOUS. We know that under the layers of our socialized brainstuff, the parameters of love can be pretty bendy. It’s too bad pedophiles can’t leave it at that. The other night, we went over scenarios, the kids, Dad and I—

“And if he tells you he’s got a huge collection of Monster High dolls that you just have to see at his apartment, what do you do?”

“I kick him in the weenis and scream PEDOPHILE! and run.”

“That’s right, honey. And if he tells you he has an adorable puppy that you just have to see and help him name, what do you do?”

“Tell him I’m allergic to dogs and kick him in the weenis and scream PEDOPHILE! and run.”


Then there was the really hot dream about a stranger’s leftover French-fries. This was when I was pregnant and stuffed to the gills with extra blood and hormones. I’ve heard that this is common—preggo gals getting off in their sleep. I’m lucky to have any action in my sleep these days, what with the Lexapro.

I just published an essay on Womansday.com about jealousy of younger women, which I invite you to read and like and share if you haven’t yet. Rereading it got me thinking about the way my daughter will be perceived when she’s a fresh-faced twenty-something. Probably with some hostility. When it comes, she’ll be prepared. She’s a confident girl. Even now, at nine, she has friends who bemoan their fleshy bellies in her naturally lean presence. It’s disturbing, as if there is no way around bulimia or anorexia as a modern American female.

Even in 2015 we think we can change our fundamental shape by working out and dieting, but all we can really do is become the best version of ourselves. I have clients ask me about certain exercises, “Will this make my bra fat go away?” And I tell them, “Yes, and it will also make your eyes blue.” This is not to say that the bra fat won’t go away with proper diet and exercise. It’s just that there’s no magic fix out there. (Note: try heavy deadlifts, pull-ups and additional protein. For the rest of your life.)

We’re so terrible at accepting ourselves, from younger and younger ages. The more our scope widens, the more it says the same. But I’m naive and optimistic enough to believe this will change. I’ve been around since Kim Alexis and Christie Brinkley were the ideal. So it makes me giddy with joy that women like Rebel Wilson are out there making gobs of money being hysterically funny, sexy and badass. Lesson here? It’s CONFIDENCE. That’s what’s sexy. Period.