instructions for getting by

pelvic floor mania, my big fat lying psychic, scuffin drama, chocolate, etc.

Feb 06, 2026

hello my pretties!

The other day I paid $60 for a psychic reading just to hang up 15 minutes in when she told me to apply for a job at Yelp… a prophecy she surely pulled out of her ass, which, notably, is not the universe.

In 2022 I spent nearly 2 years frequenting psychics, outsourcing my future hope to any woo-woo willing to promise a life of love, importance, and obscene $$$ to a post-quarantine-pale, depressive, debt soaked 26 year old idiot like moi.

But now, as a wise (astonishingly wise) 30 year old woman, having discovered the immense power of trusting myself more than a stranger AND promptly receiving a civilized refund for it... I truly believe I can do anything.

This morning I woke up 2 hrs late for a sunrise morning pages sesh because either my alarm sucks or I sleep like a horse.

Apparently though, my equine slumber has its benefits as I received my highest Oura readiness score to date… a shiny 93/100. And although that same morning I put my toast in the oven without pressing start, I still feel ready to ride out the day as a newfound, statistically speaking, a horse girl.

Now toast-less, cameron-less, and horsey AF, I had 7 min to get ready for pelvic floor physical therapy, which I spent drinking warm lemon water, scrolling TikTok (ugh), and attempting to make toast (again)(ugh).

At 8 am sharp, I descended 12 floors and shimmied into my appointment a respectful 90(ish) seconds late in the same untampered pajamas from the night before.

My physical therapist, let’s call her Dr.Kitty, is young and smart and mystical and gorgeous and meditates daily and meal preps w. 130g of protein and runs on vertical hikes and smells like a mix of clorox and rose of sharon (in a good way)… all things I admire deeply in theory but would never personally survive lol.

Dr. Kitty led me into the “private” back room, a side, walk-in closety sort space with no door but a thin child’s-like bedsheet curtain covering most of the opening and HomeGoods style wall art of deeply introspective sports quotes like “I may win and I may lose but I will never be defeated”.

(I promise this is a legitimate medical setting)

Today was the internal exam, something I agreed to last week without asking a single follow up question. Which, is now a decision that feels like a massively stupid oversight, considering that a pelvic floor internal exam inevitably involves being gently finger blasted about 3 inches inside the vaginal wall while performing an impressive number of kegels to measure various things that make you pee when you sneeze like contraction, lift, endurance, and other stuff I’m blanking on.1

I scored a 2.5 out of 5, which my brain promptly interpreted as halfway to menopause. Great.

Apparently, the left side of my pelvic floor is weaker than the right, which explains the extremely delicious hip flexor pain I’ve been enjoying for the past year.

After 40 minutes of telling myself I am Gwyneth Paltrow while I stare at the ceiling and dissociating from the sheer physical absurdity of being a woman, I was exhausted.

So I did what any cute cranky girl does… eat.

I decided to treat my lopsided self to my favorite breakfast in honolulu… a cortado with half and half + honey and an everything bagel scuffin from 9BarHNL.

A scruffin, if you’re unfamiliar, is scone outside, muffin inside. A feat of structural brilliance. One of the few things still sustaining my faith in humanity.

When I approached the counter to order I was told they had just sold the last one.

Incredible.

Beautiful.

Fuck the world.

I politely (internally panicky) accepted a banana chocolate chip, extra warm. It was fine. I lied and said it was special when the barista asked, which is to say, it was not an everything but I would still like credit for being a good customer.

Then the barista told me I had a kind face. Little did she know it was the face of a kegel blast off warrior!! Her compliment made me forget why I was ever pissy about such a trivial lump of flour and weirdly inclined me to overcompensate by complimenting her face then buy another scuffin (bacon cheese chive) under the now very believable pretense of “scuffin research.” 2

Damn you limited quantity of savory goodness!!!! Today of all days? The day I didn’t toast my toast, missed morning my pages, and got kitty-ed by Dr. Kitty???

I could have gotten there earlier.

No, I should have gotten there earlier.

And if I would have gotten there earlier, today and yesterday and all the days before that may actually start to make sense because I would have been the universe’s chosen one holding the last everything bagel scruffin.

But then again, I also could have been born into oil money or knocked up by Jacob Elordi or developed discipline at 14, and none of that happened either.

But there I was, alive and well, standing in honolulu, holding a steamy cortado with raw honey, wearing lip gloss and I remember all is well.

I try not to live in alternate timelines. It is terrifying how quickly the mind builds an entire life out of a single missed minute.

After I turned 30 I promised myself that dwelling shall not and nevermore be my shit.

Instead, I indulge dumb joy and live in the domain where chocolate makes me skinny. I don’t concern myself with the math. Who am I to interfere with amoral beauty?

You see my pretties, with chocolate, like many other things, probably too many other things, I allow myself freedom from all consequences, including the future.

And so I eat chocolate. Much of it. Every day.

In yogurt. By the handful. In bars. In balls. Drizzled in honey. Hardened around strawberries or peanut butter or whatever really.

And I don’t gain weight because I don’t participate in that conversation. (I also don’t weigh myself, which, in this case, bodes well for me lol.)

And I can’t give up chocolate because my love for it has never once equaled a problem. And if I’m being super real with you, I like feeling small in my clothes and I think I look incredible in low rise jeans with a lightly cropped shirt so you can see my midriff and that’s just the truth.

That may sound distasteful or superficial in today’s cultural climate. And on certain obvious levels, I know it is. Like many overthinkers, I used to resent myself for feeling things that might make other people uncomfortable.

But I don’t anymore. Because I choose to believe in beauty that exists outside judgment. Especially my own.

I am who I am and I like what I like.

That’s what I can trust.

I hang up on psychics when they’re big fat liars and I won’t be friends with you if I think you’re a bitch.

I walk slow and smile at butterflies and ruminate about how many coffees is too many coffees but never land on a number and inevitably drink too many coffees

I pick flowers and blow kisses to the wind and I no longer make myself suffer when people ask me what I do for work because how I choose to live my life will not make me question my competence.

I don’t know who’s playing in the Super Bowl but I will always root for the underdog and never understand how four downs get’s you first down.

I kick my dog’s fur under the couch sometimes when I don’t feel like vacuuming or listening to Billy rant about their shedding issue and prefer my yogurt to be greek and eaten out the container with a big spoon.

I say yes to internal exams without asking logistical questions and convince my mom to buy me oversized cheese graters without considering how to clean it because my brain just doesn’t work like that.

I read books I like even if they don’t make me look like some evolved literary “it” girl and wear tiny bikinis even when I forget to shave my legs.

I kiss my dogs on the lips and stick my finger in Billy’s butt when he bends over just to see him squirm and fundamentally believe that bad days are a right of passage for a good life.

I light a million candles every night until my living room looks like a cathedral and drink red wine more often than I should because it makes me feel sexy.

And I have this large, slightly embarrassing dream that my silly words might find the exact people on the internet on the days when they need to feel a little less alone and make their minds feel a little easier to live inside even though I know I haven’t always been the best friend in real life.

I am inconsistent and sentimental and shitty and fun and happy and sad and boring and weird and everything and nothing and still… I will always eat the chocolate.

And that my pretties is all I know about getting by.

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