Wow, No Thank You - Samantha Irby Page 0,52

I take care of my chest: sometimes when I wash my face, but only after I’ve taken a shower, I’ll accidentally squeeze out too much moisturizer or put too much oil/serum into the palm of my hand, and, as I’m frantically looking around the bathroom trying to find some way of disposing of it that doesn’t include dribbling it all over the floor, it’ll dawn on me through my morning fog that I could just rub it on my chest and have a weirdly shiny breastplate for the first few hours of the day. I know that back acne is a thing, but I’m pretty sure I also have chest acne? I don’t know if that’s what it is, but sometimes I get these little bumps, and what the fuck did I survive puberty for if thirty years later I’m going be squinting in the Clearasil aisle at the drugstore trying to figure out which of the options available works best on a saggy thorax?

Your breasts are supposed to sit right up under your chin from the moment they unexpectedly sprout on your chest until your ninety-ninth birthday, but you know what? I can’t do it. I do not have perky tits, and that’s okay. I think my “pinning my nipples to the nape of my neck” days are over, dude. One of the things that I keep telling myself, over and over again like a mantra, is “people already know what your body looks like, so you don’t have to try anymore.” MY BREASTS ARE SHAPED LIKE SUMMER SQUASH. Just as I am unwilling to fight with gravity as it ravages my face, these large bags of wet sand hanging below my clavicles are no longer going into daily battle against physics.

Are they even? Are they lifted? Are they separated? Does the band fit? Is the cup right? Does the underwire dig? Is the bra flat against your skin? Does it create weird lumps under your clingy sweaters? Is it lacy? Is it breathable? Is it scratchy? Does it wick moisture? (I heard that’s a thing you’re supposed to want.) Wait a minute, what were we talking about again?

Theoretically, everyone loves a strong, broad shoulder, but no one tells you how to get one. So, I guess you either have to be born with them or that’s what those odd machines at the gym that make you look like a bird flapping its painfully heavy wings are for.

Michelle Obama is the gold standard for arms, and I’m sure there’s a BuzzFeed interview with her trainer on how they got that way, but life is fucking short. Invest in some nice cardigans. Put Vaseline on your elbows. Wear sweatshirts 365 days a year. Get arm definition lifting a coffee cup.

Armpit care and maintenance is a Whole Thing. You could, like I have, eschew all the possibilities and just let it go full lycan, occasionally spraying some herbal deodorant that doesn’t work into your dark arm cave to keep wild dogs off you. Or you could wax or sugar or depilatory or shave or laser the hair off, dab it with something to prevent in-growns (?), powder it, and deodorize it. Every day? Every couple of days? Weekly? I guess that all depends on what kind of hair you have and whether or not you are taking beauty vitamins. I definitely am, by the way, because I love an easy fix even if it isn’t real. The sheer number of available deodorants to choose from is staggering. I don’t know how a person could be expected to make an informed decision without getting a bachelor’s degree in chemistry first. It used to just be like, “Do you want to smell baby powder or cherry blossoms every time you raise your arm in class?” Now it’s, “HEY, WOULD YOU RATHER BE SWEATY ONE HUNDRED PERCENT OF THE TIME OR DESTROY YOUR FUCKING BRAIN?”

My hands have been dry since 1987 no matter how much bag balm I rub on them, and for real, though, I don’t even touch that many people, so whatever.

I got a manicure a few days ago, which is a thing I rarely do because—we’re all friends here—I don’t give a fuck. But I was going to a party that night and you know how parties are, just a bunch of