"You're having a lousy streak. I happen to be having a terrific streak. Soon the world will be back to normal. Tomorrow you will meet a crown head of Europe and marry. I will have a fat attack, eat 300 peanut butter cups, and die."*

   I thought that by the time I turned 30 I would have myself all figured out. I’m pretty sure I’ve brought this up before: I was convinced that 30 was the year when everything got settled.

   So…yeah…that didn’t happen. And that’s okay.

   Here’s something weird, though: a few days back, when I was still in Omaha, my youngest sister, Penelope, said the following: “Lacey’s the smart one; Lizzy’s the most fashionable; and I’m the nicest…?” I actually don’t know how the statement ended because I was immediately offended by not being considered the most fashionable (though I’m definitely not) and incredibly proud of being considered the smartest (also a stretch). Penelope probably said something to the effect of “the most ignored whilst handing out superlatives.” Sorry, P. (And for the record, Penelope: you are the weirdest, quirkiest, kindest and most original...among other traits.)

   Before I left Omaha, Ouisa gave me a pair of GORGEOUS brown leather, high-heeled boots that she said she could never wear because, at five-foot-ten, she feels too tall for three-inch heels. She described it as feeling like a “giraffe on roller skates.”

   And then my Aunt Mel had me over for coffee and we spent a good twenty minutes playing with a feature on a plastic surgeon’s website that allows you to see how you’d look with a few less chins, a bigger rack and Angelina Jolie’s lips. And Aunt Mel, despite being one of the most beautiful, smart and confident women I know, copped to feeling like she spends most of her day thinking about her meals and how much she’s exercised and if she should do 40 squats before bed to make up for the cream in her coffee.

   So, okay, most of this is self-evident: women hate themselves. Yes, yes, everyone knows that. But I really don’t want to spend my life feeling like a fat, ugly cow when, in all actuality, I’ll probably be 87 some day (if I make it that long) and I’ll look back at pictures of myself now, at 30, and think: damn, I was pretty hot!

   So I’ve decided to make a conscious effort to quit hating how I look, despite the fact that I’m not 5’10, I’m not the stylish one, and I consistently appear to be 4-months-pregnant, despite the 9 million crunches I do every week. Life’s too short. And seeing how beautiful the women around me are, who also think they’re heinous trolls, I have an idea that I’m not as hideous as I think I am.

*From Rhoda, my soul sister on The Mary Tyler Moore Show,who always thought she was ugly but was truly beautiful all along...