If I Were You

By Susan Bergstrom

I am a former supermodel but was ousted from the industry. Other models complained that I was underweight, therefore a poor example for young girls. Further, their jealousy was fueled by feedback regarding my work which unanimously concluded that my features are enviably classic, my complexion like a fairys brow dusted with sugar and my eyes portals to Eden. Okay, seriously. My mom did some work as a model. I look exactly like my Dad. It was Natures mistake.

Ive made a lot of mistakes, too. My high school yearbook is filled with anecdotes beginning with, Remember the night you had to get a skin graft on your tongue? or Ill never forget the time you used a lighter to get rid of your underarm hair. My utter lack of forethought has rendered me supremely qualified to deliver written guidance on avoiding lifes catastrophes. The following is a bit of counsel from If I Were You, a humorous survival manual for women.

First, stay off your back. Moms Cow and Free Milk lecture has merit despite its correlation between women and barn chattel. And Im not judging. I, too, am guilty of premarital, shall we say, lactation.

Speaking of ill-timed amour, what is with this cougar thing? Since when is Mrs. Robinson a rallying anthem for suburban moms? Those kitties should consider the variables. For example: Will a pregnancy-scare send the boy-toy running? Of course, in this case its probably just menopausal onset.

When I was a kid, our mothers were suitably sexually irrelevant. They wore Hillary Clinton-esque pant suits or baggy sweatshirts with huge Tigger and Eeyore appliqus. They didnt parade their Pilates-honed figures around our boyfriends.

Im just saying

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: May 16, 2012
• ISBN: 9781477203415

Susan Bergstrom

Susan Bergstrom was raised in a backwoods Massachusetts town with no mall, movie theater, bowling alley or McDonald’s for miles in any direction. Hence, she learned to drink hyperbolically around bonfires with older boys. Later, she earned a BA and M.Ed. from the University of Massachusetts @ Lowell while jelly-face drunk. Her college years were spent mastering stalking as a viable alternative to dating. In fact, she found one young man so captivating that she rented the vacant apartment beneath his. Despite his predilection for loudly playing Smokey Robinson’s “Tears of a Clown” prior to dawn each morning, Ms. Bergstrom maintained that the situation was preferable to an actual relationship. Consequently, she grew lonely. One night in a crowded bar she looked up from her beer and announced to anyone who would listen, “I’m going to marry a cowboy.” She drove from Massachusetts to Colorado, found a man who drove a pickup, chewed tobacco and wore Wranglers. Eight months later they married and lived happily ever after.

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© 2012 by Susan Bergstrom. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 05/01/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4772-0342-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-0341-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012908484

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

INTRODUCTION

If I Were You is a manual for daily life. The incalculable wisdom imparted via these pages was obtained at inestimable cost through my youthful, unmitigated lack of judgment. Topics include dating, workplace conflict, child rearing, in-law relations, friendship, travel, fashion and aging.

First, I must confess a personal affinity for the proverbial bad boy, dreaming of my prince in a monster truck with a Budweiser clamped between his knees. Poor judgment also manifested itself in my career. As a teacher, during a meeting called to inform faculty that a student suffered from O.D.D. (oppositional defiance disorder) I was the genius who disposed of political correctness and asked, How can we tell he’s not just a brat? My contract was not renewed the following year.

And in the crucial category of family relations, there was the time I told Grandma she was the sole inspiration for Oil of Olay. Okay, it was harsh, but context is important. We were sitting down to Thanksgiving dinner when she spat turkey into her napkin declaring, This bird’s drier ‘n menopause. Then she started in on me. You’d best lay off the gravy, Susan, her eyes roamed my figure like buffalo on the range, You’re goin’ to fleshiness. That comes from your father’s side.

Finally, in the area of style, I confess to having worn a jumper, that formless, shift-like, sack dress favored by female educators.

So. It is with vast experience that I have compiled this handbook. It is my gift to the women of the world, that they may not repeat my history.

CHAPTER ONE

Dating

Don’t accept a cheap engagement ring. And if you do, don’t cry to me when your husband sends you a Pajama Gram for Valentine’s Day. He’s also the guy who’ll purchase a Vermont Teddy Bear wearing tiny, silk boxer shorts covered in hearts. Forget the dream trip to Maui. By your twenty-fifth anniversary, you’ll be resigned to a rented cabin in the Poconos with a stained, braided rug, moldy shower and bedding with hairs of unknown origin woven into it.

Further, Mom’s Cow and Free Milk lecture, despite its unfortunate correlation between women and barn chattel, is worth a listen. And I’m not judging. I, too am guilty of premarital, shall we say, lactation.

Here’s my advice: Do not submit to false modesty. Do not be the girl who shyly extends her left hand, exhibiting a sterling band capped with an infinitesimal diamond chip. Ah, yes, your gaggle of young friends will appropriately coo over the microscopic gem. They are also scattering furtive prayers on the wind that they may not share such misfortune. And I say to them: You are duty bound. Be bold. Step forth from the throng and deliver the prophecy, Wow. So, like, you’re gonna keep working, right? I mean, when you have kids, they’ll need food . . .

All right. Presently, we should be in agreement. If not, you will be bereft of my sympathy when you’re divorced and driving a ‘74 Nova. For those wise enough to heed basic common sense, we’ll now examine various male archetypes from a marriage-ability platform. Of course we’ll begin with the iconic Bad Boy.

Physically, he hasn’t changed much through the ages. His build is slight to medium with any extra weight carried in the gut since a bubble butt is an instant disqualifier. Generally, his features are angular and his nose beakish. He wears his hair longer than socially permissible, and in my day this included the mullet. By the way, today’s persecution of those Civil War Era tresses is mystifying. The style is positively alluring on NASCAR drivers, professional hockey players and all Southern men. I dare any red-blooded woman to look me in the eye and deny it. My thighs are twitching at the mere mention of it. But back to the subject at hand . . .

The Bad Boy drives a nearly antique Camaro or corroded pick-up truck set on gigantic tires. Undoubtedly, the rear window features either the Playboy logo or the equally immortal naked lady silhouette. His idea of romance is a night at Shakey’s where he yanks you onto his lap between rounds of pool and buys your first beer. Never a second or third.

Later in the parking lot, someone backs into his car leaving a miniscule smudge on the bumper. Bad Boy shatters the guy’s nose. Your dreams of abridged, drunken sex are thwarted by arresting officers. At day break, undaunted, you slide into the jeans that lift your butt, carefully apply makeup and bring coffee over to county lockup and bail him out. Then the phone doesn’t ring for two weeks though you’ve shamelessly left ten messages.

Your friends are weary of the drama, the endlessly forecasted conclusion to