Fantz column: Insecure in skin
Christy Fantz
Fantz column: Insecure in skin

Dear Christy,

Hi. How are you? Cool. So anyway, I am a serial monogamist. Now I am single. It sounds like fun to play the field but I stink at flirting and I’m always afraid dudes are not going to like my body. I know this is silly. Do you have any tips on how to get over my lame insecurities? P.S. All of my exes thought I was rad nekkid, so I know this is in my head.


Oh so pretty:

Oh, Cartwoman, come here. Sit on my lap. Let’s chat.

Why do we hate our bodies? It’s unfortunate, but all flavors, shapes and sizes have insecurities. It may be society, it may be how we were raised — maybe it’s mean people, maybe it’s Mel Gibson. (I bet it’s Mel Gibson.)

Who knows? But know this: Confidence is the sexiest bitch you can pull out of those Spanx all day long. It’s what matters on the inside — it’s your guts, not your gut. We are all gorgeous creatures.

“That’s only what ugly people say,” say jerks. Well those “ugly” pretty souls are getting fresh ass all over town.

Your insecurities aren’t lame, they’re normal. Whether it’s a zit, a stray hair, a hole in the ass of pants, we all have them. You need to push those thoughts out of your head and replace that extra brain space with bong hits and Taco Bell. (Then wear that Taco Bell with pride. But first, eat a Gas-X.)

Husband can tell me every day that if he drove a sports car, he would prefer to hug curves rather than drive a straight line. So even though I sometimes cry on the inside, I rock my hips on the outside with confidence. And black clothing.

Now, everybody look in the mirror, spin around and do a Michael Jackson crotch grab. Ride the bull, slap that ass and scream, “I’m pretty!”

Most importantly, when people tell you’re pretty, say thank you and believe them. Because you are.

Now get the hell out of my pants.

(Also, get off my lap, you’re crushing me. Kidding.)

Dear Christy,

What are you wearing?

—A fan

Sugar tush:

I wish I could say something sexy, but I’m saving that for my rendezvous with your girlfriend later.

Right now I’m wearing frizzy hair. It looked gorgeous until it got tossed (like your dad’s salad) by gale-force winds. Now it looks like something a bird would poop eggs in.

I spiced up the usual knee-high socks/skirt outfit du jour with a set of leggings adorned with Hollywood landmarks. I’m a starfucker. But mainly, they were three bucks at Urban Forever H&M.

I swapped the storied black Chucks for boots because my toes are starved from blood that my gams won’t share. (It’s probably Ebola.)

The uniform comes complete with glasses, as childbirth has rendered my eyeballs incompatible with contacts, forever and ever, amen. (I think my eyeballs are squares now.)

Oh, and I have your mom’s face sewn into the crotch of my underwear. I super glued the Rolling Stones’ tongue logo on top of her head. Your girlfriend likes it when I wear those panties.

Now go creep on someone else, weirdo.

Christy Fantz: 303-473-1107, or