Dear Perfection,

You’re a bitch. Not as in difficult or overwhelming. Not as in hard or strenuous. But as in, you’re a bitch. A real, bona fide, obnoxious, who-do-you-think-you-are…bitch. You make me want to scream.

Dear Body, This Valentine’s Day, I wanted to apologize for a few things, and tell you how much I appreciate you—all of you. I know I don’t tell you enough. So, here it goes…

Legs. I often grab you and make fun of you, but then you continue to support me to get to where I need to go, to run, to twirl, to dance, to cuddle. I’m so thankful for you. I promise to be as kind to you as you have been to me. Thank you for forgiving me—You truly are beautiful, and quite helpful.

Butt. Sometimes I tell you I want you to be smaller, but the truth is, you make me feel sexy, no matter what the magazines say. It’s kinda’ hard to admit, but seriously--keep being you. Oh, and I’m so sorry for squeezing you into pants you clearly don’t want to be in. I really appreciate that you get it.

This month Soapbox Therapy and Primer Magazine give the boys a little somethin' to chew on--here's a taste...

Moral of the story: Don’t be afraid to be confident, women love it…and…know the difference between confidence and cockiness. Confident men know themselves and can stand tall in who they are, cocky men have no idea who they are and do everything they can to convince you otherwise.

This month The IS Collection is coming clean with Soapbox Therapy! Check it out...

A funny thing happens to your authentic inner amazing fabulous self and your hopes and dreams and goals and talents and creativity, when they don’t get expressed to the world. When you keep them inside, afraid and unsure of your interest in letting them be seen and heard and witnessed and challenged. They get stuck, weigh you down, and, drum roll please…make you depressed. Yes, really.

Not the I-just-lost-someone-or-something kind of depression. Not the transition and change and new chapter of life kind of depression. Not the post or pre or during or after that new thing started or that old thing ended kind of depression. This is the I-have-no-idea-why-I-feel-so-down-and-dark-and-heavy-and-I’ve- talked-and-analyzed-and-told-my-story-from-childhood-to-now-and-haven’t-yet-found-a-clue--kind of depression.