Winona Dimeo-Ediger

In 1897, a little girl named Virginia O’Hanlon wrote a letter to the editor of the Sun, asking if there was a Santa Claus.

Dear bikini manufacturers: Not all short, curvy women want to channel their inner Marilyn Monroe.

I’d been so busy patting myself on the back for conquering my big fears, I failed to acknowledge that the types of things that scare me had shifted. A lot of the obvious stuff didn’t bother me anymore — but what about all the smaller, more personal things that still scared the living shit out of me?

Career-wise, you’re the boss, or, if you’re not the boss yet (emphasis on YET), you’re the boss’s dream, going above and beyond in every way. You tend to define yourself by your job title, and the thought of letting go of that identity gives you hives (this might be something you want to work on, Group A). Your desk is so beautifully organized it could be part of a MOMA exhibit called, “The Artful Workspace: A Retrospective.”

Dear Winona,

Suffering from a severe case of the frumps? Not anymore.

"These days, I don’t shop at the mall very often, but every once in a while when I find myself at a mall — any — I’m overcome by a wave of nostalgia for my salad days (although perhaps “Sbarro calzone days” would be a more fitting expression here). In many ways, I grew up in these chain stores and pretzel kiosks. And sometimes I feel compelled to write melodramatic poetry about it."

Stage one: annoyance. Stage five: obsession!

I grew up way out in the country, and lying in bed at night I used to gaze out my window and think, “Maybe someday I’ll live in a cool apartment in the city where I can walk to stuff.” That was literally my big dream of far-off adulthood.

scarf virtuoso. entrepreneur. bjork fan.