If I Were You

About the Book

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 fairy’s 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 Nature’s mistake. I’ve 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 “I’ll 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 life’s catastrophes. The following is a bit of counsel from If I Were You, a humorous survival manual for women. First, stay off your back. Mom’s “Cow and Free Milk” lecture has merit despite its correlation between women and barn chattel. And I’m 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 it’s 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 appliqués. They didn’t parade their Pilates-honed figures around our boyfriends. I’m just saying…

About the Author

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.