I’m from the cohort of Millennials who didn’t get to buy houses unless we pulled off a significant hustle and/or asked our parents for help. Me and most my pals did neither, so we got to our mid-thirties and found that after we paid for our cheap rent and aspirational vegetable baskets, we had a few extra $5 bills. What would we spend them on?

Every Friday night, over slices of pizza the size of our heads, me and my two bombshell besties shoot the shit, swapping the past week’s drama and expenditures. From library books on the mother wound to fast fashion sweatpants.

The drama: A Gay Husband is gaslighting. A parent has triggered adverse childhood experiences. A suitor has proposed clubbing.

The expenditures: A standing desk ($499). Perfume that smells like a man with means ($230) A five-minute bikini wax ($55 for pandemic accumulation). And then suddenly we’re talking about ageing.

For my liposuction speech, I don’t remember doing much research beyond watching a few illicit episodes of Entertainment Tonight. Here’s the whole thing:

Liposuction and Beautifying Methods

By Erica J. Schmidt, February 1998 (age 12) (…)

I was three years old when I first got the clear sense that I was too large. Too large to feel weak. Too large to be protected. Mainly, too large for my mother.

In my life’s great mythology, it all starts with a trip to the Toronto zoo. My sister and I skip along in our sundresses, pausing at the elephants and the giraffes, who we learned on Sesame Street grew their long necks so they could reach the leaves at the top of the trees. The sun feels warm as we make the boardwalk rumble with our feet, our parents close behind. “Let’s go this way,” I announce to my family, and I go that way. But no one follows.

In grade eight, I chose “liposuction and beautifying methods” for my public speaking topic. It began,

“Ladies and gentleman, judges, teachers, and fellow students—all around the world, women aren't satisfied with their appearances. They feel that their noses are too big, their bottoms jiggle when they walk, and their ears stick out too much. Every morning, thousands of women despair in front of the mirror because they don't believe that they are what society considers as ‘beautiful.’”

—Erica J. Schmidt, February 1998, age 12

Growing up, I read ceaselessly. I read while walking the four-and-a-half blocks from the swimming pool to my high school. I read while torturing myself on the Stairmaster, my book propped up on the display so I couldn’t see how many calories I’d burned but could still pump my arms with hand weights. I read in bed. I read at meals. I never wasn’t voraciously plowing through a book. Then I signed up for an English degree.

So many of my friends reminisce of their youth when they used to devour book after book. “What happened?” they wonder. Do we all have ADHD from Instagram reels? Is it our tired thyroids? Vitamin D deficiencies?