Because 2008 isn’t just the summer of expensive corn and Obama-rama, it’s also the summer of TMI. Over-sharing has become a form of communication for our generation; from blogging about bad dates, to blogging about our self-indulgent issues, to blogging purely to become famous. No matter who we are, we can become stars overnight by uploading naked photos, name-dropping about a wild party, or simply having an ounce of literary ability and a snarky way with words.

By late July, 2008, the percent of people in the US who haven’t seen a celebrity vajayjay flash or heard someone say, “dude, I’m gonna blog about this!” is monumentally small, and it seems like every day a new gossip or 24 hour news site pops up. However, amidst the clattering of fingers on keyboards and snapping of flashbulbs, I can’t help but wonder if this constant need to be seen and heard is actually doing us any good.

Is all this over-sharing about our drug, drink, and sexual exploits really helping women cultivate a strong, intelligent persona? Do we feel more empowered now that Britney, Lindsay, and Paris have made trashy the new black? Are our lives more complete now that we know what David Beckham had for breakfast?

These aren’t rhetorical questions. As a twenty-something myself, I really want to know:

In this age of over-sharing, are you confident about yourself and your image? Are you proud of how we as women have represented ourselves in the media?

Vote in our poll, and write in our comments — this is your chance to tell the world exactly how you feel.

I knew most of that stemmed from my self-esteem issues and lack of sexual opportunity, but I didn’t care. Sex was serious, important and emotional; people should be waiting for that special someone to share it with, instead of just throwing it away on some random dude.

Then I met that special someone, developed that deep and emotional connection, and had sex. And as soon as it was over I thought to myself, “That’s it?” It’s not that it wasn’t good, it is just that the actual act of sex was so…technical. The heat, passion and feeling I was looking for was there, but it wasn’t any different than when we were just holding hands, kissing or spooning while watching a movie. I didn’t feel any different about him after the sex than I did before.

But I did feel differently about sex.

That night, and the many that followed, made me realize that for such a seemingly simple act sex is a very complicated thing. It can mean many things to many people, and, with each situation, many things to a single person. It isn’t always about love or passion. And it doesn’t have to be.

My sexual escapades have been about everything: love, power, affection, self esteem, pain, healing, guilt, passion, need, loneliness, fun, humor. I have had experiences that made me feel like crap and experiences that made me realize how witty, sexy and wonderful I really am. I have had sex to get over someone; sex to get back at someone; sex just for the great story I could tell the next day. I have had sex with someone I loved and sex with someone I just met.

Sex isn’t simply an act of love. Or an act of lust. It isn’t just one thing. It is an ever-changing act that is different for every one, every time. Whatever the reason at that moment, I love sex. Love it.

And I won’t judge you for doing the same.

A couple of times a week, I work at this real fancy office. All high rise, and gold leafing, and Prada shoe stores on the bottom floor. I mean, I had to go shopping for clothes just to feel non-stupid walking into this building. It’s fancy. Midtown New York. Sometimes I even think I see famous people walking the hallways…but I think anyone in a well-pressed suit or 4 inch heels is famous.

Anyway, the fanciness of the building is not my issue. The issue is that in the office where I work, there is only one bathroom. And this bathroom is off a small hallway that is right off of the main receptionist’s (except it’s a guy. Do you call a guy a receptionist?) desk.

Now, I have not been at this place very long, and I’m pretty sure most people still don’t know my name. The point being, it’s not an unfriendly atmosphere, but I’m not exactly walking around in slippers and talking about recent (or non-recent, as is more likely) sexual exploits around the water cooler.

So like, when I have to pee–or, even worse, more than pee–I feel radically uncomfortable and totally talk myself out of using the bathroom until A) I can’t deny my body any longer or B) the day ends and I can rush home and lock the door behind me.

I know it makes no sense for a free-spirited, strong willed, confident feminist like myself to have a total bathroom neurosis, but that’s what I have. A bathroom neurosis. And it blows. Because I drink a lot of water and coffee.

…And sometimes the bakery I pass on my way to work has killer cranberry-bran muffins calling my name from the storefront window.

My rational brain knows this restroom worry makes no sense (when you gotta pee, you gotta fucking pee!), but I’m still totally afraid of being that new girl who everyone can hear peeing or spraying air-freshener after the toilet flushes. I mean, even though a little potpourri can cover up the remnants of a post-bran muffin visit, the next person who walks in there still knows you sprayed Oust in there for a specific reason.

Plus, I feel like being a chick only makes this issue worse. Society is totally okay with dudes pooping. Guys walk freely into dorm bathrooms. whistling and holding newspapers. They make jokes about it afterward. Which they share with you. So a guy walking out of a-just-sprayed-room (but let’s be honest, how many of them would really think to spray?) is totally acceptable, but a girl…?

To a lot of people, the idea that women have bodily functions completely wrecks the balance of life.

So, yes. I have a bathroom neurosis. And it makes me feel all weak and dirty inside, but I can’t seem to fight it. I think maybe what I need is advice. Or other funny bathroom fear stories. Or calm, gentle words to tell me to stop being such a sissy ass.

So let’s hear it!