Just a muscle man shirt ($20) and a navy blue one-piece ($20-$40) and you're set.

I don't always use my Halloween costume to make a political statement. Sure, I've gone as Sandra Fluke and microaggressions. I even went as the Little Mermaid -- before​ it was controversial! But I've also gone as Bethany Hamilton (a disabled female surfer I admire) and a spoonbill, just because I like them.

But in 2022, women's rights are under attack in a profound way -- and that attack is coming from the regressive left. 

Which is why this is the year to poke fun at anti-woman activists who want to erase women's sex-based rights, sports, and female-only spaces.

Rocking my favorite white jeans on Chincoteague Island. Image: @TheHappyTalent

I really shouldn't do this, but I'm going to let you in on a super top secret girl secret: 

No, women do NOT want pants with pockets.

I spend enough time mountain biking, camping, and surfing, that people assume I'm not a "Disney person."

The truth is, I freaking love Disney. As someone who loves music, art, playfulness, psychology, engineering, and business, how could I not be in awe of the magic of this place? 

But I did have one experience during my last visit to Disney that was ​not quite so magical.

"What song did you listen to today that made your day?" someone asked me on Quora recently. 

I'm going to be honest: it's my own Eva Via original song, I Wrote My Number on His Hand. 

​Here are three reasons why:

The problem isn't your height. It's your mind. 

Happiness can always be found at Elsewhere. Image: The Happy Talent

I'm NOT "wandering" or "finding myself." I'm on a MISSION. Image: The Happy Talent.

I'm shocked I even have to say this — but it appears I must. 

I received a highly offensive reminder from Kaiser Permanente recently: "People with a cervix should receive a screening for cervical cancer every three years."

Setting aside the fact that I am not comfortable receiving care from a medical team that thinks "woman" is a dirty word and would prefer to refer to me as body parts and vaginal discharges, this reminder made me angry because exclusive, woman-erasing language like this literally kills women, harming the most marginalized women the most. 

"Everyone knows you have to wait at LEAST two weeks before you tell someone you love them!" I declared to an audience a few weeks ago at the Apalachicola Ice Company. 

"Two weeks!?" someone contested. 

"At LEAST two weeks -- but not more than three!"

It was kind of a joke... but kind of serious.