When Tinder Makes You Question Everything You've Ever Wanted

When I was 10 years old I met Benny Disco.  We had a mutual family friend and were invited to swim over at their family's pool.  It was love at first sight.  Benny was 12 (swoon).  He had rosie cheeks and a chubby body and I was smitten.  It was destiny.  That is until he and the older kids went to play basketball in the driveway and I went home with my mom because I wasn't about to be the chubbiest, shortest girl on pavement.

Years passed and Benny floated in and out of my life (I'm totally lying he had no idea who I was). Benny went to a private high school and then some college, I assume.  I drunkenly friended him on Facebook one night in college on a dare from my BFF. She did it, too, in solidarity, of course.  The funny thing about my schoolgirl crush on Benny is that I rarely remember his name (which obviously isn't actually Benny), so I always need confirmation from my friend when we potentially see him out at a bar, or someone mentions a group of his friends.  "Jane, it's Benny and it's so weird that you always say that you love him!"  Whatever.

A few months ago I was doing my classic nighttime ritual - wash face, brush teeth, put on pj's, swipe through Tinder - when the most amazing, serendipitous match flashed before my eyes. There he was, Ben, 23, first pictured walking in some tropical location. Next, holding a fish or a dog or something (I actually can't remember, but everyone on Tinder fishes or has a dog, I think).

This. Was. Fate. 

I swiped right. He swiped right. It's a match, we were meant to be! I imagined he would message me eventually. Noticing our mutual Facebook friends, connecting the dots, realizing he has always (randomly, without reason) had a schoolboy crush on me, too.  We would meet, hit our stride, and be together forever ....or for a beer..... but that was not the case.

Benny and I have been matched for 5 months now, and you know what?  I totally forgot about it until the other day when Benny did the unthinkable! He posted a Tinder moment - for those of you who don't know, a Tinder moment is a photograph that can be seen by all of your Tinder matches for 24 hours.  I, myself, have posted a moment or two (or 15... 3 of which have been liked by Super Bowl Champion, Legarrette Blount, thank you very much!), but Benny's was nothing like my basic "hotdogs or legs" photo on the beach.  Benny's photo was much, much more than that.

I sat there, in my driver's seat horrified, staring at Benny's, what I'm going to call, Little Benny ready for the Disco.... right there on TINDER for all to see with the caption "someone come help me with this?"  BENNY, ARE YOU KIDDING ME?! My cheeks flushed.  Benny was supposed to be sweet and innocent and not putting his package on the internet! My hopes, my dreams, my everything came crashing down.  How could I have been so wrong?!

And that was when I got to thinking, I'm probably wrong about a lot of things. We make these snap judgments and let our first impressions of people stick - good or bad - and then sometimes we are unwavering in our convictions and opinions.  While I'm obviously exaggerating my Benny epiphany, I am sort of serious.  I think it's healthy to reevaluate our goals, our dreams, and truly take a look at what we want and why we want it.  It's like when you see a blue dress on JCrew.com and you are so obsessed with it until you walk into the store and try it on and you look like Violet from Willy Wonka (no? just me?). We are terrible at predicting what we will want or feel in the future, so be ready to change your mind, have a change of heart, and swipe left on what you thought you couldn't live without.

To The Boy Who Asked Me To Dance: An Apology

I was just scrolling through my NewsFeed and saw that you posted a status about the snow.  You're writing a book?? Or making a joke.  I can't tell.  I never understood your sense of humor in high school.  Actually, I never really noticed you in high school, except for at our Freshman Semi-Formal.  I want to talk to you about that.

I really owe you an apology.  When I heard through the grapevine that you were thinking about asking me to the dance, I'm not sure if you know this, but I responded like a total bitch.  It's not like anyone else was asking me, but I thought I was too good for you.  I thought you were weird.  You were always wearing that polo shirt tucked into your khakis, walking around talking about books that no one had ever heard of.  You hung around with that wicked short skinny kid with the spiked messy hair.  He wore the same leather trench coat everyday and the two of you probably talked about... I have no idea what you could've been talking about, but I knew I was too cool for you. Well, I thought I was too cool for you, so back through the grapevine I sent the message that I wanted to go to the dance with my girlfriends. You know, to let you down easy before you actually asked me. 

That night I got all dolled up in my White House Black Market strapless dress (my tastes haven't changed much) and bobbed my head to the beat in a circle of my friends wishing silently that the cute boy on the basketball team would ask me to dance next slow song.  He didn't, but you did.  You walked right over, wearing your suit jacket and tie (totally overdressed in the sea of DEB dresses and Old Navy slacks) and asked if I would dance with you.  Feeling awkward and reluctant, but not wanting to be rude, I said yes. 

Your hands were all clammy and so was your brow line and I felt so embarrassed not wanting anyone to see us dancing together. I remember looking around the gym, thinking everyone was staring at me - at us.  My friends stood together a few feet away, some giggling, some giving me apologetic "it's almost over" glances. You weren't watching them though, you were looking right at me. 

Thirty seconds into the song, "I... uhm.. I have to go to the bathroom." 

That was the best I could do? Seriously?  I said it and I ran to the to meet my BFF and left you there, standing near the DJ, alone. And I am truly sorry. 

Because now here I am eight years later drowning in a sea of unanswered OkCupid messages, hoping that boys men will text me first, hold the door, or buy my beer.  I, like so many women, fall for guys who don't want to commit to me, nor be seen together in public.  I fall for the sorry-my-phones-been-dead-for-three-weeks texts and the I'm-not-looking-for-a-girlfriend-but-if-I-was-it-would-be-you excuses.  I would kill for a guy to approach me now with the same confidence you did at our first high school semi-formal.... to walk right up to me and ask me to dance right there in front of everyone.  I didn't know it then, but clearly you were too cool for me.

You probably still are, as far as FaceBook can tell me.  You understand that there is more to the world than what's right under  our noses.  You raise funds for dreamers, and watch movies and football, and read books, and still wear your shirts tucked into your khakis.  I'm sure you're doing well, and I hope you are.  So, even if you don't remember this night, I wanted to tell you that I do, and I wanted to say that I'm sorry.  You deserved a better dance partner. 

There Is Nothing Cute About Raccoons

The following is a list of 10 of the most important lessons I have learned so far as a single twenty-something in the infamous proverbial "real world."  Just here to share some wisdom, take it or leave it - but seriously take it because even though I don't have my life together, some of these gems are really legit. 

1.  Beer does not put out the buffalo chicken flame.

This may sound like common sense to some of you; however, you can't imagine how many times I've been at dinner with someone who orders buffalo wings or a buffalo chicken sandwich with just a beer and no water!  They take a bite, swig the beer to null the fire and inevitably have to flag down the waitress for a glass of agua.  Do yourself and the waitstaff a favor and request a water ahead of time. 

2.  Fool me once, shame on you.

Fool me twice, still shame on you. 

If there is anything I have learned from being duped by guys, listening to my friends that have been duped by guys, and watching tons of RomComs where the girl is duped by the guy, it's this: blaming yourself is the absolute worst.  Does it totally suck that you gave someone a second chance and it doesn't work out? Yeah totally, but whatever.  If it had worked out differently you would've been psyched! So, give as many chances as you want and don't blame yourself for being optimistic, but when the hurting starts to outweigh the happiness, quit that shit cold turkey. Speaking of which...

3.  Quitters actually sometimes win. 

I quit everything that doesn't make me happy because I've come to find that quitting is not synonymous with failure.  From where I stand, everything in life falls somewhere on the spectrum between makes you unbelievably happy or makes you feel totally distressed, disheartened, and disappointed.  So, once something has crossed over the center line, tips-the-scales or whatever in the wrong direction, I'm out. I'm 22. I have a lifetime ahead of me to be happy, I don't need to spend any more time, energy, or money doing something that causes me more stress than good.  The happier, the better. 

4.  Most things in life are not permanent

(except like, tattoos and final sale items). 

Whenever you make a decision, no matter how big or small, you gotta remind yourself that it is not set in stone.  I mean obviously if you make the decision to quit your job and call your boss an "effin' bitch" or something, that's probably permanent, but most things that you do are not.  If you move to a new city and it doesn't work out, you're not stuck there.  If you go out with a guy and meet his family too soon, you don't need to marry him.  You, my single 20-something sista, are beholden to you right now, make decisions accordingly. 

5.  Fergie was onto something when she was up in the gym
working on her fitness with a witness. 

I know I just told you that you're beholden to yourself, but from what I've found it helps to have someone else keeping tabs.  If you set a goal, like fitness or finding a job or not wearing sweats every day of the weekend (some of my own goals obviously) then it's good to share that goal with someone else.  Not so that person can shame you when you're not doing it, but so that there's someone else who knows what you're working on and can support you or tell you to get your ass in gear.  I'd pick a friend that shares the same goal, that can be honest with you without being insulting. 

6.  No one can see the size on your tag. 

Please read that carefully again.  NO ONE CAN SEE THE SIZE ON YOUR TAG! There are only two times you really wonder what size someones clothes are.  1.) when it's your friend and she looks bangin' and you find yourself reenacting that creepy "lemme borrow that top" YouTube video; or 2.) whatever that girl is wearing looks way too big or way too small.  The second instance is what you want to avoid.  Here's the thing, you look better when your clothes fit. People can't see for sure that you're wearing an XS, but they can see what you look like in that size. Be confident in yourself, wear the clothes that fit your body, and forget about the stupid XS-XL labels tacked to the back of your neck, it's on the inside of your shirt, not plastered on your forehead. 

7.  The only investment you can make with certainty is in

a timeless wardrobe. 

With every investment - time, money, emotion - you run the risk of the unexpected.  Someone falls out of love, something falls from the sky, somewhere falls on hard times; you cannot predict what will happen in the future.  You can (and should) make a plan, set a goal, work toward something, but don't beat yourself up if there's an unexpected trauma, tragedy, or change of heart.  I've learned the best investments are made in your passions at that moment and in the little black dress, nude heels, and wool socks. 

8. There is nothing cute about raccoons.

Women should be able to bronze without restraint or fear of judgement.  There is no worse make up fopaux than the rancid act of raccooning yourself.  There is noting cute about raccoons, dark eye make up, white everything else.  Bronze like nobody is watching, because honestly, no one is watching.  When you stumble into the bathroom after 4 vodka crans you don't want to find yourself looking like a trashed woodland creature.  Bronze, baby, bronze! Just find the shade that's right for your skin. Orange raccoons aren't majestic, they're creepy. (Recommendations include BareMinerals Warmth, Clinique True Bronzed Pressed Powder, Urban Decay Naked Flushed, etc). 

9. Online dating is hilarious, awkward, and a two-way street. 

I've referenced my online dating excursions enough for you guys to know that I'm obviously taking it sort of seriously.  In the time that I've been on OkCupid, Tinder, and POF (the former lasting about 5 hours), I've learned that it is what you make it.  I live in a small suburban town where I can't throw a dead cat 10 feet without hitting someone I knew in high school (that's like a wicked gross thing to say, but I heard that phrase once and have never used it before in context).  My point is that I don't live in some cool downtown apartment surrounded by yo-pros ready to sweep me off into the sunset and studies have shown that you're just as likely to meet your spouse at bar as you are to meet them online. So, even if I'm not doing myself any good, there's no harm in trying.  Plus, some of the post-date stories are party pleasers.  Shout out to the 6'8" leprechaun whose "guilty pleasure" was going to Miley Cyrus concerts, I hope you find what you're looking for. 

10. Secure your own oxygen mask before assisting others.

Ya know when you're on an airplane and the flight attendant tells you that in the case of an emergency an oxygen mask will fall from the ceiling in front of you (and not fully inflate, which gives me such anxiety)? Anyway, you're supposed to put it on yourself first before helping kids or old people or people who just cant figure out how the elastic pulley things on the sides work. The airline isn't telling you this because they're assholes, they're actually teaching a super important lesson about self-preservation.  You are no use to anyone if you're not breathing.  It's natural in your 20's to want to have it all together and be there for the people you care about (at least it seems natural to me) because inevitably your friend will fall flat on her face (literally if her heels are too tall, figuratively if she is also a typical twenty-something), and you're going to want to help her get back up, which will be IMPOSSIBLE if you are not breathing.  Take time for yourself.  Make sure you're shit is in order before taking on someone else's shit.  Secure your mask or whatever.  It doesn't mean you don't love the others around you, it means you want to be ready for when they need you most. 

PSA: Trouble in Shondaland

I have been a huge fan of Shonda Rhimes and ABC's Thursday nights for as long as I can remember.  I watched and fell in love with Derek Shepherd when he chose to spend his life with Meredith Grey.  I cried when Denny, George, McSteamy, and Lexie died.  I gasped when Olivia Pope's mother turned against her country, her marriage, and her daughter and smiled when Olivia and Jake stood in the sun. Most importantly I praised the ABC network for the strong convictions and political statements they made in Shondaland.  I was impressed in 2006 when they dismissed Isaiah Washington from the Grey's Anatomy cast for making homophobic comments.  I find the strong black female lead, Olivia Pope, truly breathtaking.  I have loved that ABC does not try to hide race, sexuality, nor mental health issues, but rather the network celebrated characters' differences, their struggles, and their identities.  All that, however, has changed.

The new commercials airing on the ABC network promoting the return of Shondaland shows are incredibly distasteful, to say the least.  For those of you who have not seen them, the new #TGIT commercials depict characters from Scandal, Grey's Anatomy, and How To Get Away With Murder  in a satirical public service announcements, describing symptoms and ways to cope with the fictitious disorder, TGIT Withdrawal Disorder.  The commercials are clearly a play on ads for prescription medications for those suffering from actual mental health disorders.  In one commercial, How To Get Away With Murder actor, Jack Falahee, makes the statement, "Having TGIT off the air hurts you, me, everyone" echoing the format of a commercial for the antidepressant, Cymbalta.


For a network that has put a positive spin on controversial political issues for so many years to turn around and paint mental health in a humorous light is appalling and, honestly, disheartening.  Main characters in Grey's Anatomy and Scandal have suffered variying levels of mental illness throughout the Shondaland legacy - characters like Meredith, Christina, and Owen have sought out aid from mental health professionals to overcome depression and PTSD; Bailey lived with obsessive compulsive disorder and anxiety; the Chief struggles with an alcohol addiction; Mellie lived with depression after the loss of her son - all of which made the characters even more accessible, even more believable, and even more inspirational when they eventually overcame and coped with their obstacle. What they hell is ABC doing endorsing commercials that make fun of those that actually suffer?

Mental illnesses are invisible disabilities that cannot be seen and are rarely heard.  Those that suffer do so in silence because of the stigma surrounding mental health disorders, the most common being that those suffering from depression are "being dramatic."  These #TGIT Withdrawal Disorder commercials are only reinforcing this unfair stigma by satirizing actual disorders, making them seem as trivial as longing for a television show.  The suggestion to "dance it out," as a way to cope with their superficial sadness is even more infuriating when you consider how many people cope with depression by engaging in dance, exercise, and listening to music.

This is not to condemn ABC and Shonda Rhimes as deliberate haters of mental health and those that live with mental illness; I am sure the commercials were not made with malicious intentions.  The fact of the matter is that they are perpetuating the negative stigma surrounding mental illness and the commercials should be stopped.  I am disappointed in the network's severe oversight that the #TGIT PSA's could be seen as making light of and poking fun at the severity of mental health disorders, and I hope that they take caution moving forward.

Until this point Shonda Rhimes and ABC have done a truly wonderful job breaking the stigma surrounding mental illness; they showed us that depression could truly hurt everyone and everywhere, that self-medicating with alcohol and other drugs was not an option, and that suffering in silence only leads to more suffering.  Most importantly Shonda Rhimes showed us that those who suffer can also stand in the sun.  She inspired us when Izzie got up off the bathroom floor, when Smelly Mellie put on her red dress, when Christina got out of the bathtub, and when Bailey stepped into the operating room again.  Shonda Rhimes and ABC have made strong political statements throughout their time that have helped break so many unfair stigmas across countless social constructs; these commercials, however, are a serious misstep made by a terrible lack of judgement on behalf of the network, Rhimes, and the millions of fans that are praising the humor and creativity of these commercials. 

When The (Fire) Ball Drops

2014 was the longest, shortest, craziest, loudest, quietest, loneliest, bitchiest, sleepiest, most excitingly disastrous year of my life.  I have felt proud, capable, and motivated. I have felt lost, alone, and useless. I have made friends, lost friends, kissed friends and gone to the ends of the Earth for friends.  I have eaten out, slept in, jogged, skipped, crawled and lived.  2014 is almost over - and I could not be more thrilled.

Ringing in the New Year in 2014, I had this mantra: New Year, Same Me.  In light of the end of my relationship and the start of the new year, I was standing by the affirmation that I had not been the problemn- that we didn't break up because of anything I did.  It's not that I wasn't good enough for him, it's that we weren't good for each other.  Honestly, I stand by some of those thoughts today; however, the New Year, Same Me motto took an unexpected turn because I was totally, completely and ultimately wrong about myself.  I was not the Same Me in 2014.  In fact, I could not be more different.  I was wearing tighter clothes, drinking harder liquor, stomping around in higher heels, and singing at the top of my lungs.  My hair was blonder and longer and I was rough around the edges.  Guys were no longer approaching me at the bar because I seemed like the sweet girl-next-door, I was approaching them with a chip on my shoulder and a glass of whiskey in hand.

In the past year, I've also developed an incredible cool fear of commitment, closeness, and comfort.  I've been on dates with some of the nicest guys (like President Fitzgerald Grant, whom I have recently dumped, sorry again!) and some of the douchiest guys (shout out to the 6'9" ginger who asked me what my 'guilty pleasure' was before the waitress took our drink order).  No matter the guy, no matter the number of dates, I knew I was calling it off, and almost every time, I've been right.  I've kept a distance, pretending I just wanted to keep things casual.  No one meets my family - about that I was a stickler.  Any mention of "exclusive," "dating," or commitments made more than one week in advance were out of the question... which is interesting, because the Me of 2013 played those words on loop incessantly, consistently, over and over again, like a bad Colbie Caillat song. 

So, thank God 2014 is over and I cannot wait to meet the actual New Me when the ball drops.  Instead of the kerchief open-back cheetah print top and black coated jeans I tried to sport last year (thanks to my mom for not letting my ass out of the house), I will be wearing some variation of a generic black cocktail dress...not form-fitting. .  I will sip a beer, but not too many.  I will dance in a circle with my girlfriends, instead of dancing up on a guy I don't know.  And I will NOT be ordering any shots of Fireball. 

In 2015 I will only be happy and healthy.  I will only be kind to myself and others.  I will only be a person that I admire - a person that I am proud to be.  I honestly can't wait until the ball drops.  I have a feeling it's truly going to be a happy new year. 

Crock-Pots and Christmas Elves

In lieu of exchanging gifts, my mother, three sisters, two brothers, additional in-laws, friends, boyfriends, and significant others over the age of 18 have a Yankee Swap on Christmas Eve.  The exact number of participants varies each year due to marriages, divorces, estrangements, break-ups, new homes (shout out to my BFF's family for moving an hour away), etc.  Regardless, every adult brings one gift to enter into the swap and leaves with a different one... Unless you, like myself, buy something special with yourself in mind, such as the 30 rack of Bud Light and rolls of paper towels I put in last year... It's funny, too, sometimes you end up with something you never expected. Like the year I received this Neckline Slimmer... or my mother ended up with this lingerie... 

But there is something that you can expect every year: the sister that I am babysitting for this week will inevitably bring a Crock-Pot.  I'm not kidding.  Every year, for as long as I can remember, someone has unwrapped a Crock-Pot.  Some years our mom takes pity and keeps it... again.  Some years my sister takes it back home, but no doubt, this year, I'm taking it.  After this week, I get why she brings the Crock-Pot to the swap: it works Christmas miracles! 

Being a parent is literally a full-time job. Kudos to all of those working parents out there, you're crushing it! Days are jam-packed with washing laundry, and doing homework, and grocery shopping, and basketball practice. The list is clearly never-ending.  Then, when you're trying to get stuff done and your kids are watching TV, they watch these shows where the moms have all day to prepare dinner and they wonder why you keep feeding them cereal for two meals of the day.  BUT low and behold, some genius out there invented a Crock-Pot, slow cooking tacos and meatballs galore! Isn't it nice to think that someone is out there looking out for us moms? (I'm including myself in that category until tomorrow morning). Which is a good thing, too, because there are some assholes out there just trying to make our lives harder! Like the jerk who created Elf on a Shelf. 

Meet Oodle - my sister's kids' Elf on a Shelf.

 

Oodle is like the anti-CrockPot.

He makes no one's life easier and brings anxiety to the Christmas season.  Out of the 5 days I have been a mom, twice I have forgotten to move Oodle before climbing into bed, and have had to get up in the middle of the night to find a new location for this bitch! I'll tell you, it is adorable watching my two nephews who still believe in Santa wake up and run around the downstairs looking for Oodle, but c'mon! Santa already sees you when you're sleeping! He knows when you're awake! And when you're not awake, Mom or Dad has to go find a new place for Oodle!  To make it worse, I've noticed that some parents aren't helping each other out.  Pinterest and Facebook are flooded with Elf on a Shelf ideas! Elves ice skating around the kitchen table. Elves writing notes to their families.  Elves building a freaking igloo out of marshmallows! RELAX, just move your Elf at night like everyone else and stop making it harder for others to keep up!

I get it.  Crafty moms and dads exist. Culinary moms and dads exist. Busy moms and dads exist.  Parents, just like kids, come in all shapes and sizes (if your size it too big, hit me up, I'll let you borrow my Neckline Slimmer), but my point is this: I've realized this week that parenting is a day-by-day vocation, and it's freaking hard! In my experience as a spoiled-rotten daughter, your kids have NO IDEA how much work you do so they probably don't thank you for 85% of what you spend your life doing to make theirs easier.... but that's okay.  Because someday, they will have kids of their own, or their sister will ask them to babysit for a week, and they won't remember that one time in 2013 when Oodle stayed in the same place for 6 days in a row... and they'll have no idea that the meatballs you heated in the Crock-Pot were actually frozen from Costco.  They'll be thankful that you tried, that you were invested, and that you were there.  Hang your hat on that this holiday season.  If you're a parent, you're a Rock Star!

Do Moms Take Naps? ...asking for a friend.

For about a week every year my brother-in-law is invited on a business trip to the Dominican Republic.  Spouses are invited, but kids are not.  Since my sister and brother-in-law have four boys, ages ranging from 7 to 17, a babysitter is undoubtedly required.  Generally, their trip to the Dominican falls during my college's finals week and the boys spend the week with their grandmother.  Three years ago, while they were on the trip, my nephew needed new black pants for his jazz band concert.  I was elected, at the ripe age of 19, to take him shopping for the pants.  Unfortunately, after trips to T.J.Maxx, Old Navy, and WalMart, I had come up with nothing, and he wore his too-short-Steve-Urkle slacks to the show.  Unsurprisingly, the shopping excursion ended with this tweet - a heartwarming and ultimately true affirmation from my (at the time) 12 year-old nephew: 

Now I'm 22.  Seasoned, mature, responsible.  I have graduated Magna Cum Laude with a Bachelor's degree in psychology with a double minor in sociology and writing.  I have taken courses in child development, human development, and childhood learning.  I understand token economies as the best way of forming and reinforcing good behavior, I know at what age the brain is fully developed, and I am currently reading Masterminds and Wingmen: Helping Our Boys Cope with Schoolyard Power, Locker-Room Tests, Girlfriends, and the New Rules of Boy World by Roselind Wiseman for pleasure.  

I am more than qualified to take care of my four nephews, so this week, I am playing mom for five whole days. 

You might be sitting there thinking, "five days is nothing!" and if you're thinking that, I am only on day two and I'm ready to assure you that you're totally and completely wrong... and clearly not a mother.  Holy. Shit.

The following are three of the lessons I've learned so far from my temporary stay in the land of parenting:

Motherhood Lesson 1: Seven (a.m.) is the new eleven.

Let us begin with a note about the sleeping differential between adults and children.  Adults, can generally stay up pretty late and would (if you ask me) prefer to sleep-in late.  My 7 year-old godson? Totally not into that arrangement.  Yesterday morning, I awoke to two little feet, with ten little cold toes climbing into my bunk (he requested that I sleep in his brother's bottom bunk instead of on the couch or in my sister's king size bed).  He squirmed his little piggies underneath the covers and under my leg to warm 'em up as I struggled to separate my top eyelids from the bottom ones.  This was at 7:30 a.m.  A time I haven't seen on a Saturday since my youth basketball days.  Which makes sense because that's where we were headed; recreational youth basketball.

Motherhood Lesson 2: Your kid is not looking at you until he's looking for you. 

Once we got to the gym, I realized I apparently missed the memo about all caretakers bringing their own fold up chair, so I stood for the hour.  Which I actually preferred because then I could follow my nephew's team around from station to station to watch him dribble, shoot, pass, etc.  Unfortunately, 7 year-olds, as I came to find, are not totally tuned into what their parents are doing while they're shooting hoops.  My nephew only noticed me during one station... where he assumed I sat the entire time. I, like I said, was actually moving to watch every one of his stations.  At the end of practice, when all six teams of second graders fled to the middle of the court, cheered together, and dispersed to find their rides home, I assumed he'd come meet me at the last station, having at least noticed that I was moving around the gym with his team. Boy was I wrong.  My nephew ran to where he had noticed me last: the opposite side of the gym.  The anxiety on his face was heartbreaking, as he stared at the spot I had stood during layups at Station Three... 35 minutes prior.  I made my way over to him, he was fine, and I decided that if my kid ever plays youth basketball, I'm going to be the coach. You can't lose the coach. 

Motherhood Lesson 3: Showers are a gift from God. 

My morning routine, outside of this weeklong experience, takes about 45 minutes. Wake up. Brush teeth. Make coffee. Shower. Blow dry. Make up. Clothes.  That would be an option this week if I started my day 45 minutes before the kids woke up! Except, who knows really what time that will be? Last night I found time to shower between 10:00 p.m. when the four youngins were finally sound asleep (two of my other sister's children slept over last night too: SLUMBIE!), my 15 year-old nephew was playing a video game, and my 17 year-old nephew was not yet home for his 11 p.m. curfew.  The shower was unbelievable, but blowdrying my hair seemed out of the question, I didn't want to wake anyone up with be blowdryer. Bedtime finally came at 11:30, when everyone was accounted for, in their rooms, asleep.  That meant 7 hours of sleep until my sister came to pick up two of the kids for hockey in the morning, but I didn't fall asleep right away.  I laid awake in bed for a few minutes running through the schedule for tomorrow, wondering when I would shower next...

Don't get me wrong, I am having a blast! The six person monkey-in-the-middle game yesterday was the most fun I've had in a long time!  My nieces and nephews are all great kids, but I can't say this enough: I am undeniably impressed with how hard my sisters and my own mom work.  I'm sure I will learn about 15 million more lessons before this week is up, so I'll keep you guys posted.  Also, I just have one really quick question: do moms take naps? ... asking for a friend. 

Link to Rosalind Wiseman's website: Masterminds and Wingmen has a sister-book, Queen Bees and Wannabes, as well as a book for parents about parents, Queen Bee Moms and King Pin Dads:

http://rosalindwiseman.com/publications/

A Message to Girls that Pass Judgment at the Gym

Stop. Just Stop. We are all here for the same reason... unless of course you are here to take selfies and socialize, then we've got different agendas.

Nothing drives me crazier than when I'm on the elliptical or the treadmill or the stationary bike and the girl next to me keeps peering over at my settings.  Yes, I am casually jogging at an incline of 8 and a resistance of 9.  I see that you're at a 10/12, YOU WIN!  It doesn't make any sense.  How long or how hard I work on my body changes literally nothing about yours.  At the end of the day, I still wear my size and you still wear yours.

I really do my best to not judge other girls at the gym for the sole reason that I don't want to be judged.  I can't run that far... a mile and a half to two miles tops and I'm pretty much maxed out, so when I'm feeling tired of running on the indoor track, I simply start to walk.  Let me tell you, I am getting tired of the judgmental looks I get when I start walking laps... Why are you judging me? I'm not sitting on the couch vegging out on Oreos and Easy Mac, I'm WALKING around the track!  Keep your eyes on your own prize.

Now, I will tell you that I have caught myself a time or two judging other girls at the gym.  Not the girls who walk/run their way around the track, not the girls that elliptical on a 4/5 incline-resistance combo, and not the girls that lift 10 pound weights instead of 25's.  The girls I have found myself accidentally giving the stink-eye are the girls who who are trying to look cute while they workout... and I know I shouldn't judge them, for all of the same reasons that I don't want to be judged: their workout doesn't affect mine, their body doesn't change mine, etc.  BUT for some reason I still catch myself doing it, and I think I've figured out why...

I used to be one of those girls.  I used to feel self-conscious walking into the weight room in front of the guys also working out at the gym.  I didn't want them to see me all sweaty and gross and looking like a total dude. So I would lift less to sweat less.  Then I met two girls who taught me the most important body-image lesson I have ever learned:

Why would I be at gym if I'm not going to work hard enough to work up a sweat?

I was being counterproductive! I was too worried about how I looked while I was working out, which wasn't doing my body any favors when I wasn't working out... good freaking point!

We all need to stop thinking about, looking at, and judging how everybody looks at the gym and we need to start focusing on the fact that we're all at the gym! Right? So, maybe instead of staring at the settings of the girl's elliptical next to you, you should tell that girl to keep it up! She's killin' it! 

All This Time I Was Finding Myself and I Didn't Know I Was Lost

Two years ago on Thanksgiving, I didn't really take time to reflect on what I was thankful for.  We went to dinner at my aunt's house.  I was disgruntled because my sister and her (at the time) fiance left for New York a day early and left me to suffer through the family dinner alone.  We had always gone to my grandfather's house for Thanksgiving, but he was too sick to host in 2012.  I left dinner early to head to the Outlets for - not one, but - two 8 hour shifts selling jeans and cardigans and statement necklaces to preteens and housewives and tourists alike.  Saturday morning, after the treacherous Black Friday from Hell, I literally took a car, a train, and a boat to spend the rest of the holiday with my boyfriend.  And I was thankful for that.

Last year, I wrote a blog post about how thankful I was (*and still am) for my brothers and sisters.  How we rally together and stand strong and how they've shown me what family truly is.  I was (*and still am) thankful for our relationships that could've easily been halved, but have instead flourished as full in the truest of ways.

This year, I am having a really hard time articulating what I'm grateful for, which actually sounds really freaking selfish.  Obviously I have things to be grateful for, after all, Instagram sent me huge reminders of that all weekend long...

But reading that quote over and over and over again got me to thinking.  What if there's not? What if the things I should be most thankful for are the things that I don't have.  And so, here is my list.  The first ever list of things I am thankful not to have this year:

I am thankful that I am not, in any way, disabled physically or mentally.  I have been blessed with a healthy body, a strong immune system, and a sound mind.  I have not combated a terminal illness. I have not been in fatal or life-threatening accident.  I have been blessed when others have not, and I thank God for that. 

I am thankful that I do not experience fear, anxiety, or insecurity when I think about where my next meal is coming from.  I am lucky enough to have food on the table consistently, more than I need, and more than I deserve. 

I am thankful that I do not have a doubt in my mind who has my back.  When I am scared or hurt or saddened or ecstatic, I do not have a second thought about who to call.  I do not wonder if my family will care, if my mom will attend to my question or call, or if my friends will be there when I need them.

I am thankful that I do not have you - you who pulled me down, who pulled me back, who held onto me too long without wanting me to stay.  You who changed my life, who taught me to love, and who taught me to walk away when the time was right.  You who let others opinions shape your life, my life, our lives together.  You who still brings tears to my eyes, a lump to my throat, and rock to the empty pit of my stomach.  While I would've loved to have had you, I am becoming thankful that I do not. 

Because I am not yet who I hope to become, and I am thankful for that.  I am thankful that I am not bound to who I was before now and that my growth is endless.  I am becoming the ideal Me.  The Me that doesn't need you.  The Me that stands alone, happy.

What I am most thankful for, that I do have, is time.  All of these things that I do and don't have are leading me on this journey to find myself, and I am grateful for the opportunity.  So many others are not blessed with the chance to find themselves. I have that chance and I want to hold onto it as long as I can - so I'm thankful that I'm not there yet. 

Puppies, Pinot, and President Fitzgerald Grant

Learned helplessness is a concept that was developed by Martin Seligman through an experiment he conducted based on the behaviors of man's best friend.  Seligman sent electric currents through the bottoms of dogs' cages so their little piggy-toes were shocked.  These cages had no apparent escape route, so the dogs were forced to stay put and endure the pain.  At first the dogs squirmed and jumped and looked for ways out of their chambers.  Next, Seligman put these dogs in cages that actually had a way out and shocked them again. The dogs, though, didn't even try to escape.  They stayed put assuming that nothing had changed.  That they were stuck.  They were helpless.

Now, I know Seligman sounds like a douche, torturing those poor puppies and shocking their little paws. I'm not even an animal person and I know that sending electric currents through the cages of theses pooches is a bad move, but what Seligman discovered through this experiment is so unbelievably pertinent to our lives, he should at least get a fist bump for his findings.

I'm not about to tell you that breaking up with my ex-boyfriend was akin to having shocks sent through my toes and that I was in an inescapable cage of emotion. That would be a metaphor even I am not dramatic enough to extend, but I am going to proclaim that I have 100% learned to be helpless.

Tomorrow night I am going on my 5th date with President Fitzgerald Grant... a little pseudonym for the guy I've been seeing that watches Scandal.  Fitz and I have been seeing each other for about a month now and things have actually been going great! We drink coffee, go for walks, talk about our classes (he's a med student...swoon) and I'm totally comfortable.  The thing is that whenever my sisters or my friends ask me what he's like or how things are going, my answer is always the same:

...fine...

Not like an angry-been-in-a-bad-mood-all-week 'fine!' or an upbeat-better-than-good-but-I-don't-want-to-sound-too-eager 'fine...!'  It's more of a got-an-87-on-this-exam-which-is-4-points-above-average-but-I-am-not-over-the-moon-about-it-I-did 'fine.' Ya know what I mean? Which is so annoying because I actually think I really like Fitz.  He's smart and good looking and doesn't own more shoes than I do - talk about a catch!  He's awesome and I think we could be moving in the right direction, but I don't want to get my hopes up. 

And there it is, Ladies and Gents.  I am Seligman's puppy.  For the last two years I have been trying to make it work with my ex-boyfriend. Over and over again I have been in this relationship where I have been excited by the prospect of being together... and then I'm left totally and utterly disappointed when things don't work out.  I give my time, effort, emotions, tacos (one of only dishes I am willing to make on the reg), and I'm still eating the tacos alone.  Now I am helplessly and hopelessly on the verge of not trying anymore.  My sisters are all, "invite him to family game night!" and "let's get dim sum!" and I'm over here like, "should I even shave my legs for our date tonight?"

So, I no longer think that Seligman was trying to be a jerk; I think he was trying to figure out why we're so willing to give up when things aren't easy.  Because when we try and try to no avail, it seems like we should give up.  But I don't want to feel that way.  I don't want to be the kind of person that looks at the glass as half-empty or whatever. Who cares if it's half-full?  What's the worst that happens when it's empty?  I want to look at it and think that at least there is room for more Pinot! (My proverbial glass is a long-stem wine glass, which makes sense because there not supposed to be full. Think about it.)

Seligman and I on the same page about this whole learned helplessness concept.  It's totally learned, but I have good news!  Another forward-thinking-asshole of his time, John Watson, proved something else with a incredibly unethical experiment (another lesson for another day). Behaviors can be learned and UNLEARNED! We don't have to feel helpless forever! So, tomorrow night I'm going to be excited to see Fitz. I'm going to hope that things go well. I'm going to look forward to the future. 

And if things don't work out, I'm going to be fine. I'm going to look at the glass ready to be refilled. Plus, I'm lucky enough to know that some wine glasses are bigger than others anyway. 

Fake Hair. Fake Nails. Can't Lose.

Flashback to my first day of senior year of high school.  I am wearing a white student council t-shirt that matches the DUKE label brazen on the upper left thigh of my unrolled navy blue athletic shorts.  I have on my cleanest and most comfortable silver and green Reebok running sneakers and I have my dull brown curly hair braided back into a skillfully created messy bun.  I am rocking only mascara that I'm not confident I applied that morning or the night before.  I look incredible and the best part about this outfit is that it wasn't an accident.  I really chose to wear athletic clothes to my last first day of high school.

"Why?" you may ask... well, simply because I didn't give a shit what I looked like.  

See, in high school, I was better than everybody else.  I was a three-sport athlete, two-season varsity captain, student council president, mathlete, NHS member, top 5% of my class... I even started a club that focused on teaching practical applications of biotechnology out of the classroom.  I was a jack of all trades and a master of sticking my nose in the air at anyone who cared more about their appearance than about things that really mattered: like books, and grades, and service, and making the most of the academic and extracurricular opportunities we are given in high school. 

Don't I sound like I was wicked fun? Guys were lining up at the door to take me out!

Wait... No they weren't. 

I did have a boyfriend for two years in high school.  Equally as athletic and interested in Nike's.  He was quiet, smart, and joined student council because I asked him to.  We broke up two weeks into senior year.  I don't think it's because he wanted me to wear more make up, but like, maybe it was. 

Flash forward to now: at this very minute I am wearing dark-wash designer jeans (gracias to my bff working at 7FAM), knee high heather gray socks peeking perfectly out of my brown leather riding boots, a gray over-sized J.Crew sweater, and blonde sixteen inch hair extensions (courtesy of Sally's Beauty Supply).  My fingers run across the keyboard with perfectly french manicured acrylic nails and my face - oh, my face looks smooth and bronzed.  Let me tell you, you can't go wrong with Benefit Cosmetics. 

I am, what many men and women across the nation would call: BASIC, and honestly, I like that about myself.  I am put together - at least, I look put together - and I still value all of the same things I valued before. I still read books more than magazines.  I am still a leader.  I am still passionate about education, about service, about athletics.  I am still me.  I just think I'm prettier.  

My sister used to always tell me growing up...

 "It's not how you play the game, it's how you look in the uniform."

 I'm not going to sit here and say that I totally agree, but what I will say that it's feels a hell of a lot better being bad at something when you at least look pretty! Added bonus when you end up being great at something and you look good. And honestly, guys are more attracted to me now.

I'm sure you all have heard a guy say that all they really want is a girl that's 'real,' and they're so over these 'fake bitches' because they're so spoiled, blah blah blah.  To quote another fake blonde after my own heart, Gwen Stefani, that shit drives me BANANAS.  The person that we are should not be judged based on how we look.  Old me, wearing athletic shorts, with God-given curls, and no make-up, was just as smart, kind, driven, and genuine as new me with acrylics, extensions, and Bella Bamba blush. Girls with contacts are just as smart as girls with glasses.  Girls in denim floor length skirts can be just as bitchy as girls in mini skirts. What you're wearing is no real reflection of who you are as a person.  I'm not fake just because my hair and nails are.  My smile is just as genuine whether it's coated in lipgloss or not.

Let me be clear: this is not me giving everyone a free pass to stop brushing their hair and wear men's champion sweatshirts everywhere you go. I think it's important that you dress in a way that makes you feel beautiful.  When you feel good and confident about how you present yourself, others notice that confidence and you invite the type of people, situations, and opportunities that you're looking for into your life.  That being said, we all need to try to look past the clothing (not in a creepy way).  I guess I mean past the superficial mental snapshot we take when we meet someone for the first time.  Maybe, ladies, if we all stop judging each other, guys will stop thinking it's okay to judge us, too.

So, wear athletic shorts or don't, dye your hair or don't, read a book or don't.  Just do whatever it is that makes you feel happy, confident, and beautiful.  Those are the qualities that make a person real, and those who take the time to learn what's in your heart are the ones that really matter.

Affirmation

I believe in self-compassion.

I believe that there are all kinds of love, but never the same love twice.

I believe in wearing makeup if it makes you feel beautiful.

I believe in chocolate cake. Lots of chocolate cake. 

I believe that people are the prettiest when they talk about something that they love.

I believe in speaking your mind only if you are not offensive. 

I believe in wearing athletic clothes even when you're not exercising.

I believe in fear. 

I believe that we will not make strides without setbacks. 

I believe that God brings you to struggle to lead to you success. 

I believe in wedding rings.

I believe in long soccer-mom walks in lieu of running. 

I believe in God. 

I believe that you are the best friend you will ever have.

I believe that a kind word can save a life.

I believe in hair extensions.

I believe that a few minutes in the sun can heal the soul.

I believe that you can always love deeper.

I believe in trying harder. 

I believe in midnight snacks. 

I believe that you are a product of both nature and nurture. 

I believe in adoption.

I believe that who you love is not a choice. 

I believe in family.

I believe that high heels look better with dresses than flats. 

I believe in hometowns.
I believe that there are warriors among us. 

I believe in angels. 

I believe that some fights worth it and some are worth letting your opponent win. 

I believe that Chinese food tastes better cold. 

I believe in silence. 

I believe in rolling the windows down, even in the winter. 

I believe in designer jeans. 

I believe that when you feel like life is over, it may only be the beginning.

I believe in going home. 

I believe that you can touch the lives of people you've never met. 

I believe that you are always in the right place at the right time. 

I believe in admitting defeat, but never accepting it. 

I believe in froyo for dinner.

I believe in seat belts.

I believe in self-forgiveness.
I believe in happiness.

I believe in living the life you have created, are creating, and have yet to create.
I believe in this moment you are a person that you will never be again. 

What Football and Scandal Have In Common

I don't watch football.

Oh, let me clarify: I do not watch televised NFL games on Sunday afternoons.  I do, however, frequent high school and mights football games starring my incredibly athletic and gifted nephews, but that's not that kind of football I mean.  I mean, when I'm on a date and a guy asks me if I like the Patriots, he's undoubtedly going to be disappointed by my non-commital, "Eh, yeah, sort of."

I don't want to say 'no' exactly, because I have watched football before hundreds of times, and I don't hate it; I just don't love it.  But they want me to love football.  (Yes, I did just group all men into one large all-encompassing 'they').  Because THEY really do want me to.  It's not their fault though, and it's not mine either.

Us females, we are born into a world of pink, sparkles, and frills.  We are wrapped in blankets adorned in flowers.  We're given gifts wrapped rose-toned paper tied with lace.  We are taught that we are girls and we should like "girl things."  Not to be confused with boy things.  Footballs, wrapped in football wrapping paper, to toss around with football buddies before Monday night football.

You know, guy stuff.

Okay, so I'm exaggerating, but you get where I'm going with this.  People teach us what to like when we're younger, but then we grow up.

Little boys who like football grow up to be grown men who like football and everyone is totally fine with it.  Little girls who like ballet grow up to be grown women who love ballet but are watching football with their husbands on Sunday afternoons because they're cool wives.

We get older and men want the best of both worlds.  They want us to wear dresses and cook because that's what girls do, but they also want us to watch football and drink beer because that's what makes us cool.  How confusing is that? The things we we're taught are strictly for boys when we're little are now the things we're being asked to like.  Wait a second... I have an idea!

Men should like shopping.  Men should like Grey's Anatomy.  Men should like flowers.  Men should like what we like.  I don't consider myself a feminist by any means, but I do think that we're living a double standard, and ya know what?  I find myself perpetuating that double standard.

Last week I went on a date with a new guy I met on OkCupid (I've upgraded from Tinder to OkCupid).  We met at a restaurant for drinks.  I wish I remember what he was drinking, but I remember thinking, 'okay, good choice,' when he ordered.  I like beer, so I get worked up when a guy orders a Coors Lite or something on a date.  Huge turn-off.  Anyway, I was sipping on a Shipyard Pumpkinhead, not wanting to come off too masculine by ordering a lager or something, when he asked my least favorite question...

So, do you like football?

At which point I stuttered through my explanation of how I could see myself watching football with someone who cares about it, but how I would never sit down to watch the Pats on my own. 

Oh, what do you like to watch? Grey's Anatomy? Scandal?

To which I answered honestly, "Both."

I'm kind of embarrassed to admit this because I know it's a girl show, but I watch Scandal, too. 

I had no idea what to say, but I didn't have to think of anything because the conversation moved quickly to red wine, our jobs, our families, etc.  But I kept thinking about Scandal.  Did I think it was weird that he liked it? Sort of.  I thought maybe he's gay.  Then I thought maybe he doesn't know he's gay, but then the more I thought about it, I realized: THIS ROCKS! IF THIS WORKS OUT WE COULD WATCH SCANDAL ON THURSDAYS!

That's the thing, we forget that guys can like "girl things," too.  It doesn't make them homosexuals, it makes them fun for girls to hang around with, the same way liking sports makes girls fun for guys to hang around with.

I feel like I'm rambling, but I'm gonna try to zero in on a point here: Gentlemen, it's okay for you to want a girl who likes sports, but it's also okay to like some of the girly things in life! And Ladies, it's okay for you to ask a guy to likes the things you like.  It doesn't make him less manly, if anything, I think it makes him more attractive.  Think of all of the potential shopping trips, paint nights, and Bachelor marathons in your future if you find the right man for the job.  

Flight or... Nope, That's It. Just Flight.

I always bring the most fun facts parties.  That's why I'm invited to so many hip-posh-cool dinner parties where people talk about cool things, like the latest fashion trends, who's dating who in the celebrity circles, and why they 'literally can't even' with girls who still wear Ugg boots (Can you tell I don't have that many girl friends?).  So, if you've ever been at one of those super cool-hip-posh parties with me, you'd know that my favorite and most fun fact is the following:

Contrary to popular belief, women are less likely than men to be victims of violent crime.

People love to hear that.  They're always like, "What? Really? Tell us more!" Which is, I'm sure, how you're feeling right now.  No worries, I'd never leave you hanging!

The reason that us girls are less likely to be victims of violent crimes is because we're scared.  You know when you're walking out to your car after a long day of outlet shopping and the parking lot is dark because you had to stay 'til close because you couldn't decide between the black blazer at J.Crew or the red blazer at BCBG?  You're leaving the store and you say to your friend, "Hey, hop in, I'll drive you to your car. Mine's closer."  You've actually just saved her life.  Now, maybe it's because your feet are tired from strutting around all day window shopping in your cute, yet impractical, Tori Burch flats so you assume her feet are tired to, but the reason you decide to stick together should ultimately be because it's safer.  Even if that's not what you're thinking, we, as women, engage in more preventative behaviors that make us less likely to be victims!

Let me break it down for you.

you're scared = you stick together = you're safer

So, why don't men engage in these same behaviors?  They make sense, right?  The buddy system, parking in well-lit areas, parking closer to buildings, etc. Well, let me tell you. It's society's fault. 

Men are, in my opinion, actually socialized NOT to engage in these safe, preventative behaviors.  For starters, boys are raised from a young age to assume that they are tougher than girls.  Scary movies, violent video games, rock 'em sock 'em robots: all male-oriented things.  Even bugs (which pose a serious threat if you ask me, especially spiders) are for boys because naturally boys are stronger, tougher, and less scared.  In essence, they are taught to FIGHT when a threatening situation arises.

Not us though, girls, we have been told the total opposite.  FLIGHT, ladies, the answer is always FLIGHT. We, unlike boys, are constantly reminded that we are in the midst of the dangers of the world and we are bombarded with messages about how to keep ourselves safe.  Our parents remind us to never leave a party alone, men offer to walk us to the car, and we are given pepper spray for our 16th birthdays... That last one might have just been me.

I say there's nothing wrong with flight.  When you're scared, that's good, BE SCARED and take the proper precautions.  And finally, tell you're boyfriend, brother, dad, cousin, best (boy) friend to cut the shit.  Make him let you drive him to his car.  Make sure he parks closer to the building.  Don't make him stand up for you at the bar when a creepy guy makes a comment about your ass.  Tell him you're not looking for superman, but that you want to live a life where no one needs to call superman! 

We, as twenty-somethings, live in a universal "it could never happen to me" mentality that literally sets us up for it to happen to us!  I'm not saying to live in fear, but what I am saying is that sometimes it's healthy to be a little scared: it could save your life...

Take a second to watch this snip-it from Oprah about the Gift of Fear. Kelly (the girl from the story) experienced something awful, but the gift of fear saved her life.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bBProrposzc&feature=youtu.be

(Insert Tinder Pun Here)

Anyone who knows me in any capacity knows that I've had the same dream since I was a teenager.  One goal that I've been working toward each and everyday; an aspiration that consistently presses in the back of my mind whether I'm studying for an exam, sipping pinot noir on a saturday night, or completing the lightest agility workout you can imagine... I cannot get this one idea out of my head. 

I want to be on The Bachelor. 

Before you begin passing judgment, let me stop you right there and redirect you to another thought: have you ever heard of Tinder?

If you haven't, you clearly haven't been a single twenty-something recently and neither have any of your friends.  Tinder is, in essence, the quintessential expression of how overtly shallow our generation's vision of beauty has become.  It's an iphone app that demonstrates how technology has enabled us to not only embrace a depthless idea of what is beautiful, but it also allows us to forfeit all human socialization and courting that once was "dating."

Don't get me wrong, I have a Tinder (yes, I am that desperate).  I went on my Facebook, picked out what I thought were the most flattering pictures of myself that also reflected who I am as a person - a photo of my sister and me at her wedding, a picture of my niece and me on Easter, one of my mom and me- and I created an account.  I even thought of a funny yet sweet bio for under my photos, you know, so that guys could really get to know me:

Lover of carbohydrates, sunshine, and ice cream for dinner. Currently studying to spend the rest of my life helping seventh graders get their shit together.

Perfect.  And ya know what, I think it's going great.  Look at this super sweet message I got today. 

Ahhh, romance! Like, is this guy serious?  Indeed he was.  So, here's my annoyance.  I have always made comments about wanting to find love on The Bachelor, half in a kidding way, half in a serious I've-already-filled-out-my-application way, and people are constantly telling me how stupid that is.  They meet me with unrequested and unwelcome opinions of how fake the show is, how dumb the girls are, and how I'm "so much better than that."  But I invite all of the people of that opinion think about this:  the men and women who meet on TV on any reality show, be it The Bachelor, Dating in the Dark, For Love or Money (I could go on forever), these people are ACTUALLY meeting.

So, yes, the bachelor himself has twenty-five girlfriends and narrows it down to one that he supposedly wants to marry after six weeks in romantic, idealistic beautiful locations; does that sound worse than checking out a thumbnail size photograph, maybe checking to see how many mutual Facebook friends, and then swiping right because "you're hot?" 

I don't know, something doesn't sit well with me.  And maybe I'm being dramatic.  Maybe reality TV, iphone apps, online dating websites... maybe they're all the worst possible ways to meet your other half.  They probably are, but we're living a world of inorganic interactions where texting is the primary form of communication, emojis are worth a thousand words, and read receipts are one of the easiest ways of letting someone know you're just not into them.

So forgive me for fantasizing about meeting the love of my life on television, it's pathetic and I should have more respect for myself.  Instead, I'll just Tinder message all of my matches the following emoji combination until one of them takes me up on it. 

Why I Fell In Love Again - Despite My Better Judgment

So, here I am, almost one whole year since my boyfriend became my ex-boyfriend.  Almost one whole year since I started this blog.  Almost one whole year since I started drinking whiskey and housing hot tamales instead of drinking green tea and picturing the houses of my dreams. And finally, here I am, almost one year from having my heart broken... and I am still heartbroken.

My ex-boyfriend and I... yes, please notice I have started using the term ex-boyfriend in lieu of the euphemistic "former boyfriend" I used to say to soften the blow... anyway, my ex-boyfriend and I have spent the past three months falling back in love with one another.  Well, at least, I was falling back in love - not that I had ever fallen out of it - I think he was playing with the idea of loving me again.  So, the two of us have been spending our days thinking of each other, sharing in each other's joys, and I have been happy.

My smile was back.  I know I sound like a cliche Taylor Swift pop song.  I felt like a Taylor Swift song. 

Every time you smile

I smile

and every time you shine

I'll shine for you

Unfortunately, like most Taylor Swift songs, this one is quickly followed by an angry song about a breakup that was seemingly Taylor's fault, but honestly, I don't blame her. 

I think Taylor Swift is just trying to find love, and be loved, and be in love.  Who would want to be known as the girl that dates guys and then get's dumped on her ass and has to write pathetic love songs about the breakups? 

Anyway, you're probably wondering why I let this happen again.  Or maybe you're not wondering, but I'm going to be writing it down here regardless, because this is blog has basically become the adult version of my seventh grade livejournal. 

I fell for him again because I wanted to.  

Yes, it's that simple. I took a class in my undergrad where my professor suggested that the best way to live a happy and healthy lifestyle is to treat yourself like you are your own best friend.  I loved the idea.  I absolutely one hundred percent cannot stress enough how much I love this idea.  Think about it...

When you're tired at the end of the week and the last place on Earth you want to go is the gym, what would your best friend say? 

I'll tell you, mine would say, "Oh, no you're not going to the gym, we're drinking wine." 

On the other side of the same coin, if I am just being lazy, my best friend is the first person to kick me in the ass and tell me to get out of bed and hit the ground running. 

So, what's my point here? My point is that as my own best friend, I knew I would be happy with my ex-boyfriend if things worked out, so I let myself fall for him all over again.  I cooked him dinner, I wore more dresses (as if that was even possible), I smiled my biggest, brightest smile for his parents even though I know they don't approve of me, and then... when I realized how pathetically in love I was with someone who wasn't giving me the same in return... I walked away.

Because, see, as my own best friend, I can't let myself look stupid.  Best friends help you decide when what you're doing is going to make you happy momentarily or when the brief happiness is not worth the consequence.  For example, I have an incredibly strong desire to wear athletic clothes to pretty much every bar I go to, and sometimes my best friend let's me.  Like if she knows we're just going to a slummy bar to drink cheap beer in a room full of middle-aged men, she totally let's me rock the nike's.  But then sometimes, she's like, "Jane, no, go change! And stop crying!"  (an ode to my over-emotional response to every given situation). 

What I'm trying to say is that it's okay that I am heartbroken again. It's okay that I made the same mistake that every best friend tells you not to make, but then you make it anyway because you just think that this time will be different.  See, the best part about treating myself like my own best friend, is that I'm not mad at myself - I'm proud of myself.  Letting him back into my life was a decision I thought would make me happy, and when it didn't, I cared enough about myself to change that decision.  

And even more importantly, I am lucky to have true best friends that love me.  That knew all along I was making a mistake and they let me make it anyway.  And yeah, they're annoyed that I'm still sad.  Hell, I'm annoyed that I'm still sad! But they love me enough, and honestly, I love myself enough, to let me be sad for a little while once more, and then to kick my ass and make sure I move on. 

Welcome To The Real World.

I feel like every special occasion that we've experienced since age thirteen feels monumental.  Like a coming-of-age-shit-I'm-growing-up moment that we look forward to until it happens and then we're like "seriously, can't a girl get a nap time in class anymore?"

I mean, think about it.  We turn thirteen and everyone tells us we're no longer kids.  Then we turn sixteen and they give us car keys and consensual sex.  Eighteen and we are LEGALLY adults: voting in elections, buying porn and dip... ya know, because adults need rights to nudity and cancer.

We graduate high school and enter the real world of college campuses, trusted just enough to live on our own (under the supervision of our peers).  This is where the consensual sex really comes to fruition and Sex On The Beach is actually just Cherry Burnetts and OJ from the dining hall, but it totally tastes like the real thing, don't you think?

We turn twenty-one and they put beers in our hands as if we hadn't had them there before and the car keys they gave us five years prior look even scarier on the way home from a bar than they did on the way home from soccer practice.

And today, I hit the next benchmark -- I am a college graduate.  Talk about a coming-of-age-shit-I'm-growing-up moment... but the weird thing is that I have 0% confidence in how I should be feeling, or thinking, or honestly what I should be doing.  Did today really make me an adult?

Everyone keeps talking about how they're not ready for  real life and I don't even know what it means.  For example, this past Monday night we had a bar crawl for senior students only.  At the last bar, I kissed a guy (the guy who only gives me the time of day if it's not the same time new jordans are released... you all know him well).  So anyway, I stopped kissing him, turned to my friend, and she said, "Ya know, it's fine because this is the last time you can do things like that!" ... not that I'm saying she is wrong, but I received and read my diploma today and it didn't make reference to an alumni prohibition of bar-kissing.

Obviously I'm exaggerating, but it's all very confusing.  We create these perceptions of what real life will be like.  As if because I have my name on a piece of paper next to the words magna cum laude and I'm suddenly supposed to use my knowledge of mental disorders and social constructions to guide all of my actions and decisions in a mature and professional way?  I'm not saying that my education has not propelled me toward success because I actually do believe I'm qualified intellectually to enter the infamous real world, I'm just also wondering what else is changing?  What else should be changing?  How should I be changing?

If anyone has the answers or thinks they might, I'm totally down to listen, but until then I guess this is the first real life challenge in store for college graduates.  Welcome to the Real World.