There are many upsides and many downsides to having more than half of your friends be guys. An example of a downside would be last night, when I had seven of them over for dinner and I spent a solid twenty minutes making a beautiful salad, which only one of them put on his plate. When you don’t have anyone to share the experience of a good salad with, things get rough. An example of an upside is that when they’ve finished eating, they are each willing to take his own plate and bring it into the kitchen without so much as a single complaint. And, to top it off, they have excellent manners.
Another large upside is that boys generally tell it like it is. So when I went out to breakfast with one of my closest guy friends this morning, he not only told it “like it is.” He told it “like it is,” and a whole lot more.
I asked him if he’d rather be really tall and fat, or really tall and really thin. First, we agreed that there are definitely pros and cons to each situation. I couldn’t really decide which I would rather be. But before the conversation extended any further, he said something that caught my attention.
“Well, I’d think you’d rather be tall and thin, right?”
My immediate reaction to his assumption was “What?” The certainty with which he made that statement was with utmost confidence. But when I stopped and thought about it for a second, I realized where he was going. “You’re right,” I came to admittance. “I would, actually, definitely rather be tall and thin.”
His response summed it all up for me: “Of course you would. Because you’re a girl.”
Before I continue to dive deeper into our conversation, I want to address the fact that right now, you’re all probably thinking, “Of course she’d rather be thin. Who doesn’t want to be thin, even if you’re tall enough to be the lovechild of Yao Ming and Khloe Kardashian, the trademark giant, you would still rather be thin than be fat.” Let me defend my thinking—I imagined that being tall and fat would make someone more proportional, and perhaps one would prefer to look proportional than they would to look like a malnourished Kenyan child on stilts.
Getting back to the story: I asked him what he would prefer to look like, and he said to me, “It doesn’t really matter. I don’t think it really matters for guys.”
“Why’s that?” I asked.
“Because guys can get girls either way. Girls look more into guys than guys into girls.” Although it seems obvious when I say it out loud, in the moment, I was shocked. I could not get over how true that statement was. He continued:
“Some girls like guys who are funny, some girls like athletic guys. Appearance doesn’t matter as much for girls.”
Just when you thought that there couldn’t be enough materialistic betches in the tri-state area, my lovely male friend made us seem that more down-to-earth. Who would’ve thought? Girls care about what’s on the outside, but sometimes, we care about what’s on the inside, too. To state it factually, a guy’s “success rate,” as I’ll call it, does not depend as much upon his appearance as a girl does. Hmm… this could mean a lot of things. This could go a lot of places.
Maybe we don’t give ourselves enough credit for being things like “deep” and “caring” and “emotional” and “sympathetic” and “grateful” (yeah effin’ right). Or, maybe we’re just that easy—so easy that we will fling ourselves at any guy. If you spin it that way, it sounds like we lack self-respect for not ensuring that we are with the most attractive of men. Or maybe we have self-respect for caring about what’s inside and not letting ourselves be with very, very, very attractive assholes (even though obviously we are all with very, very, very attractive assholes at least once in our lives… it’s like a frickin’ right of passage).
According to my friend’s dogma of attraction, guys have an easier time getting girls because they don’t consider personality like we do. If you look the part, you have the part. Done and done. That means that it isn’t necessarily difficult for girls to get guys. Instead, it’s difficult for girls to find, and get, the guys they want. That’s why our “success rate” is lower—because we make it that way. Not because we don’t have game, because you know that we do.
If you’re a funny guy, we like you because you’re funny. OK, fine. Maybe it’s because you’re Jewish and you’re funny. If you’re an attractive guy, we probably like you because you’re attractive. Maybe you’re funny too, but that’s rare. It’s more likely that you think you’re funny. And if we decide that we want to be with you, be happy that we did.
Sometimes, people are so desperate for trendiness that they’ll turn something as mundane as a vegetable and make it a “thing.” Well, my friends, this is what happened to kale. Kale used to be a nobody, sitting lonely on gourmet supermarket shelves, only purchased by the small Chinese grandfather who knew the magical powers of this leafy green from his ancestors and his small dragon friend/spirit guardian, Mushu.
Once, someone who is either a really ano Jewish girl or the Hollywood trainer Harley Pasternak (who bears no relation to me whatsoever) discovered kale from the rich soil of our earth. And, upon realizing its great qualities–hello, negative calories–turned kale into a staple of the skinny. Not only is kale both an edible and a drinkable, shout out to green juice, but it is also a way of life.
I decided to google “quotes about kale” to see if I could find something spunky to include. Instead of finding a few interesting quotes, I found a lot of psychos that are literally obsessed with kale. Like, I cannot even. Psychos.
I stumbled upon this charm: a blog called “365 Days of Kale: Where Kale is More Than Decoration on My Plate!” My first reaction? What the literal…
Obviously, this woman got her kale confused with her kush.
During my research, I found this in breaking news on ecorazzi.com: “The Green Quote: Vegan Singer Alanis Morissette Is Obsessed With Kale.” Really? No effin way?!?!?! Send that shiz to CNN stat. I’m sure you’re dying to find out what Alanis Morissette has to say about kale–“It’s like rain on your wedding day.” JK LOLZ, kale is ironic, but more in the trendy way than in the 90’s pop way (you will only understand this if you know Alanis Morrisette’s hits like any good Canadian lesbian would). But she actually did say this: “Kale is my best friend.” Cute.
Kale is like one of those things that people love to talk about because they want everyone to know how obsessed they are with kale. Once, I was with someone who wasn’t particularly in good shape and she was eating steamed kale. She could not stop gushing to be about how obsessed she was with it. It’s like great, good for you, you love kale. But I’m pretty sure that she thought talking about something like kale so much would make her lose weight, and it really didn’t.
I would not be surprised if somewhere in a white loft office space in LA a bunch of really skinny beautiful people who go to Soul Cycle a lot are conjuring up kale fro-yo. Just wait. Seriously.
Life is full of a million tiny moments, and when one tiny moment transitions into another, change happens. Basically every second we are awake, or even when we are asleep, something is different than what it was before: your heart makes a new beat, your mind drifts into new, uncharted waters, you feel something you’ve never felt before. And when all of these changes occur simultaneously, you become a kid trapped on a roller coaster when you really don’t like roller coasters at all.
One of the funniest things about change is how much, or how little, we control it. Just when you think you have the reigns, you don’t, and a situation catapults out of control. Just when you make something delicate into something perfect, it breaks. Naturally, of course, it has to.
Why has changed evolved into this concept that almost everyone is afraid of? I’ve heard so many people say, “Oh, I don’t do change well.” My mom always tells me that my dad is “afraid of change.” Change can certainly be good, because before something good turns into something bad, something bad must have turned into that something good. But I guess we just hone in on the negativity because as humans, that is what we are programmed to do.
I always thought that I couldn’t cope with change. My first year of middle school, I was an absolute wreck and a 95-pound ball of anxiety. My freshman year of high school, my anxiety creeped back upon me like a skeleton with long, bony fingers (basically Nicole Richie circa 2006). So, as I’m now the bony skeleton creeping upon another new part of my life, I can’t help but wonder just how much change will destroy me over the next year.
So far, it’s been interesting. I’ve learned a lot because I’ve messed up a lot. Then again, my recent mess ups brought me to some of my most balanced moments. I can’t help but wonder–am I just endlessly screwing up to beat change to the punch? When I think about these mistakes I’ve made, I don’t feel regret. I just feel like I’ve made a mistake. Does that make me a horrible person? If each of us could apologize to every person we’ve ever hurt, then I think that we would. But that couldn’t work for a couple of reasons–no matter how much we say or do, we can never really go back and change what happened. Gatsby can say that the past is repeatable as many times as he wants, and perhaps he’s right. We can repeat the past with our tortured emotions and our aching hearts. But, ultimately, we’re just going to end up back in the present. Changes happens, yes. And so does reality.
After all that’s happened in the past two months–some mistakes made by yours truly, some mistakes made by immature boys who think it’s OK to tell a lady to “go f— yourself”–I understand that life isn’t always a box of chocolates. It’s more like a fortune cookie. It’s always pretty sweet on the outside. But often, what’s inside can disappoint you. It can also pleasantly surprise you.
Here is my life at the moment in three fortune cookies:
#1 would be a fortune cookie that you crack open, but find no fortune. This cookie offered me nothing, and instead, chose to disappear. In the end, it will be this fortune’s loss and not mine. Because if you run away, no one gets your message, and you’ve accomplished nothing.
#2 would be a fortune that makes me feel like a total asshole. “Stop shopping too much, there are naked children in Bangladesh,” “You are a selfish whore,” “Go sit in the corner and think about what you did. –Taylor Swift,” etc.
#3 would be a good fortune. It doesn’t even necessarily have to compliment me, but it would make me think about myself. Some of my favorite fortunes I’ve ever gotten that remind me of this one include, “I learn by going where I have to go,” “Your life is like a kaleidoscope,” and “A kiss makes the heart young and wipe out the years.” And that grammatical error could not be more suitable for this fortune–I love it every second anyway.
Today I feel different. Two days ago, I spent a lot of time sleeping. I napped from 12-5pm and then got back in bed at 8pm, only to get up at 10am the next morning. I cried a little, of course. But today, I feel different. So right now, I like change, because it brought me here.
Are you alternative? Are you cynical? Do you like to write? Do you like to write in list-form to make your topic matter appear more dramatic? Do you enjoy and relate to dark humor? Have you ever had your heart broken? Do you want to write about how your heart was broken, but in list form, analyzing the process of figuring out the “Top 5 Mistakes Men Make In Dating,” the “7 Things To Tell Yourself When You’re Hurting,” or the “7 Things Your Future Self Would Tell You Now?”
Well, then, you should write for Thought Catalog.
ThoughtCatalog.com is like a BuzzFeed for depressed teenagers still in that Panic! At the Disco phase or for lonely twenty-somethings who are inseparable from their slouch-beanies and are really into the internet. It operates from Williamsburg (obv) and refers to itself as an “experimental media group.” Now how trendy is that?!?!
Something magical about Thought Catalog is that I can find a way to relate to every article. When I’m having serious boy issues, I read “How Can You Tell If You Love Him” or “Here’s 20 Ways To Figure Out If You’re Being A Crazy Psycho Bitch” or something like that. Those articles don’t literally exist by name, but it’s probably only a matter of time until they do. I’m sure I could write them.
If you don’t catch my drift about Thought Catalog, below is the cover of a digital book they published containing different essays from the site. Of course, the book had to be digital, because they are just #struggling that much in Williamsburg.
Thought Catalog is great for many things: procrastination, feeling better about your life because your eyes are opened the the heartache of metrosexuals wearing jeggings in their studio apartments, procrastination, and much more. Truthfully, I read their articles a lot. But then again, I’m me.
I know little about packing for anything. My mom was always super into doing the camp trunks, and my only job in this process was to mold my mouth guards so I could be well-equipped while bench-warming during field hockey and lacrosse. It takes me minimum two hours to pack to go anywhere, and I pack for triple the amount of time that I will spend in any given location. When I go away with my family, I am typically able to tell which sized luggage I should bring with me by looking at the suitcase that my two brothers share together and then I find one twice as large to carry just my clothing (shoes go in a separate bag).
Against my will, however, I have to start getting in the mindset of packing to go to school next year. It will take me a few weeks to adjust to this mindset, and then another week or two to really think about packing, and then at least a month to separate things into a million piles (I always, for some reason, thought that making many small piles made me seem more organized and I ignored the fact that they just took up a ridiculous amount of surface area). The future of my packing capabilities is unforeseeable past the construction of my piles, because at that point my patience wears so thin that I get in bed and cry for a couple of hours until my mom makes me tea and I can get myself together enough to finish.
Recently, I’ve been very into posting about hypothetical things because of no particular reason at all. So, without further or due, here is a list of things I would hypothetically pack/do in preparation of having to pack if, hypothetically, I was willing to pack for school next fall.
When I was younger, I used to get an excessive amount of nosebleeds, like, on the daily. Every single time I would go to my best friend Nicole’s house for a sleepover–ugh, poor Nicole–I would get a gushing nosebleed for whatever reason. Maybe she had a humid house. To solve this problem, I got my nose cauterized and my parents put a humidifier in my room to keep the room “moist” and prevent the fragile walls of my nostrils from cracking. I don’t want my roommate to know about my excessive nasal bleeding, so I would pack a humidifier for school just in case.
As a child, I woke up at 6:30 every morning before school to read for an hour. Because of my years of reading in the dark (or I guess you could call it the “blue morning light,” if you want to get fancy), my eyes have become super sensitive to light and are starting to deteriorate. This year, I found out that I have an astigmatism (just like those twins in that contact commercial) so now I really, like actually really, need glasses. Since I’m too lazy to get glasses but still need to be able to see next year, I figured that bringing a lamp to school would be a suitable substitute. Also, a lamp will remind me of my little cute dog and the special lampshade-resembling-hat that she wears when she gets a procedure done at the vet.
Bedding is key, and it has to be clean. At sleepaway camp, I was too lazy to change my sheets every week so I thought that sleeping in my sleeping bag on top of my covers for seven weeks would be a perfectly wonderful idea. It was, in theory, but sometimes even feeling like a cocooned butterfly doesn’t replace the euphoria you feel when you get under the covers in your bed. It also doesn’t replace the feeling of cleanliness. Or dignity, for that matter. Residence Hall Linens has a gorgeous selection of bedding that I actually won’t mind washing. That is, if I am ever able to master the art of a washing machine before the ripe age of 80.
I don’t even drink coffee anymore, only herbal teas, but duh.
I refuse to walk barefoot on a foreign floor. I could be staying in the nicest and chicest hotel in Abu Dhabi and still never walk barefoot on the hotel room floor. Hence, slippers are a must. Only God knows what kind of hot coals my potentially über-hippie roommate could have walked on during her gap year at an ashram.
Technically, I would love to get an adorable rug from RHL, but I really don’t know if I’ll have room for my Hoover turbo-power vacuum in my room to keep it in tip-top shape. You know, with my small piles taking up so much surface area and all. You totally should get one, though!
Because then I would eat it and get fat.
Happy packing to me!
*this is a sponsored post*
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I have a memory that almost seems like a dream. It was Halloween, and I was in fifth grade. I went trick-or-treating with my parents in the wealthiest neighborhood in the county because they gave out one-pound chocolate bars. As we drove through the entrance of the community, “Rich Girl” by Gwen Stefani started playing on the radio. It was warm out, and our windows were rolled down. I don’t know why, but I felt like I was in a movie that took place in 1980s Los Angeles. Since then, things have never been the same.
I have a really bad habit of losing things. Actually, I have a really bad habit of losing money. It seems that I most often lose it at the mall, at the nail salon, and on zappos.com. I also, coincidentally, lose a lot of money at Urban Outfitters sales and at this one thrift store in Brooklyn. And at the bagel store where I get my chopped salad…… and at any fro-yo place I have yet to try (because I obviously have to try every fro-yo place in the world, duh).
I think that I have a pretty strong obsession with saving money. But because I “lose” it so much, my mom’s response to this thought is that I’m a blatantly pathological liar who needs a reality check. (Shoutout to the babe who also said I needed a reality check via Facebook status. Like, come on. Everyone knows that shit-talking stays on Twitter. At least have the decency to subtweet like a classy young lady). But, it’s true. I do have an obsession with money, just in a sort of twisted way. I’m never greedy, and I’m always willing to spot a friend. But when I’m not making enough of my own money, I get anxiety. I spend my free-thought time thinking about the money I could be making when I’m studying or hanging out with friends.
So, this year, I got a job. Actually, I got three. I’ve been tutoring and babysitting since I was in eighth grade. For a few months this year, I was tutoring for two hours a day, Monday to Friday. Then I would give up either Saturday or Sunday to babysit. I received a job offer working for a camp and summer program consulting agency that I did not want to pass up on; so, I added that to my plate. Before I knew it, this (see below) was literally my schedule. And I am not exaggerating one bit:
2:30pm – 6pm Work at consulting business
6:15pm – 7:15pm Tutor student #1
7:15pm – 8:15pm Tutor student #2
8:30pm – 9pm Eat dinner
9:30pm Start studying/working
6am the next day… Wake up
I was making a really good amount of money every week, and I stopped having nightmares in which Oscar de la Renta was making me work in a sweat shop in order to let me wear his Strapless Floral-Applique Ball Gown and then PSY would come in and make me listen to Gangnam Style until I was able to sing the Korean part fluently. Let me tell you, it was HORRIBLE. But, working felt worth-it and rewarding. My bad dreams were gone and so was the pit in my stomach that ached for money. Call me crazy because I’m crazy. I know.
They say that dogs are a man’s best friend. Well, let me tell you: credit cards are a woman’s best friend. Imagine having invisible money that grows on trees. What do you get? A credit card. You also get a really bad credit score but I’m still too young to convince myself that it’s time to worry about that. And while I love credit cards, they scare the hell out of me. Even though I have my own checking account and my own card, along with the emergency one supplied by Mommy and Daddy, and even though my checking account is solely funded by me and the income that I make from my wide array of jobs, I am afraid to use the card. It’s not like the account balance is under $7 (at the moment…. what??) and it’s not that I don’t know how to use a credit/debit card–trust me, I very well do–I just don’t like the idea of not being able to see what I’m spending. Then, I start to get nervous.
When I told my mom about this, her response was that I opened up a checking account so that I could use the money. That’s the point of it, she said. Well, I’m still afraid and I don’t really know why.
Maybe it has to do with our economy? When we first hit recession, I was too young and too concerned with my first MySpace profile to really understand what was going on. I can openly admit that even now, I only comprehend the stock market a small percentage of the time. Our planet revolves around money. So when I spend, I feel like I’m going to fall off of Earth. It’s a bittersweet and guilty feeling, really. To put it in Jewish terms, it’s something similar to the first day of your last year of sleepaway camp. You don’t want it to start because you don’t want it to end. I don’t want to start using my debit card because I don’t want to lose all of the money I saved in there, too.
By the time I turn 25, I feel like the lifestyle I want won’t even exist. How will I possibly be able to afford a studio apartment in New York City that is, at most, the size of my current closet? Note: my current closet is very short of a walk-in.
It is fifteen years after the first episode of Sex and the City came out, and just recently did people start to question just how Carrie Bradshaw was able to own just that many pair of Manolos. Imagine how far-fetched her lifestyle will seem by the time I’m old enough to really be living it. Carrie wannabes like myself–we’re all screwed.
Maybe I should close my checking account.