I was considering starting this post off with a fancy introduction that compared me to Gretchen Weiners not just because we both got this, like, really expensive pair of white gold hoops for Hanukkah, but because we both start talking and don’t stop. I am yet to rant on Caesar (although I did say a few ridiculously stupid things in my World History West class) but I have come very close multiple times. Wait… literally, case-in-point, I digress. I didn’t want to include some sappy and satirical opener because I thought it would be ironic to start an essay about talking too much with, well, talking too much. Yet, I managed to do it anyway. Is that an accomplishment or something to be ashamed of? Idk. Should I move on to the next paragraph? Yes.
I have this theory that I’ve had for a really long time when I started to realize how stupid some of the conversations I’ve had with certain people are. The theory goes as follows: people talk to hear the sound of their own voice. I know, I know, totally original, right? But actually–it is. I think we want to hear the sound of our own voices for reasons deeper than just, well, hearing it. I think we talk when we’re afraid of something, and when we want to distract ourselves. Sometimes we speak and after a few minutes, we have zero recollection of what we were even saying. This is what I’m talking about (no pun intended, since that was like a half-pun).
The best, and most classic, of these situations occurs when you speak to someone you generally 1) never, ever speak to or 2) really effing hate. Sometimes I’ll start a really motivated and intense talk with a totally rando person. And we’ll both be getting super into it, like rapid fire back and forth and back and forth. Even worse, we’ll be speaking about the most mundane things too. In the moment, we don’t realize how mundane they are so we instead have a 5-minute bonding sesh over the fact that we have this thing in common, which, in reality, every babe has in common.
For example, we’ll speak about how horrible it is to go to the gym, and how much we want to go to the gym, and how much we wish we were better at working out. And then… BOOM. OH MY GOD, we BOTH hate working out. The tones of our voices will just rapidly raise until I sound like my eleven year old brother who has one armpit hair tops on a good day. At the end of our conversation, I will turn away smiling and feel oh-so productive, happy, and meaningful. That’s right, like I have a place in this world after my conversation about going to the gym with a girl I thought I always probably strongly disliked, likely potentially hated.
Last weekend, I ate at a Mexican restaurant with my camp friends on the Upper East Side. I hadn’t seen them since some devastating events may or may not have happened in my life, and they demanded that I give them the whole enchilada. I don’t really know how that relates to the grand scheme of things, but it was a punny moment I could not leave out (pun credit: Char Levy).
And I’ve gone through all of this for what trouble? Because I’m trying to distract myself from the seven books on Holden Caufield I have waiting for me at my desk at home and other silly things like arguments about credit card bills with my mom, the fact that I have only 4% battery on my iPhone, and my wretched fear of the future of my romantic and social life and the fact that yes, there is a 68% chance of everything going down in flames. But it’s really no big deal. Totally.
Tamagotchi. What an on-point #tbt.
I have always been very maternal. At least I like to think that I’ve always been maternal. My mom, who is literally maternal, may beg to differ as I’ve done some not-so-responsible things over the last few years (leave my car keys and wallet in the bagel store practically every Sunday due to my obvi obsessive need for a whole wheat everything with tomato, veg cream cheese, and lox; leaving my wallet containing my driver’s license, debit card, and my mom’s credit card home after departing for a trip to Washington, D.C.; after turning around to get the wallet and bringing it with me to Washington, D.C., proceeding to lose that same wallet containing my driver’s license, debit card, and my mom’s credit card during my trip; etc.).
However, one thing that turned all of us into little mommies and little daddies were our near and dear Tamagotchi’s. I loved my Webkinz almost as much as I loved my Neopets, and I loved my Neopets almost as much as I loved my Tamagotchi, so that’s really saying a lot. My Tamagotchi was orange and I got it from a Korean toy store where everything said Hello Kitty in Korean rather than saying Hello Kitty in English, but I insisted on getting my glow-in-the-dark diaries from there anyways.
When I played with my Tamagotchi, I felt like a cool teen mom. When I was in fourth grade, our elementary school principal instilled a policy that we would simply just have to keep our Tamagotchi’s in our lockers during the school day because they were just that addicting.
The best part of my Tamagotchi was putting it to bed at night. I kept it on my bedside table. It was always right there when I woke up, like the boyfriend you’ve never had.
My next business endeavor is to make a Tamagotchi app for iPhone. Right now though, I’m just really trying to focus on attaining more Webkinz cash to get this amaze matching bedroom set for my lizard named Liz, you know?
Body image and the way we see ourselves is like the unspoken thing that we don’t stop speaking about. Half of the discussion about the way we look, or the way we think we look, goes on in Instagram photos of our 5-star meals, tweets about being hungry, and asking our friends if they think we look fat in a dress we definitely look fat in. The other half goes on inside of our heads–what we think about ourselves, what we think about other people, and how we feel (which is, of course, usually pretty shitty).
Over the past 5 years, I have weighed everything from 95 pounds to 142 pounds. Today, I’m somewhere in the middle, and I’m happy about that. But body image is and always will be a shadow that is sewn to the soles of our feet–a shadow that is sometimes short, wide, and unflattering enough to send us into cardiac arrest, and a shadow sometimes so tall and thin we literally convince ourselves that hmm, moving to a nudist colony wouldn’t be so bad at the moment. On a recent trip to Florida, I realized that I had not purchased a new bathing suit since the literal seventh grade. My bikinis were all distorted and stretched, too small in some places and too big in others. After one too many nip slips, my mother decided it was OK to invest in a new bathing suit.
I found a bikini that had tea pots on it so, needless to say, it had to be mine. I have no waist but a lot of ass, so generally I would be a small in a top and a medium in a bottom. But this bikini only really fit me correctly in a large. I was a little comatose at first about being a large on top and on bottom, but once I tried on the suit and realized how nicely it fit, I didn’t really mind at all. We have always been taught that labeling is wrong, because you cannot declare anyone fits into any specific category, as we all simply are who we are. So, I ripped the labels out of my absolutely awesome teal tea pot bikini. Size didn’t matter. I’m not a “large”–in fact, I’m not anything. I just felt damn good in that bikini (especially after my 2-week break up diet).
Although I wish I were, I am not nearly this happy about the way I look so often. Whenever I get into that deep, dark place where I can’t afford a trendy liquid cleanse, I can’t put aside enough time to finish Bethenny Frankel’s book Naturally Thin (which eternally sits on my bedside table), and I can’t drink enough green tea in a day to make me look like a Victoria’s secret model or a pale, thin Olsen twin (I’d take either), I crash and burn. When I get to that place, I am so down that I cry as hard as I did when my little brother was born and I realized that the world would not revolve around me as much as it once did. I’ve never watched the Victoria’s Secret fashion show. But I will watch an episode of Girls where Hannah walks around in public sans-pants.
Once, I was speaking to a friend who was on a serious prom diet. I told her that she looked good, and she responded to my compliment by saying, verbatim, “Thanks! I can totally give you some diet tips if you want!” I was not looking for diet tips. Months later, I had managed to lose almost 20 pounds. I was at a Bat Mitzvah, wearing a tight black dress I hadn’t had the courage to wear in a long time, chatting with another girlfriend. I hadn’t seen her since I had lost the weight, and in a discussion about body image, I casually told her that I had dropped the 20. Her response? “Really? I didn’t even notice! I never would have guessed!”
I have spent my whole life comparing myself to other people. Then, I got my shit together. It’s only important to compare me to myself. Because, at the end of the day, bitches will be bitches. Let’s all be Victoria’s Secret models. We’re all chic and beautiful. I promise.