Do you ever get to that point where you're stretched out on your bed, shirt folded up so as not to constrict the belly you've just stuffed to the brink with pizza, baskets of clean laundry piled at your feet, desk strewn with notebooks and empty cups and a plush alligator? And do you ever find yourself thinking, while in this position, Gee, the most logical thing for me to do right now would be to write a blog post, rather than tend to the hundred little disasters around me? What's that? You CAN relate? Oh, Blog. I knew I liked you.
Since we last spoke, I finished up another academic quarter with brilliant mediocrity, roadtripped to Florida with The Situation, and attended the youtube conference Playlist Live where all my most magical dreams came true, from bonding with Tyler Oakley to hot-tubbing between both members of ALL CAPS to touching Emerson Spartz to eating cantaloupe. The first item in the previous list was stressful (my school limited everybody's internet usage during finals week to save money but, oh, fear not, they didn't limit the five-star hotels for our perpetually losing football team), the second item was fun and relaxing, the third worthy of its own paragraph (below), and the fourth was somehow a six-dollar expense because that's the way Orlando rolls.
But enough about melons; let's gossip. Playlist Live ended up being pretty fantastic. The event definitely had its faults, like setting up a "VIP party" which I attended for about ten minutes before realizing it was more or less a "I bet I can outdouche you" competition between young people with way too much money and even more ego, but everyone I met who doesn't check their subscriber counts every fourteen seconds was lovely as can be. I hung out at the gorgeous outdoor pool where I had sassy bikini-clad girl talk with italktosnakes (control yourselves!), admired Nanalew, Strawburry17 and Meekakitty who all manage (miraculously) to be even more beautiful in person, and asked embarrassing questions of Dan Brown because "you promised to let the internet control your life this year and I am the internet so answer me." I also got to hang out with graphic designer extraordinaire Karen Kavett, my teenage dreams Alex Carpenter and Jason Munday, and a whole slew of Nerdfighters from all over the country (and some beyond), each amusing and awesome and adorable and every other positive A-adjective you can imagine. Dave Days was really polite and seems like a genuinely nice guy, Wheezy Waiter is an all-around champion at life, and at the end of the day, the people I'd expected to be cool were very much cool, and the only people I rolled my eyes at are the ones I've been eye-rolling all along. Internet personalities may not be a perfect reflection of the real people behind them, but they appear to be close.
So yeah, my spring break was an all-around success. I spent a cathartic day at my family's vacation place and wore out my feet (in the best possible way) on a long beach walk with my parents, heard some exciting family news*, talked and laughed with this pianist guy I'm very much in love with, and felt real sun on my face for the first time in months. Even crappy airtravel mini-disasters couldn't undo the pleasant feeling I've been riding since I got home. And that's saying something.***
Anyway, it's now past midnight and the laundrysplosion surrounding my gelatinous self is looking like more of an issue, so I should probably stop typing and go tend to that. I'm starting all new classes this week, so hopefully I'll have news to report about my collegiate adventures in the future. In the meantime, check out this video I just posted on my brand new secondary youtube channel, if you're bored, and I hope to see you around these parts soon!
Chipotle burritos this year: 3
Subscribers: 47,888
Nail color: "Broken and gross" by the I'm Lazy line
Miles run today: -100, +1 pizza
*Can you keep a secret? I mean, you don't really have to, but calling it a secret sounds so much more fun. Guess what. My sister and her husband are finally pregnant!**
**She is technically the only pregnant one, but he helped.
***At one point I was seated between two basketball players, both asleep with his legs spread widely apart, one thigh from each pushing on my skirt-clad legs in a much too intimate way. At another point, I almost went off on a crazy rant when the entire airline staff continually addressed an innocent woman (she was Chinese but speaking perfectly decent, passable English) in that SLOW. LOUD. SPACED-OUT. VOICE. IGNORANT. AMERICANS. USE. ON. FOREIGNERS. Meanwhile, the world's most annoying seven-year-old boy in front of my repeatedly burst into five-second tears over his homework (Yes, kid, Mexico is part of North America. It's not that hard to draw an oval. "Answer" has a W in it.), the overhead compartments were not nearly big enough to hold even my very reasonably-sized bag, and my first plane was so late that I nearly missed the second. *Deep breath.* #whitegirlproblems
Monday, March 28, 2011
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
In which childhood dreams punch me in the face.
This afternoon, my computer punched me in the face.
I'd been in that typical late-winter mood since I woke up-- you know, when your skin's all dry and your jeans are too tight and you decide the missing leaves from the trees are a metaphor for the missing purpose from your life and waaah-- and I had assumed my typical after-class position, lying down with my laptop propped on my knees. Just a regular day. Watching The Best of Adam Sandler on Netflix, eating simple carbs, wallowing in the quiet misery of being rich and white. It was just when my mind had started down the path of I'm pathetic and wasting my time by getting this useless degree from an institute whose only real claim to fame is being consistently recognized by Playboy.com for its great keggers... when it hit me. Literally. A slight movement caused my aluminum laptop to slide down my thighs and, at full speed, knock me straight in the mouth. All I did at the time was swear and flail, but little did I know: The universe was trying to convey a message to me.
Still, I carried on as usual, having misinterpreted that painful beacon of fate as just another example of gravity wanting to spite me. It wasn't until later, when I was flopping my winter thighs around the indoor track of our school gym, that I finally got the message.
I like to let my mind wander while I run, and perhaps it stemmed from my earlier thoughts about the pointlessness of my Creative Writing degree, but I happened to recall a seemingly random memory from seventh grade Sunday School. Our teacher had asked us to go around the circle and introduce ourselves by saying our names and what we wanted to be when we grew up. I was (shockingly!) a bit of a douchebag when I was thirteen, and I clearly remember trying to overshadow all the would-be firemen and nurses by saying, "I'm Hayley, and I want to write for Saturday Night Live." Truthfully, I had only ever seen the first two sketches of each episode from the foot of my parents' bed before they turned it off and I went to my room, but I always liked what I'd seen, and I knew I'd sound cool for saying so. And I loved that dream-- someday being adult and sophisticated, writing topical jokes about politics I understood, seeing my name on a screen while trumpets played, having some little Maya Rudolph smile. So I said, "And maybe I'll be a cast member, too, but I mainly just want to write."
My Sunday School teacher nodded and said something falsely earnest like, "I'm sure you will be someday!" because she was supposed to encourage us and therefore couldn't have said, "That's cute, but in twenty years you'll be living down the street from your parents, working at the library, and crying yourself to sleep every night while your second husband rubs ointment into his varicose veins." Lately, though, that depressing spiel has been feeling a lot more realistic.
I could see that teacher's face in my head tonight, while I ran laps. I was thinking about it, dwelling on the particular sadness of having been more confident about my career aspirations when I had braces than I am at age twenty... when Fate threw a sign at my head that was much, much, much heavier than a laptop. I was minding my own business when a tall blonde girl entered the track and started jogging out in front of me, and I swear to you, on my Scout's Honor, because I could not make this shit up*... she was wearing a t-shirt... with the Saturday Night Live logo on the back.
Uh, yeah. Seconds after having resigned myself to someday being Ohio's Funniest English Teacher Who Hates Herself, I found myself quite literally chasing my childhood dream. Isn't life hilarious? Somehow, some stranger wearing a souvenir from the NBC giftshop was all it took to restore my seventh grade optimism, at least for a while. Somehow, I feel more inspired to write tonight.
Cue the big band music.
Chipotle burritos this year: 3
Subscribers: 46,565
Nail color: "You Don't Know Jacques," OPI.
Miles run today: 4
Miles run this year: Lost track a week ago. It was fun while it lasted.
*Okay, in actuality, I could make this shit up-- fairly easily, even-- but I did not. This account is all true. My goal is to write for SNL, guys, not Saved by the Bell.
I'd been in that typical late-winter mood since I woke up-- you know, when your skin's all dry and your jeans are too tight and you decide the missing leaves from the trees are a metaphor for the missing purpose from your life and waaah-- and I had assumed my typical after-class position, lying down with my laptop propped on my knees. Just a regular day. Watching The Best of Adam Sandler on Netflix, eating simple carbs, wallowing in the quiet misery of being rich and white. It was just when my mind had started down the path of I'm pathetic and wasting my time by getting this useless degree from an institute whose only real claim to fame is being consistently recognized by Playboy.com for its great keggers... when it hit me. Literally. A slight movement caused my aluminum laptop to slide down my thighs and, at full speed, knock me straight in the mouth. All I did at the time was swear and flail, but little did I know: The universe was trying to convey a message to me.
Still, I carried on as usual, having misinterpreted that painful beacon of fate as just another example of gravity wanting to spite me. It wasn't until later, when I was flopping my winter thighs around the indoor track of our school gym, that I finally got the message.
I like to let my mind wander while I run, and perhaps it stemmed from my earlier thoughts about the pointlessness of my Creative Writing degree, but I happened to recall a seemingly random memory from seventh grade Sunday School. Our teacher had asked us to go around the circle and introduce ourselves by saying our names and what we wanted to be when we grew up. I was (shockingly!) a bit of a douchebag when I was thirteen, and I clearly remember trying to overshadow all the would-be firemen and nurses by saying, "I'm Hayley, and I want to write for Saturday Night Live." Truthfully, I had only ever seen the first two sketches of each episode from the foot of my parents' bed before they turned it off and I went to my room, but I always liked what I'd seen, and I knew I'd sound cool for saying so. And I loved that dream-- someday being adult and sophisticated, writing topical jokes about politics I understood, seeing my name on a screen while trumpets played, having some little Maya Rudolph smile. So I said, "And maybe I'll be a cast member, too, but I mainly just want to write."
My Sunday School teacher nodded and said something falsely earnest like, "I'm sure you will be someday!" because she was supposed to encourage us and therefore couldn't have said, "That's cute, but in twenty years you'll be living down the street from your parents, working at the library, and crying yourself to sleep every night while your second husband rubs ointment into his varicose veins." Lately, though, that depressing spiel has been feeling a lot more realistic.
I could see that teacher's face in my head tonight, while I ran laps. I was thinking about it, dwelling on the particular sadness of having been more confident about my career aspirations when I had braces than I am at age twenty... when Fate threw a sign at my head that was much, much, much heavier than a laptop. I was minding my own business when a tall blonde girl entered the track and started jogging out in front of me, and I swear to you, on my Scout's Honor, because I could not make this shit up*... she was wearing a t-shirt... with the Saturday Night Live logo on the back.
Uh, yeah. Seconds after having resigned myself to someday being Ohio's Funniest English Teacher Who Hates Herself, I found myself quite literally chasing my childhood dream. Isn't life hilarious? Somehow, some stranger wearing a souvenir from the NBC giftshop was all it took to restore my seventh grade optimism, at least for a while. Somehow, I feel more inspired to write tonight.
Cue the big band music.
Chipotle burritos this year: 3
Subscribers: 46,565
Nail color: "You Don't Know Jacques," OPI.
Miles run today: 4
Miles run this year: Lost track a week ago. It was fun while it lasted.
*Okay, in actuality, I could make this shit up-- fairly easily, even-- but I did not. This account is all true. My goal is to write for SNL, guys, not Saved by the Bell.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Diagnose me.
I think I'm allergic to February. Everything about this month makes me want to hibernate. I'm pale, I'm overeating, I'm cold, I'm tired, I'm depressed, my nose emits a constant stream of liquid which is super inconvenient because the act of keeping used tissues in your pocket is disgusting, I'm bored, I'm uninspired. I have free time but lack the energy to accomplish anything. All month I've been opening Word documents just to close them, writing three lines of a blog before angrily backspacing, clicking that little star next to the subject lines of emails because "I swear I'll come back to this later." Maybe I have Seasonal Affective Disorder or some other harmless malady invented by white people in the first world for the sake of excusing away our bitchiness. Or maybe I just need a vacation. You know what, Blog? I'll let you decide. Diagnose me. I will list my symptoms below.
- Last week, a guy in my majors-only* English class asked me how to make an outline. Two days ago, while peer-editing papers, he circled a sentence of mine that contained dashes and wrote, "What are these lines for?" Since I did not tear my shirt in rage, turn green, roll my eyes or vomit, I must be sick.
- I ate so much popcorn last night that the only way I could see fit to neutralize my mouth/stomach was by eating cupcakes. A healthy person would have brushed her teeth or gone for a run or, oh, I don't know, STOPPED EATING THE POPCORN. But I ate cupcakes.
- I recently attended class in the same shirt I'd slept in... and I didn't change until the following morning. Like... just soak that up for a second.
- There's enough sunshine this morning that I worked up the energy to force myself into a skirt-- not a spectacular one, mind you, but just the average kind of skirt that a girl might wear from time to time-- and two separate classmates have asked, "Why are you so dressed up?" When people call in the Inquisition because you're not utterly disheveled, you have a problem.
- My mattress is molding into the shape of my body and there are enough crumbs surrounding me that, frankly, it's only a matter of time before small woodland creatures begin nesting in here.
So what do you say, guys? There are only eleven days left of this hellish month so I can probably survive**, but no promises. Do you have any tips for overcoming Winter Madness? What do you do when you feel depressed for no reason? And does anybody have a forklift to get me off my bed?
Chipotle burritos this year: 1
Subscribers: 45,834
Nail color: Hot pink (I don't remember the brand or name.)
Miles run today: None yet.
Miles run this year: 81
*Just a note to make sure we're all on the same page, here: The kid who asked me these questions is majoring in English at the college level. From this information we can deduce that he 1) passed high school English classes, 2) received satisfactory scores on standardized tests, 3) was accepted to an institution of high learning-- one that turns many people away, no less, and 4) has, you know, written papers before.
**I'm such a heroine. What Chilean miners? I'm sick of winter; that's what matters!
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Early
As I sit in an empty hallway with a bag full of textbooks and a laptop on my knees, it is suddenly dawning on me, Blog, that I am psychotic.
At my university, all classes start at ten minutes past the hour. This system was probably adopted to limit scheduling conflicts and to ensure students enough time to get from one end of campus to the other, but I can't help but feel like it summarizes the overall atmosphere of our school: laze in, laze out, take it easy, wear sweats. If you're ten minutes late, you're right on time.
I normally admire the type of people who don't allow themselves to be too consumed with fast-paced anxiety, the ones who find peaceful escapes from stress instead of always Starbucksing their way through the motions. And in a lot of ways, I'm one of them. The problem, however, is that no matter how artistic and writerly and smell-the-roses-ish I can be, I am incapable of being late. Incapable. For fear of holding people up or missing something important, I will always overestimate the amount of time it takes to complete a task or drive to the store or walk up a hill. So, when I tell myself that "Class starts at one," you can bet your ass I'll be there at 12:45.
But class starts at 1:10.
Meaning I'm twenty-five minutes early.
Which is basically half an hour early.
And what do you call the girl who's consistently half an hour early to an hour-long class?
Psychotic. We call her psychotic.
Chipotle burritos this year: 1
Subscribers: 45,321
Nail color: Bare, but watch this.
Miles run today: None yet.
Miles run this year: 70
At my university, all classes start at ten minutes past the hour. This system was probably adopted to limit scheduling conflicts and to ensure students enough time to get from one end of campus to the other, but I can't help but feel like it summarizes the overall atmosphere of our school: laze in, laze out, take it easy, wear sweats. If you're ten minutes late, you're right on time.
I normally admire the type of people who don't allow themselves to be too consumed with fast-paced anxiety, the ones who find peaceful escapes from stress instead of always Starbucksing their way through the motions. And in a lot of ways, I'm one of them. The problem, however, is that no matter how artistic and writerly and smell-the-roses-ish I can be, I am incapable of being late. Incapable. For fear of holding people up or missing something important, I will always overestimate the amount of time it takes to complete a task or drive to the store or walk up a hill. So, when I tell myself that "Class starts at one," you can bet your ass I'll be there at 12:45.
But class starts at 1:10.
Meaning I'm twenty-five minutes early.
Which is basically half an hour early.
And what do you call the girl who's consistently half an hour early to an hour-long class?
Psychotic. We call her psychotic.
Chipotle burritos this year: 1
Subscribers: 45,321
Nail color: Bare, but watch this.
Miles run today: None yet.
Miles run this year: 70
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Hot Geologist
I have a crush on this substitute Geology teacher. He's a grad student, early twenties. Dark hair, scraggly beard, square glasses. Moves his hands a lot when he talks about plate tectonics. He sometimes fills in for our regular professor because she tends to go to Greece quite frequently to look at rocks. I like his teaching style and his cardigan. He's wearing a dark purple t-shirt with some kind of design on it in red-- it might be bullhorns, but frankly, I'm far away enough that it could easily be ovaries. I wouldn't mind either way because it's not like I'm single or going to talk to him. Just a musing.
Meanwhile, a guy behind me just laughed at the word "lubrication."
I don't really have much to say right now, but I thought I'd check in. I just posted a new video to officially announce that I'll be attending Playlist Live in Orlando, Florida at the end of March. Will any of you be there? I hope we get to talk. Maybe I'll bring my plastic recorder and take requests!*
In other news, I went to a Ben Folds concert last week with my friend Hannah and had a phenomenal time. I got to talk to him and some of the band/crew after the show, making me feel like a bit of a badass, if we're being honest. Oh, and speaking of badass, I watched the documentary Catfish last night and about fainted. Highly recommended.
Anyway, I hope you're all having a lovely week. Since this post was boring, here. Have a funny video with hot guys in it. Go watch it and eat something and be merry. Until next time!
Chipotle burritos this year: 1
Subscribers: 44,816
Nail color: None right now.
Miles run today: 2
Miles run this year: 65
*Provided that your request is "Hot Crossed Buns."
Meanwhile, a guy behind me just laughed at the word "lubrication."
I don't really have much to say right now, but I thought I'd check in. I just posted a new video to officially announce that I'll be attending Playlist Live in Orlando, Florida at the end of March. Will any of you be there? I hope we get to talk. Maybe I'll bring my plastic recorder and take requests!*
In other news, I went to a Ben Folds concert last week with my friend Hannah and had a phenomenal time. I got to talk to him and some of the band/crew after the show, making me feel like a bit of a badass, if we're being honest. Oh, and speaking of badass, I watched the documentary Catfish last night and about fainted. Highly recommended.
Anyway, I hope you're all having a lovely week. Since this post was boring, here. Have a funny video with hot guys in it. Go watch it and eat something and be merry. Until next time!
Chipotle burritos this year: 1
Subscribers: 44,816
Nail color: None right now.
Miles run today: 2
Miles run this year: 65
*Provided that your request is "Hot Crossed Buns."
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Fastronaut
Good afternoon, Blog! I know I haven't popped over here in almost a month, but I have a really good excuse this time. I've been hesitating to tell you about it, but I guess it's time I let you in on the truth. I'm a secret astronaut. I've been in orbit since December, and there's really crappy wifi over Australia. Not to mention, the whole anti-gravity thing makes typing difficult, and I don't know if you've ever had spacesickness, but it isn't pretty. Anyway, if anyone asks why I've been absent from my blog for so long, just come up with some ridiculous alibi, like, "She has a lot of homework" or "She didn't feel like it." Thanks, guys. I'm so grateful that I can always count on you to keep my secrets. *
A handful of important things have happened since we last spoke: fiveawesomegirls ended after a fun and emotional three-year run, I've made a couple of hayleyghoover videos (and am in the process of making another as we speak), more than a year has passed since I got together with The Situation, I did some laundry, and Miley wanted to go to college with Lily but she didn't get in so then she told the world she was Hannah Montana and she got in but then Miley got an offer for a movie so she went to Paris but then Lily hated her so Miley invited Lily to go with her to Paris but then Lily decided to go to college so Miley went to Paris without her but then Miley missed Lily so she went to college. So needless to say, my life has been exciting.
Oh, here's a fun story! I was running around the track last night, and I kept passing these two girls who were walking along the side, chatting. Now I'm not sure why they deduced that, just because I was zipping past them, I was totally deaf to their conversation... but I'm glad they assumed so, because I heard the greatest little tidbit.
Blonde Girl: That chick in the pink shorts is fast as [expletive]!
Brunette Girl: Dude, that's the youtube girl.
Blonde Girl: OH YEAH. She, like, makes money from youtube, right?
Brunette Girl: Yeah, how can youtube be a job?
Blonde Girl: I dunno, I guess you're a "youtuber."
Then they laughed because they thought they'd invented the word "youtuber" and then I laughed because my life is awesome.
The best part of it all, though, was the very first sentence. FAST? Someone called me fast and they weren't joking! This is high praise, considering most of the feedback I received in high school cross-country (when I finished every race at the far tail end of my team, usually whilst red in the face and/or swearing) was along the lines of, Nice try, Hayls! You haven't passed out yet! We're proud of you for not crying, sweetheart!
So with all that considered, I'm doing pretty well. A stranger thinks I'm a good runner, the Presence community continues to grow, I'm not failing any of the my classes yet, and I got ten hours of sleep last night. I hope you're all having a nice week! Keep being badass, and I'll see you soon.
Chipotle burritos this year: 0
Subscribers: 43,698
Nail color: "Plum's the Word," Sally Hansen
Miles run today: 4
Miles run this year: 39
*I'm also grateful for the wikipedia page on weightlessness for confirming that "space sick" is a real thing.
P.S. Megan McCafferty fans! Today is the one-year anniversary of the events of Perfect Fifths!
A handful of important things have happened since we last spoke: fiveawesomegirls ended after a fun and emotional three-year run, I've made a couple of hayleyghoover videos (and am in the process of making another as we speak), more than a year has passed since I got together with The Situation, I did some laundry, and Miley wanted to go to college with Lily but she didn't get in so then she told the world she was Hannah Montana and she got in but then Miley got an offer for a movie so she went to Paris but then Lily hated her so Miley invited Lily to go with her to Paris but then Lily decided to go to college so Miley went to Paris without her but then Miley missed Lily so she went to college. So needless to say, my life has been exciting.
Oh, here's a fun story! I was running around the track last night, and I kept passing these two girls who were walking along the side, chatting. Now I'm not sure why they deduced that, just because I was zipping past them, I was totally deaf to their conversation... but I'm glad they assumed so, because I heard the greatest little tidbit.
Blonde Girl: That chick in the pink shorts is fast as [expletive]!
Brunette Girl: Dude, that's the youtube girl.
Blonde Girl: OH YEAH. She, like, makes money from youtube, right?
Brunette Girl: Yeah, how can youtube be a job?
Blonde Girl: I dunno, I guess you're a "youtuber."
Then they laughed because they thought they'd invented the word "youtuber" and then I laughed because my life is awesome.
The best part of it all, though, was the very first sentence. FAST? Someone called me fast and they weren't joking! This is high praise, considering most of the feedback I received in high school cross-country (when I finished every race at the far tail end of my team, usually whilst red in the face and/or swearing) was along the lines of, Nice try, Hayls! You haven't passed out yet! We're proud of you for not crying, sweetheart!
So with all that considered, I'm doing pretty well. A stranger thinks I'm a good runner, the Presence community continues to grow, I'm not failing any of the my classes yet, and I got ten hours of sleep last night. I hope you're all having a nice week! Keep being badass, and I'll see you soon.
Chipotle burritos this year: 0
Subscribers: 43,698
Nail color: "Plum's the Word," Sally Hansen
Miles run today: 4
Miles run this year: 39
*I'm also grateful for the wikipedia page on weightlessness for confirming that "space sick" is a real thing.
P.S. Megan McCafferty fans! Today is the one-year anniversary of the events of Perfect Fifths!
Monday, December 27, 2010
I Am Victoria's Victim.
I'm not a genius or a prodigy or that girl who played Winnie Cooper, but I'm a pretty smart person. I don't follow most trends without thinking, I try not to use words I don't understand, I don't buy things off the TV. Still, with all my rationality and with all the raging feminism of my twenties, I do have my weaknesses. And one of them is Victoria's Secret.
I waddle through the mall, balancing the Christmas presents I need to exchange, arms laced with the straps of shopping bags. I see it in the distance, glowing pink. On either side of its entrance, posters fill the space from ceiling to floor with images of open-mouthed women and their extraordinarily long torsos. A scent, vaguely vanilla, seems to traipse into my nostrils. I strain to avert my eyes. Silently remind myself, It's a trap. They know what appeals to your young female brain. If you go in there, you'll spend money you don't have on items you don't need and then you'll be hooked and never, ever escape. But it is too late. I am lured into this wonderland of lace, glitter, cotton strewn about messily on purpose. I give myself over to the poppy music, inadvertently changing my footsteps to match the beat, until my zombie stride is identical to those of the other shopping prisoners. My smart-person brain is taken hostage. All my thoughts become one repeating mantra: This is sexy. You need sexy. Must be sexy. Buy the sexy.
I find myself twiddling through delicate fabrics, turning over pretty items in my hands. Suddenly, $70 sounds like a perfectly reasonable amount to spend on a nightgown. People who wear these sweatshirts have qualities that I need. My lumpy skin looks nothing like this mannequin, but maybe that's because I don't own this sparkly thing.
I need more money. I need to lose my belly fat. I need to brighten my skin. I need to slather on these creams, pat my face with this powder pompom, wear high heels, inexplicably, to bed. I need to pout my lips like her, I need to pose myself like her, I need to buy everything in this room so I can be exactly what their labels promise: a bombshell, a centerfold, a vixen, a tease.
And then I'm in line, palming an overpriced tube of lotion whose smell would not have enticed me half as much at Macy's. I fiddle about with miniature last-minute products strategically placed near the register. Perhaps I should be wearing lipgloss. Men must like oily, slippery magenta lipgloss, or else it wouldn't be called Beauty Rush, or else it wouldn't be here. Maybe I should get some and watch the woman behind the counter wrap it in hot pink tissue paper and then I can be desirable glamorous wanted worthy. But it's my turn to check out now, and the reality of making a monetary transaction zaps enough sense to my brain that I drop the lipgloss back in its container. I sign my unnecessarily pink receipt and I finally emerge from the store with only one bag. With each step toward the pretzel kiosk, I feel Victoria's grip on me loosen. I am no longer sultry. I am no longer a slave.
Why does that place have so much control over me? I got decent standardized test scores! I've bookmarked CNN.com! In the real world, I am confident, comfortable, and proud of my body and the person inside it. I wear mismatching socks and I only own three pairs of jeans. I should be above these too-obvious marketing schemes, but I'm not. Not quite.
So I wonder, how do you deal with this kind of temptation to spend heaps of money on qualities that can't be bought? How do you convince yourself that sexiness has nothing to do with labels, and that being a good person has little to do with sexiness? Is it always negative? As often as it makes me feel inadequate, its products also make me feel sort of empowered and feminine. Where is the line?
I can't be the only smart girl who still gets sucked in by marketing once in a while. I'm interested in hearing your opinions on the subject. Until then, I hope you're all having a great week. I'm looking forward to reading your responses!
Chipotle burritos this year: 31
Subscribers: 41,613
Nail color: "Devilish," Revlon
Miles run today: 0, but I ate cheesecake, which is practically the same thing.
P.S. It is not sexiness that I have an issue with. Sexiness is awesome and ABSOLUTELY a trait that smart women can possess. My issue is with DESIGNER sexiness. My issue is with paying twice as much for something because it comes on a pink hanger. You know?
I waddle through the mall, balancing the Christmas presents I need to exchange, arms laced with the straps of shopping bags. I see it in the distance, glowing pink. On either side of its entrance, posters fill the space from ceiling to floor with images of open-mouthed women and their extraordinarily long torsos. A scent, vaguely vanilla, seems to traipse into my nostrils. I strain to avert my eyes. Silently remind myself, It's a trap. They know what appeals to your young female brain. If you go in there, you'll spend money you don't have on items you don't need and then you'll be hooked and never, ever escape. But it is too late. I am lured into this wonderland of lace, glitter, cotton strewn about messily on purpose. I give myself over to the poppy music, inadvertently changing my footsteps to match the beat, until my zombie stride is identical to those of the other shopping prisoners. My smart-person brain is taken hostage. All my thoughts become one repeating mantra: This is sexy. You need sexy. Must be sexy. Buy the sexy.
I find myself twiddling through delicate fabrics, turning over pretty items in my hands. Suddenly, $70 sounds like a perfectly reasonable amount to spend on a nightgown. People who wear these sweatshirts have qualities that I need. My lumpy skin looks nothing like this mannequin, but maybe that's because I don't own this sparkly thing.
I need more money. I need to lose my belly fat. I need to brighten my skin. I need to slather on these creams, pat my face with this powder pompom, wear high heels, inexplicably, to bed. I need to pout my lips like her, I need to pose myself like her, I need to buy everything in this room so I can be exactly what their labels promise: a bombshell, a centerfold, a vixen, a tease.
And then I'm in line, palming an overpriced tube of lotion whose smell would not have enticed me half as much at Macy's. I fiddle about with miniature last-minute products strategically placed near the register. Perhaps I should be wearing lipgloss. Men must like oily, slippery magenta lipgloss, or else it wouldn't be called Beauty Rush, or else it wouldn't be here. Maybe I should get some and watch the woman behind the counter wrap it in hot pink tissue paper and then I can be desirable glamorous wanted worthy. But it's my turn to check out now, and the reality of making a monetary transaction zaps enough sense to my brain that I drop the lipgloss back in its container. I sign my unnecessarily pink receipt and I finally emerge from the store with only one bag. With each step toward the pretzel kiosk, I feel Victoria's grip on me loosen. I am no longer sultry. I am no longer a slave.
Why does that place have so much control over me? I got decent standardized test scores! I've bookmarked CNN.com! In the real world, I am confident, comfortable, and proud of my body and the person inside it. I wear mismatching socks and I only own three pairs of jeans. I should be above these too-obvious marketing schemes, but I'm not. Not quite.
So I wonder, how do you deal with this kind of temptation to spend heaps of money on qualities that can't be bought? How do you convince yourself that sexiness has nothing to do with labels, and that being a good person has little to do with sexiness? Is it always negative? As often as it makes me feel inadequate, its products also make me feel sort of empowered and feminine. Where is the line?
I can't be the only smart girl who still gets sucked in by marketing once in a while. I'm interested in hearing your opinions on the subject. Until then, I hope you're all having a great week. I'm looking forward to reading your responses!
Chipotle burritos this year: 31
Subscribers: 41,613
Nail color: "Devilish," Revlon
Miles run today: 0, but I ate cheesecake, which is practically the same thing.
P.S. It is not sexiness that I have an issue with. Sexiness is awesome and ABSOLUTELY a trait that smart women can possess. My issue is with DESIGNER sexiness. My issue is with paying twice as much for something because it comes on a pink hanger. You know?
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