Mission: Evasion
In an effort to stay out of the crazy space in my head, I've started a new personal project. I am attempting to update my style. No, to say update suggests that I had style before, which I certainly didn't. I am attempting to create my style. I'm paying attention to shapes and combinations and accessories and when I look hot. On Wednesday at work, my style-conscious manager Bubbles looked at me and said, "You always look so cute. You could help on
What Not to Wear." Since I love Clinton and Stacy, I took this as a huge compliment. Admittedly, I looked adorable on Wednesday (black knee-length A-line skirt, navy blue half-sleeve sweater, black patent belt and ballet flats, and a white enamel cuff bracelet), but I can't imagine that I was worthy of the compliment.
Part of this is an effort to look outwardly put-together is a disguise against how inwardly fucked I am lately. Between obsessing about Hershey and taking his rejection personally (no matter how much I try to reconcile that in my mind) and dealing with the situation with the guy I work with (which is such a mindfuck that there isn't any other way for me to describe it) and all the bullshit that exists in the in-between spaces, I am honestly a mess. However, I feel like making sure that I look thin and appropriately and interestingly accessorized, combined with some exquisite self-control (I'm channeling Audrey Hepburn) will disguise my inner turmoil. I'm an excellent liar and very few people in my life can look at me and tell when I'm upset - and none of those people live in College Town.
It isn't a new idea, covering insanity with superficiality, but it is new for me, and so far, it's working. You don't see a girl in a brown cotton dress with a faux-python belt and pointy brown stilettos and know that she's going to go spend the night at home home, mopping the kitchen in nothing but teal heels*, black boy shorts, and a wifebeater. You don't see a girl in khaki-colored wide-leg pants with a black shirt and red patent flats and think that she's going to spend that evening in a nightgown, begging her neighbors to turn down their music and watching
Breakfast at Tiffany's. You don't see a girl out in a bar in a silk dress with black patent heels and think that she's having an extremely emotional breakdown via text message and will go home to sob to her friend at 3:30 in the morning.
I'm hiding behind this facade and I refuse to let anyone see through it. In fact, I'm working hard to take the facade even further. And when people see me in flattering silhouettes** and carefully chosen accessories, and I'm wrapping myself in comfortable sweaters and tiptoeing around in wildly uncomfortable shoes, I'm going to let people believe whatever they want to believe about my personal life. They can think that I sleep with anyone I choose*** and drink every night and spend my weekends having crazy adventures. They can think all of this while I spend my nights and weekends hiding out in my apartment, napping with the kitties and flipping through magazines and watching
Gilmore Girls and
Sex and the City for hours on end. I'll continue to play with makeup in Sephora and find fun cocktail rings and search out the perfect pink cashmere scarf (which I desperately want for this winter). I'm going to surround myself with things and hide behind them and damn it, it's going to be fucking effective.
*To break them in, of course.
**Too much Project Runway, What Not to Wear, and Tim Gunn, I swear. Since when do I talk like this?
***I was told that I can by someone who clearly doesn't know me. One, no, I cannot. Two, I wouldn't sleep with someone just to sleep with them - that isn't me.Labels: girl stuff, my insanity
Little Pleasures
It's freezing in my apartment because I refuse to turn on the heater and I have a six-foot window along my living room wall. Also, it is 31 degrees outside and I am smack dab in the middle of "hooray for being able to wear my coat!"
Today I shall wear the shirtdress that is almost too short with a pair of patterned, knitted tights and I will look fucking amazing.
I adore the beginning of winter.
Labels: everyday amusements, girl stuff
Fresh Start
I just got my hair cut; I have volume again and my bangs are back to being too cute. My apartment is about ninety percent perfectly clean, and that last ten percent isn't bothering me a bit. I got a raise at work and my hours have gotten more consistent. I'm reading things I love, I'm paying attention to the world around me, and I swear I'm going to get back into the routine of working out. Ignoring my love life (or lack thereof), things are going pretty well.
I know that new starts are for spring, right along with spring cleaning and getting pedicures and taking our bare legs out of hibernation, but I choose to have my fresh start right now. I'm in a good place, a happy place, even if it isn't perfect, and I'm going to embrace that.
Here's hoping that I manage to remember that the next time my boss picks at me or someone ignores my phone calls or Hershey and I finally end up in the same bar again.
Labels: girl stuff
Plan of Action
Lately, I have been getting chubby. Not fat, mind you, but chubbier than I've been since I was little and being chubby was still considered cute. I was one of the rare girls who actually lost weight her freshman year of college, but since about the midpoint of my sophomore year, I've been slowly gaining weight, and it's finally reached a point that has me doing something about it.
First, I stopped drinking Dr. Pepper. Well, mostly. I slipped last night because it just sounded so damn good, and really, a can or two isn't going to kill me. I just need to stop drinking it every day. In any case, that was step one.
Next, I cleaned up my kitchen and started using it for the actual cooking of food rather than the tossing of frozen stuffs in the microwave for the first time in about six months. Student teaching really didn't make me want to cook when I got home, so I started living on Smart Ones, frozen pizza, and fast food. This does not lead to the slimming of the waistline, kittens. Part of this cooking for myself stuff also includes buying myself food that doesn't suck. It would probably help if I didn't bake brownies and cupcakes, but in my defense I only kept about six of those cupcakes and there's still one left.
Wednesday afternoon, I sat on my couch nursing a horrible hangover (the kind of hangover that had me throwing up water at 2 o' clock the next afternoon*) and wishing that this brand-new heartburn experience would end quickly. I also noticed that my stomach was disgustingly squishy, even when it was completely empty. This is unacceptable. I've never been a part of the
Perfectly Flat Tummy club, but I have been a card-carrying member of the Cute Little Tummy club, for which you must have the kind of tummy that is muscle covered by an acceptably thin layer of skin and...stuff. The fact that my card is gone and I hadn't yet done anything about it...well. Let's just say that I made a decision right then.
The next step in my Be Less Fat plan was to buy some sort of workout DVD. I hate running and lifting weights has never really been for me - even when I was doing it - so the trick was to find something fun that I'll actually do for a while. Enter
Carmen Electra's Fit to Strip. I can hear you: "But Nic, do you want to be a stripper?" No, of course I don't. "Then do you want to look like Carmen Electra?" Fuck yes I want to look like Carmen Electra! Sans the fake boobs, she's one hot piece of ass. I'm not so naive as to believe that I actually
will look like her, but a girl can dream, right?
I've done the workout twice, and as I sit here typing, the my arms, abs, and ass are all sore, and if I move just right, my thighs aren't super-thrilled with me either. I love it.
Oh, Gallagher asked Hershey if he was mad at me last night. He said no. I call bullshit.
*Of course, I'm know I won't stop drinking, even though alcohol is full of empty calories. I will, however, stop getting wasted. It has so many negative ramifications.Labels: alcohol, everyday musings, girl stuff
Ugly
The way that women go through their lives intrigues me. When we're young, we're constantly told how cute or pretty we are. And, because we are egocentric and gullible and beautifully innocent, we believe. Little girls believe that they could be princesses, beauty queens, cheerleaders, presidents - and that they are the most beautiful little girl in the world.
Adolescence brings the insecurity, the scrutiny, the self-loathing. We are constantly judging ourselves and others and are conditioned to believe what we're told about our looks; at this point, however, we're being told all of the negative things. Too chubby, too skinny, too tall, too short, too awkward. Of course, there's always the dreaded simplicity of the word "ugly." We're all snarky and bitchy and cruel to one another, unfairly and stupidly. We're so conscious of the standard of beauty that we cannot look past that and see ourselves clearly.
At twenty-two, I have certainly been through it. I have felt like I was beautiful and perfect; I have felt like I was heinous and would never be good enough. I've grown as a person, and, to a certain extent, I feel that I've grown into my looks. I can see my reflection and manage to look past the negative things - and believe me, there are negative things out the wazoo - to see the things about me that are beautiful. I love my eyelashes, the shade of blue my eyes are when I wear black, my cheekbones, the way my bangs fall across my forehead, my collarbones, the tattoo behind my ear, my earlobes, my wrists, the tops of my feet. Odd things, but things that are particular to me and the things that I've found to focus on instead of the flaws. While there are certainly things that I would change - things that I plan to change - I'm relatively comfortable in my own pale, imperfect skin.
And still, despite all of the personal strides that I've made and my opinions on the relationship between self-image and growing up female, there are a few things that sting. That word: ugly. "She's ugly," he said, and I knew that he was a drunken son-of-a-bitch who was trying to hurt my feelings and whose opinion didn't matter. It still doesn't matter, because I'm not so fragile as to let one person destroy the self-esteem that I've worked so hard to build. And while I'm fine with it intellectually, there's still the visceral reaction and the capability to accept and internalize the words.
Forget that. I am not hot, I am not beautiful, I am not anything special, and I am not ugly. I'll be damned if I'm going to let some worthless, random boy make me feel like anything less than I am.
Labels: everyday musings, girl stuff
Things I Learned
There are times when traditional worries have to be thrown out the window. Money, propriety, your own personal comfort; things like these become moot when someone is really counting on you.
Friday night, I spent an hour standing outside talking to Gallagher because she needed it.
Saturday night, I spent two hours cleaning my living room just so that Bradshaw would have a safe place to be when she got here. That's right, Bradshaw made an appearance in College Town. As much as the entire thing was for her, there's no way that she can recognize what she did for my spirit as well. I love that girl. She has been there for me and done so much for me that nothing I could ever give her - time, money, objects - could ever begin to scratch the surface of what I owe. She is amazing.
Tonight, I did something that took me out of my own comfort zone and was socially inappropriate. When Gallagher was hurting, I made a point of contacting the person who could help her, the person that she really wanted to be there, even as I tried to fill in. I contacted him, I guilt-tripped him, and I threw any chance he and I have of being comfortable acquaintances out the window. I did this because it was what she needed, and having been in the place that she's in now, I wouldn't be able to sleep tonight if I hadn't made every effort to make this day better for her. It worked, and I don't feel even a little bit bad about it.
For the first time in a long time, I truly feel good about myself as a person. It feels good to be able to say that, and despite the fact that I have an apologetic and explanatory phone call to make tomorrow, I don't regret it even a little bit.
Labels: Bradshaw, everyday musings, girl stuff
Wedding Weekend, Part Two
Yesterday you read about the wedding and the reception. After we left the reception, we decided that more drinking was the best way to spend the rest of the night.* Bradshaw and I headed back to her super-cute apartment to make sure that we were appropriate, and after some somewhat unnecessary driving around the city, we ended up at a bar just around the corner from her place. We sat outside because it was actually a gorgeous night,** and chatted till last call. The people we were out with were actually Bradshaw's friend, bits and pieces of her college resident assistant staff, so it was more her night out than mine, but this certainly didn't stop me from enjoying myself.
Blue Moon with orange is very tasty, and this is coming from a girl who doesn't love beer.
I made it back to her apartment with a healthy buzz and half a dozen mosquito bites, one of which is on my back and itches, hurts, and is icky all at once.*** Two taquitos and two scenes of
Boondock Saints later, I was out.
The next morning, we were both exhausted, but I was on a mission: To find my perfect pink
purse. A secondary mission was to track down and purchase
the most incredible wine that my mom loves that is only available in about a dozen stores in the state, most of which are right outside of Big City where Bradshaw lives.**** For this, we drove out to the suburbs. I purchased the wine, then made my way to the mall. Two hours, a strawberry poppyseed salad, and half a dozen stores later, I exited clutching my new precious, a fuscia Franco Sarto leather purse purchased at thirty percent off.
After a quick stop at another location of Giant Bookstore and the purchase of
my new Magnetic Poetry Kit - which I love - I was back on the interstate to College Town. To my shock, when I returned to my apartment, I wasn't snubbed by my kitties; in fact, they wouldn't leave me alone all night and seemed very upset when I left for work the next morning. Wonders will never cease.
*This is when I learned that Bradshaw's friend, L (777 on her blog), loves Duffy as much as I do, which made me super excited. Partially because I was still pretty drunk when we were in the car.
**I'm waiting for summer here in Missouri to become completely unbearable. The amount of rain we've gotten this year is only going to make the humidity worse - which is just freaking perfect.
*** TMI, I know. Sorry, kittens; this is what you get for reading about Nic's life.
****As if anyone reading who doesn't already know won't figure out where the heck we all live. As if I really care at this point.Labels: alcohol, Bradshaw, girl stuff, updates
Here's Your Sign
I pose the following question to all men* who may be wandering the internet and reading my blog: Is being a female wearing a cute dress the equivalent to being a female wearing a sign that says “Please hit on me”?
After graduating from college and realizing that I have no plans for the fall (despite my hard-earned teaching degree), I decided that I was going to make the most of my summer. The first step in making the most of my summer was ensuring that I look exceedingly attractive. This of course translates to spending my time in cute little dresses.
So I went shopping.
I found what I have now dubbed my little gray dress at a store which I refuse to name (to protect my innocence, you see). It’s a very simple jersey dress with spaghetti straps that hits
just above the knee. There is some gathering on the bust line, but it doesn’t show an excessive amount of cleavage. I decided, after evaluating the appearance of the dress, that it was appropriate for running errands as well as sitting in the pub having a beer. It is, in fact, the perfect summer dress.
Since
GFW was moving out of College Town, we all** decided to gather at the Pub to have some drinks and hang out. We were meeting around eight, but I had some errands to run first and I wasn’t really excited about changing my clothes three times in one day, so I decided to wear the little gray dress. At the bank, the teller – through the glass of the drive-up window – eyed me and complimented my necklace. I stopped at the pet store to pick up a bag of kitty kibble and some treats for my babies, and the boy who checked me out asked what kind of pet I had. While he was scanning my bag of Cat Chow. I stared at him blankly for a moment before answering, “I have two cats.” He blushed. At the grocery store, the checker spent the entire time he was scanning my frozen pizza and Dr. Pepper chatting me up. I answered his questions flatly and put the bags into the cart.
It was at this point that, rather perplexed, I texted GFW and posed the same question that I opened this post with. He said that no, it isn’t the same as wearing a “hit on me” sign; the exception, he added, was if the dress showed a lot of skin. I don’t feel like this one does, but I decided that I would poll the boys that evening. The general consensus was that the dress looks good on me – damn good, one said – but that my wearing of it was not a direct invitation to hit on me. I trust the guys that I asked, so I decided that the dress was safe to wear out in public again.
Adding a little teal cardigan makes the dress work appropriate, so I wore it this evening while I was shelving books. A gentleman approached me and asked if we had any books on jumping rope. After looking it up – who knew that there actually were books on jumping rope? – I took him to the section and tracked the title down for him. As I knelt there beside him, my finger tracing along the spines of the books looking for Jump Rope Training by Lee, he chatted. He asked questions about my job, which I answered politely. I found the book, put it in his hand, and went back to my shelving.
Twenty minutes later, he approached and asked if we had a meditation section. I walked him over there, as per my job description, told him to let me know if I could help him with anything else, and walked away. I stopped on the other side of the shelf to fix some books that had fallen over and overheard the gentleman say to himself, “You could take that dress off for me.”
In related news, my gag reflex is in perfect working order.
*And women, of course. I’m a feminist too!
** The group of people that I work with who don’t suck.Labels: flirting, girl stuff
The Shopping Spirit
I love Christmas. Snow, lights, trees, holiday Starbucks, music, parties, food—and gifts. I’m genuinely one of those people who likes giving the perfect gift as much as receiving it. Maybe it’s odd, but some of my gift-giving experiences have been for non-family—but that’s another post. Remind me to write it sometime.
I’ve been in the Christmas spirit for a while now—since Halloween, really—but the last couple of days intensified it. I put in my Christmas CD, started looking for fun photos, and have a desperate need to watch
Love Actually. Yesterday, however, clinched it.
I now have the shopping spirit.
Thursday afternoon I really wanted to go to the mall, but instead Bradshaw insisted on taking me to her apartment to watch
Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl and
The Emperor’s New Groove.*
Friday, however, I indulged the shopping desire. I’ve wanted a new purse for quite some time, and I knew JC Penney’s was having a sale, along with most of the rest of the mall. I purchased purse number one: black, leather, roomy enough, and exceptionally cheap (remember: poor college student). I walked away from an extremely tempting mauve handbag…reluctantly.
Next I went on a quest for a new, winter-appropriate shower gel, finally settling on Bath and Body Works
Very Festive Pomegranate. While I browsed the crowded, heavily fragranced store, I chatted with my mom on the phone, lamenting the purse I left behind. She told me to go get it.
I feebly asked what I would do with two purses (pretending that I don’t have eight more at home in my closet). She scoffed and told me that if I didn’t go buy it, I would regret it and whine to her. She hates whining. I denied that I would whine, then tried to say that I didn’t want to waste money, but she interrupted, saying, “Go buy the fucking purse!”
I learned a long time ago that it is not worth it to disobey my mom.
I wanted to buy more things, for myself and for others, but my phone rang with friend beckoning me to join them for a late dinner. So I left. But I definitely have the shopping spirit.
*She was appalled that I hadn’t seen Pirates at all and had only seen bits and pieces of Groove. Clearly, she is insane. Which is probably why we’re friends.Labels: girl stuff, holidays
Take Me As I Am
I think most of us have seen the Dove ads that utilize real, average-sized women instead of models to highlight their products as well as encourage the self-images of women everywhere. Someone gave me the link to the Dove website and asked me to
watch the video, which I did. An interesting conversation followed, while several ladies discussed the ideal of beauty and perfection that exists in our society today.
I primp a lot. I wear full makeup every day (foundation, powder, blush, eyeliner, eye shadow, and mascara), curl or straighten my hair, shave my legs, pluck my eyebrows, floss my teeth, and paint my toenails. I buy expensive facial products, have an (small) array of hair products, use whitening toothpaste, love bubble baths, and crave a shopping spree at
Sephora. All of that is meaningless though, unless I like who I am on the inside.
Yes, I like to be pretty. I love it when I can finally coerce my ridiculously straight hair into falling in pretty waves down my back. I love it when a combination of diligent skincare and perfectly applied makeup gives the illusion that my skin is porcelain. I would be thrilled with a flatter stomach and slightly longer legs. But none of that means anything in the real world, the world where my mind and my words get me further than my looks. Sure, looks help, but I believe that intellect and personality will eventually win out.
I hate boys a lot of the time, but I do want to be married one day. When I do get married, this man is going to have to deal with a lot: mood swings, picked fights, a desire for both attention and privacy…morning breath, blotchy skin, hairy legs. I’ll be lucky to have someone who loves me despite my “flaws.”
I haven’t met that man yet, which is why I’m off to soak in a bubble bath, followed by full-body moisturizing, eyebrow plucking, and tooth flossing.
Labels: everyday musings, girl stuff
