It is a silly place.

If you try to tell me that I'm the only person who poses in front of the mirror and practices what she's going to say to people in imaginary scenarios I will call you liar. Everybody does that. They've got to, because otherwise I'm crazy and I really wouldn't like that.

You get ready for a job interview by practicing your confident smile in the mirror. You practice your flirtatious lines before a big date. You practice your "fuck you" smile just in case you run into that one girl you've always kind of hated. And everybody has tried to raise one eyebrow at a time.

Okay, so maybe I do it a little more than other people. I imagine entire conversations in advance so I can have my retorts all lined up and ready to go. It never goes the way I think it will so that usually leaves me gasping and grasping as the conversation veers out of the scripted territory. Still, I do this a lot.

So tonight I'm imagining a conversation and try a casual remove-glasses-hair-toss-spin-glasses-like-a-super-model, but doesn't quite work. This is how it goes: Remove glasses. Flutter eyelashes. Toss hair. Begin glasses spin. Say, "Absolutely!" On the "lute" syllable the glasses go flying out of my hand and sail across my bathroom to fly directly into the toilet with a sad little plunk.

Two points, nothing but net.

I screamed. It was the horrified inhaled scream you do when you realize you've screwed up big time, but you know by the time you've got the air to really scream it won't be appropriate anymore. It's one thing to pose in front of the mirror. It's totally different to stare a pair of glasses bobbing in a toilet bowl and scream.

I fished the glasses out, cleaned them. Then I cleaned them again. Right now they're sitting on my counter while I contemplate spraying them with kitchen sanitizer. And bleach.

If there is a moral to this story it is this: always put the toilet seat down when you're going to be silly in front of your bathroom mirror.

And not a single fuck was given that day.

People say "I don't give a fuck" so often it's almost started to lose its meaning. People who don't give a fuck don't need to advertise it, because they don't give a fuck. It's like saying when you go to a party that That One Guy is there and somebody says, "Did you know he's here? Should we leave?" and you say, "I don't care if he's over there drinking a PBR tallboy, talking to that skinny bitch who "forgot" to put on a bra. Jesus, somebody give her a sweater. She's obviously freezing, the slut." If you actually didn't care if he was there you would have said, "Oh, he is? Huh..." Or even better, "Who?"

I try to be a scrupulously honest person, so if That One Guy is still bugging me I'll say that he's still bugging me, but I've had occasion to do the, "I don't care. Really. I don't," dance before while deep down, maybe so deep down I can fool myself most of the time, I know that yes, I do care.
But the other day I stopped caring.

There was this guy, and, well... sparing you the details my feelings were hurt. It wasn't a bad hurt, and I knew I would recover, but that didn't make it hurt less at the time. This led to me spending several days inserting his opinions into everything I did. "Would he like this? What would he say... What would he think... What would he do...?"

And then one morning I was in my kitchen, doing nothing important, and I had an idea I thought was the coolest and I wondered, "Would think this was as cool as I think it is?" And then a little voice said, "No, he wouldn't. Not at all. He doesn't appreciate what you do and he doesn't appreciate your ideas and no matter how hard you try he will never, ever, get how awesome you are."

Just like that, I didn't give a fuck.

It wasn't me trying to make myself feel better, it wasn't a conscious thought. It just was. A truth I felt to the depth of my soul that he would never realize what an amazing person I am.
All of a sudden I realized all the ways I had let him influence me. I wanted to dance in the kitchen, so I did. I wanted a gin and tonic so I had one. I threw out the junk food and had a cup of yogurt. I took my stuffed bunny off the shelf and put her back where she belonged on my dresser. I wanted to put on makeup and rat my hair into an enormous beehive and wear my highest heels and go out and dance until I could barely stand and maybe let a handsome stranger buy me a drink. I did all this not to spite him, and not as a rebellion against the habits I had formed with him. I did it I didn't owe him anything. So I did all those things with an enjoyment and freedom I hadn't felt in weeks.

That's what it's like when you really don't give a fuck.

Stop doing that

These are the things I don't want to see in public.

1. Your underwear. I shouldn't even have to say this, because it's UNDERwear. You WEAR it UNDER the rest of your clothes. But apparently this needs to be clarified. A bra (or bralette or bandeau) is not a shirt. Shorts should cover more than your butt, since the full term is "short pants." A little peep of lace in your cleavage is fine (and sexy, I do it too sometimes), but only a little. A contrasting bra strap with a tank top is fine, because it's colorful and cute and sometimes hard to avoid. But your underwear should not be the point of an outfit.

And boys, you aren't exempt. I don't know what you think is attractive about baggy handfuls of boxers sagging above the waistband of your pants. When I see that all I can thing is that your butt is saggy and wrinkly and probably covered in suspicious spots, just like your boxers. A bit of elastic, fine. But if I can identify the tartan on your plaid boxers as MacLaren as opposed to Gordon, I have seen too much.

2. Your nipple. Your shirt should not be so tight I can see your nipple. Your shirt should not be so loose I can see your nipple. Your shirt should not be so low I can see your nipple. I can't even believe this is a thing now... Jesus. NIPPLES! Fuck's sake....

3. The crease where your butt and leg meet. That is just WAY too much skin to show. It's dangerously close to butt cheek. And on that topic, butt cheek is too much skin to show. Same with side boob. The only people who should be seeing that much skin are your doctor and the person you're sleeping with, and since I'm not a doctor and I am DEFINITELY not sleeping with you, put some clothes on.

4. Your bulge/your camel toe. Your genitalia may be covered, but your pants are so tight I can tell whether you were circumcised and what type of wax you got and how long ago you got it. I don't need to know these things on a second-and-a-half acquaintance that mostly involves me trying to gauge whether you're blocking my brand of peanut butter in the grocery store. I'm just not that kind of girl. At least buy me dinner first.

5. Your pajamas. You couldn't be bothered to put on clothes when you left the house at 2pm? Sure, 7am in line at Starbucks on a Sunday, wear your yoga pants, who cares. Midnight run to 7-11 for some popcorn to go with your movie? Go for it. But after about 9 you put on pants.

A note: These rules apply to when you go out in public, like a grocery store or the mall or a restaurant. At the gym, or other places that have specialized outfits, you wear what you need to wear. I'd say that these rules should be followed at dance clubs and bars, but I have too much fun laughing at people to encourage them to stop.

What article of clothing/style of clothes would you burn if you could?

No pain, no gain, no way

About once a year I'm reminded that I really ought to take better care of my body. I'm one of those lucky skinny bitches you see coming out of a restaurant saying, "That was a huge dinner! I'm totally stuffed on french fries and chicken alfredo and I must have had three beers. Who wants to go get ice cream?" In fact I think I've said those exact words before. And to rub it in, that skinny bitch isn't going to go to the gym, either.

That's me. Sorry.

See, I don't do gyms. I barely do exercise. I walk as a means of transportation, and I dance, and I haul 50lb bags of flour and 10lb boxes of dough, but to me an elliptical describes the orbit of an asteroid. To be honest I'm surprised my body hasn't left me for a gym-going woman who will take it for walks on the treadmill, and feed it wheat-grass smoothies, and do yoga with it.

I know a lot of people who love going to the gym. They do it at least once a day, sometimes more. They talk about the new class and the new machines and throw numbers around like they're rocket scientists. I, on the other hand, don't like gyms.

The machines are confusing and scary, especially because I can injure myself just fine when there are no hard, sharp parts moving at a high velocity. The people at gyms are worse, because they're in this little club of people who know what they're doing and look good doing it, while I'm in the club of, "What's this do? JESUSIT'SGOTMYARM!" and looking sweaty, red-faced, and awkward while the exercise equipment dislocates pieces of my anatomy. Not to mention gym memberships are expensive and I need that money for books and booze.

But every so often I look down at my mini marshmallow of a stomach - white and soft and full of sugar - and feel like maybe I should do something about it.


So this morning I got up and turned on the coffee pot and looked up an easy five minute workout I could try while my coffee brewed. I found one that looked relatively simple and cleared some books off the floor to make a workout space.

My menu looked like this: 30 crunches, 1 minute plank, 15 leg lifts. I figured the crunches would be simple, the plank hard, the leg lifts somewhere in between.

At 10 crunches I was feeling pretty badass. Easy-peasy! At 14 I was getting a little worried. At 18 I was hurting. At 22 I felt like a wimp. At 27 I was going on will power only. I was not so wimpy I was going to quit at 27. At 29 I nearly gave up. At 30 I collapsed, flopping and panting on the floor like a fish out of water. But I did it! I was feeling pretty good. It was hard, but hey, I finished and despite the agony burning below my ribs I wasn't in such bad shape. So I flipped over, set a one minute timer, and tried the plank.

I watched the timer for the first 15 seconds or so and then I pushed it away. Because I was shaking and sweating and suffering after 13 seconds. It was a form of mercy to not have to watch the seconds oh-so-slowly advance from one to the next. You don't realize how long a second truly is until you are in humiliated pain. I didn't make it to one minute, to my embarrassment. I probably made it just over 30 seconds.

But that's okay, because now I have a goal. Goals are good, right? Pride and shame are healthy motivators, right?

The leg lifts went a little better. I breezed through them feeling pretty good about myself. I was quite in charity with my legs, thinking of the nice shoes I was going to buy them as thanks for restoring my dignity and self-esteem. Then I realized I was doing the left lifts wrong. When I started doing them right I swore I would never again brag about how great my legs were. I only made it through 7 leg lifts before I quit. I would like to emphasize that I was the one who quit. I probably could have kept going but I didn't. The reason is simple. It's the real reason I don't exercise.

I don't like pain.

So as soon as I collected my dignity off my dusty carpet I got up, poured myself a large mug of very strong coffee, dumped a quarter cup of whole milk in it, and gulped that sucker down like it was the last cup of coffee I'd ever drink.

To all of you who exercise regularly, and hard, I lift my coffee-and-whole-milk to you. You impress the hell out of me, and I will never, ever, be one of you.

Be prepared

I hate leaving the house in a hurry. It seems like no matter how much I try to get all my stuff organized I always forget something. Or if I don't forget something I think I forget something, which is worse.

The bus is coming in 4 minutes, it takes 3 minutes to get from my apartment to the bus stop, and I CAN'T REMEMBER IF I HAVE MY WALLET. Do I have my sunglasses? Did I turn off the stove? No wait, I got the stove, did I forget to turn off my monitor? It must be my music. That's it! I forgot to turn off Pandora and now it's going to play to an empty apartment all day, using up my time and driving my neighbors nuts.

No, wait, I turned off Pandora. This antsy, nagging feeling that I've forgotten something must be caused by something else. Do I have my lunch? Do I have my uniform? That's what it is! I must have forgotten my uniform! Well, no, because I can see it right here in my bag. I must have forgotten my shoes. No, my socks! I forgot my socks so now I'll get in trouble for violating uniform rules. Well, could be worse.

Geez my mouth tastes funny, like I forgot to brush my teeth.

Oh.