Tag: rants

Winsome

MissM9 Comments

You wanna know what i’m sick of? No? Okay, well grab a fuzzy blanket and a mug of hot chocolate with those mini marshmalllows and take a sit so I can tell you anyway.

I’m sick of being told that I am cute.

You read that right.

Woah woah woah, there, stop rolling your eyes and let me explain myself before you start calling me hurtful names like “stuck up brat-face.” That’s hurtful.

Lately, the gentlemen i’ve been interacting with seem to feel that by paying me such a compliment entitles them to something. I shall now illustrate with a real-life example.

Boy: You’re cute.(:

Me: Thank you.

Boy:…. No, really, though.

Me: Thanks.

What up with the “no, really though.” In no way did I indicate that I  disagreed with his calling me cute or discounted the compliment. I simply accepted it with a gracious “thank you.” Punctuation included, and intended to indicate that I was through with that topic of discussion.

“No, really, though.” Uhh, okay. Thanks, again. I really don’t know what more you want from me here, nor do I really have anywhere to carry our conversation.

I can’t help but feel like I owe these gentlemen my attention when they’ve paid me such a compliment. Even if I show no interest, I can’t help but feel like I OWE it to them for telling me that they thought I was cute. And that’s messed up. Maybe I’m the one with the problem, but i’d be willing to bet that you gentlemen of the universe could come to a consensus that when you pay a lady such a gracious compliment, you’re expecting a little something in return.

It shouldn’t be that way, though. This gentleman sought me out, not the other way around. I am not obligated to reciprocate anything.

In summary, yes, I do enjoy being complimented on my cuteness. Who doesn’t?! But do people even severely compliment each other anymore, or does everyone have a hidden agenda?

Help me in my fight against cynicism.

M.

Sapience

MissM20 Comments

I am the worst at dating. The literal worst.

I decided to take a little risk and attend an NBA game with some dudebro who sought me out via good old FaceBook. The whole “stranger danger” concept never really stuck with me, and I am of the naive youth who really believe that people are who they say they are on the internet. It will be my downfall one of these days, mark my words.

-Back to my anecdote-

Aforementioned dudebro was no psychopathic serial killer, though. Just a dude. Sorry to disappoint. I feel like this post would be a zillion times more exciting had he turned out to be a murderer or something. Anyway, he messaged me to tell me that he had two free tickets to the Jazz game the following day, and was wondering if i’d like to accompany him.

In my defense, the only thing I hear when asked out on a date is “free food, free stuff, come with!”

For the sake of personal gain, I obliged him and agreed to allow him to take me to the basketball game. What could go wrong, right?

Now, there are a few rules when it comes to dating dudebros on the internet. One of the most crucial rules is asking the right questions before agreeing to meet up with anyone. Of these critical questions, the most crucial is that of age. You see, I had failed to ask this vital question, and the consequence was tragic.

The guy was 26. There is a 7-year age gap between me and him. Now, that may not sound like much, but it’s hella intimidating to me. When I think ’26-year-old single male,’ I think ‘adult.’ ‘Big boy.’ ‘Not suitable dating material for a lady of my youthful age.’ To my dismay, I had not discovered this minor detail until we were rolling to the arena in his $600 Buick.

The night only grew worse as we drove to his brother’s house. Plot twist: Dudebro invited his 28-year-old brother, his brother’s wife, and their child, to come with us. Oh, and on the way there, he ran 4 red lights. Where were the damn cops?!

Call me crazy, but I find it exceedingly strange to go on a first date with some guy and his married brother’s family. Is that not weird? Tell me if i’m wrong, because I’m pretty weirded out by it.

Also, this 26-year-old dudebro had some interesting comments on my outfit choice as well as my outer appearance. He said, (and I quote) “I’m a picky guy when it comes to what girls wear. Picky, picky.” As you can imagine, my feminist-y mindset loved hearing those words spew from his picky mouth.

No need to worry, though, because he later told me that I passed the test and that my outfit choice was to his liking. Abstaining from violence was nearly impossible at this point in the evening.

It was a disastrous night, and I demanded to be taken home at 10:30.

Reveal yourselves, normal boys, I beg of you.

M.

Garrulous

MissM14 Comments

The beautiful thing about stereotypes is that they are never 100% true. A good example of this is the stereotype of the girl who never shuts up.

Lately, i’ve been socializing with various boys (boys? men? What is the proper terminology for males between the ages of 19 and 22?) and I have found the opposite of the “Chatty Kathy” stereotype to be true.

I don’t believe that gender has an influence on how talkative or reserved an individual is.

I’ve had a ton of fun hanging out with dudes and doing date activities and things, but sometimes I feel like I rarely get the opportunity to contribute relevant comments to a topic of conversation. People like to talk about themselves. It’s what they know best.

I like listening to others talk about things-things that happen to them, things they’re passionate about, things they hate, and I am an exceptional listener. Other peoples’ lives fascinate me, especially when they’re lives are more exciting than my own. (Which is typically the case.)

But sometimes, a fellow will be narrating a personal anecdote that sparks some kind of comment that I just HAVE to make, but it seems as though when these instances happen, the person i’m talking to suddenly learns how to speak without commas and without breathing, thus robbing me of any chance of interjecting my comment.

At this point in the conversation, I have already started verbalizing my thought, softly, though, as to not rudely interrupt, but my voice goes unheard by the speaker, and he continues on with his story.

As the conversation carries on, the speaker eventually leaves the topic of which I would really like to comment on, and begins talking about something else. At this point, I’ve almost stopped listening, because I’m trying to come up with a way to bring us both back to the topic of which I wanted to comment on, but to no avail.

Eventually, I give up, and the only comments I make are the occasional “right,” and “yeah,” and “I know what you mean,” to ensure the speaker that I have not ceased listening.

As I mentioned earlier, I love hearing people talk. And some people, once you get them going, they never stop. They plow through a plethora of topics, challenging my brain to keep up.

I guess what i’m saying is lately I feel like a lot of the conversations I engage in are practically one-sided. Which is fine, because typically I don’t have a whole lot to say, myself, but when I do, I wanna say it gosh darn it.

I wish there were a polite way to say “SHUT THE EFF UP I HAVE SOMETHING TO SAY.” Perhaps I will try throwing hard candies at peoples’ mouths when I feel that it’s my turn for the talking stick. I will report back with results on this method of interrupting someone.

M.

A Fractional Indemnity

MissM10 Comments

Today, I experienced a situation that caused me to feel like a hypocritical, shallow imbecile. Partially.

I shall now set the scene for you. *Clears throat.* AHEM.

There I was, draped on a barstool, my legs resting on the adjacent chair (let’s be honest, I’m not lunching with anybody. No, really, I am eating alone.) in the university’s cafeteria. I snatched the Ziploc bag from my backpack and began self-consciously scarfing down my Mayo-less turkey sandwich on Sara Lee’s 45-Calories-And-Delightful Bread. (Cuz screw you, patriarchal fat-shamers, for making “getting fat” one of my biggest fears in life.) Mid-bite, I was approached by a fellow student-perhaps my age, maybe even a few months younger, but the opposite gender.

This fellow had on an untucked flannel shirt and jeans that were a size or two too big. He had on glasses-the kind that morph into sunglasses when you walk outside, and hadn’t quite yet changed back to glasses-glasses, giving the lenses a bluish tint. His skin was as clear as sand, and he had a “baby face.”

“Excuse me,” he said as he approached my lonely lunch table of one, and I jerked my head away from my sandwich, half a chunk of lettuce hanging out of my mouth. I sheepishly covered it and forced the giant leaf of lettuce down my throat.

“Ooops, sorry, bad timing on my part.” the lad said, apologetically, as if it were his fault that I have yet to figure out how to consume edible substances in a socially acceptable manner.

After I’d finally swallowed a mouthful of dry sandwich (more a chore to eat than anything else), I shot him one of my winning smiles, baring my slightly-yellowed-by-excessive-green tea-drinking teeth.

“This is going to sound weird,” the boy continued, “and you can say no, but, um, uh, can I have your number? You can say no.”

My social skills are a bit impaired, and I could feel all the blood in my petite body rush straight to my cheekbone-lacking face.

I let out one of those nervous half laughs and hesitated just a beat.

“I actually have a boyfriend…” my mouth said before my brain could give it the O.K. A flash of disappointment came over his spectacle-covered eyes, his thin lips curving into a gentle frown.

“Oh, okay, I understand,” he managed, “I hope you have a great day. Enjoy your sandwich!” and with that, he took a step back from my table, down the hallway of rejection.

Again, my tongue reacted seconds faster than my brain ever could, and I turned and blurted, “thank you, though! I am so flattered!”

My brain’s only thought was, “I hate myself.”

I remained there, a solitary slump of a girl in a Victoria’s Secret hoodie with a half-eaten sandwich in hand, letting guilt take over my mood, and in awe of my own hypocrisy. I couldn’t believe that I had done just exactly what I’ve been demanding our society stop doing-qualifying a person’s value based on his/her external appearance. I had become, in that instant at least, the epitome of what I have been working so hard, (via this website and my own personal behavior) to advocate against. I had lied to this boy about my relationship status simply because the way he presented himself did not appeal to me.

But then, good old feisty, feminist M crashed this guilt party.

Wait a second, boys and men are allowed to have preferences on the type of person they find attractive. On Tinder, it is not uncommon for men to post in their “description” section indications of physical preference. (i.e. “Blondes only. “Cup sizes C and Up.” “Real Men Like Brunettes.” “No Whales Allowed.*”) I highly doubt that these online heart-throbs ever have episodes of guilt for their own displays of shallow behavior. So why should I? I like what I like, and I know what I don’t like.

Granted, I should not have lied to this boy with the cliche “I have a boyfriend” line. Why do I owe him any excuse at all? I don’t demand a reason why “real men prefer brunettes” on Tinder. I don’t owe this boy an explanation for not reciprocating his feelings of attraction for me. But honestly, what were my options for gently rejecting this boy?

I have found a couple of societal pressures that I theorize could be the cause of the “I Have a Boyfriend” Phenomenon.

1. Assumption: 

     “Assuming makes an ass out of “u” and “me,” the saying goes. I assumed, (probably rightfully) that this boy inquired for my cell phone number in order to initiate some kind of romantic relationship with me. Because rare is a boy and girl who share a strictly “No, Really, We Are JUST FRIENDS” relationship. Which is rather discouraging, seeing as I’ve always wanted and older brother figure in my life. But then we get into the whole “friend zone debate” which is an entirely separate argument on its own. Point being, had I given this kid my number, we could have possibly become dear friends, although the odds are slim as rice paper.

2. Justification 

As I mentioned earlier, for some reason, (girls especially) feel like we have to apologize for everything. It’s a scientific fact-they made a Youtube video about it. And we all know Youtube is the all-knowing, 100 percent reliable, online video database on this world wide web. In this particular situation, I was apologetic for not being physically attracted to this boy as I assume he was to me. What is there to be sorry for, though? Why is it so hard to simply say, “no, thank you, I’m not interested.” I can think of a couple of reasons. First of all, some people seem to think that no means yes, so they persist until they finally get what they want. (In his case, a seven-digit number granting access to instant communication with me) which would make each time I had to reject his inquiry harder than the last. Second of all, I was trying to be considerate of his feelings. Rejection is hard. Nobody wants to be told “no,” which is why I linked an excuse on to my rejection to soften the edges a little.

In conclusion, I stand by my decision to withhold my phone number from this boy. I did not want to give it to him, it’s as simple as that. However, I do regret the method in which I avoided giving it to him, and am working on alternative strategies for the “boyfriend excuse.” If y’all think of anything, please don’t hesitate to let me know.

M.

*I got this horribly offensive quote off of a T-Shirt from my dearest ex-suitor, “Derek,” which is one reason amongst a dozen others as to why I am okay with his terminating our relationship. What an ass, amirite? (See  Prevaricator  for that whole story.)

Insolence

MissM7 Comments

Lately, I’ve been feeling a lot more angsty and sassy than usual, which is frightening for those of whom I come in contact with on a day-to-day basis because my personality is slathered with both angst and sass, even on a good day.

Anyway, I’m in a creative writing class at my local commuter-university (which I LOATHE, literally a third of my fellow classmates grew up with my PARENTS) and we are currently working on our poetry unit.

I am no poet. I used to be, back in grade school. I spit out a poem about some old tree I could see through the entrapping window by my desk in the third grade, and wound up winning some statewide poetry contest. And 25 bucks, which is practically making it rain for a nine-year-old.

Needless to say, I spent every penny of it at Baskin Robbins. Sigh, those pre-anorexia days were good.

As the years passed, so did my lyrical, poetic writing abilities, as you can gather just by reading a post or two of this lovely blog of mine. My writing style is a direct reflection of my ever-increasing sarcasm and blunt ways of saying what goes on in my never-silent brain. As you can imagine, this makes it rather difficult to get in touch with my inner Poe.

But, for my grade’s sake, I was forced to give it a shot. Our prompt was, “Write a poem in the format of a letter to someone.”

I love how specific writing prompts are.

As per typical me, I put my own spin on this prompt, and decided to write a poetic letter to my alma mater, my high school. The way this creative writing class works is that each student writes his/her poem, submits it online, and the rest of us get to play critic and (both literally and figuratively) tear each others’ works to shreds.

Luckily for me, I have some pretty thick skin, and don’t really give a damn about what other people think about my work.

Here are some of the comments I received on my poem:

“I think that some lines were a bit too harsh and mean-spirited.”

“It’s unfair to say that (insert “unfair” segment of poem here)”

“Maybe you could change it to something softer and less-harsh?”

I am in a class full of sissies.

So now, I present to you the final draft of my poem, and am calling all readers of my blog to give me their honest critique.

Dear High School,

 Now that I’ve had a taste

Of that real world you claimed to have prepared me for,

I hope that you’ll take a moment

Of your bell-dictated time

To accept this, a grammatically proper token of my

Reluctant gratitude

For without you, I may never have known

 

That sitting by myself at the lunch tables with a tray of reheated mystery meat

And a fixed frown is absolutely the most solitary state I will ever be in.

 

That if you can “get with the cool kids”

Life’s problems will pass over you, after all

The lamb’s blood of today is popularity.

 

That looks are everything

And the girl with the blonde hair and size-two waist will always get the guy.

 

That the possibility of getting marked tardy will not

Get me to set my alarm any earlier,

And that Mrs. Teacher keeps a running tally of each one

In Sharpie,

But that’s okay, because “three strikes-you’re out!” Right?

 

That due dates are not do-dates

And that unpleasant assignments can easily be avoided by sluffing a day or two.

 

That the dress code was not a tyrannical act of oppression

Because showing my shoulders will force boys to lose focus on their own work.

 

That if it weren’t for your forcing me to run a mile every Friday during Gym class

I would not have the active lifestyle I lead today.

 

For without you, I may never have known

 

That every test is closed-book, and we all have differing

Answer keys.

-M.

Misapprehension

MissM3 Comments

Last week, I decided it was time for me to move out. So I did. (Well, sort of.) I decided to pack up my Camry with my seasonal belongings and make the 12 minute drive to Oma’s* house and become her brand-new, live-in best friend. Now, i’ve only been here a week, but this week has been the bomb-diggity. (Excuse my informal language.)

Living with her has been awesome because I have this sense of independence that I don’t get at my parents’ house, but also there is always somebody here to help me with my laundry or make Crepes even on a Thursday morning. And also, my favorite aunt lives right next door now, and enjoys taking me to Applebee’s for half-priced appetizers after 9 PM. It’s like the half-step between paternal dependence and complete independence. And that works for me.

However, regardless of the happiness this move has brought me, not all affected by this move walked away without their toes being stepped on. I think I hurt my parents in doing this, and that tears me apart. My dad, and probably one of my closest friends lately, was a little wounded by my choosing to live elsewhere. He told my mom that he felt like he was not a good father for not providing me with an environment that I can flourish in.

My mom is also not exactly happy by this choice of mine. She feels as though I am pushing her away. Geographically, this holds true, but you know what they say- “distance makes the heart grow fonder.” (Or something like that.)

I have an overwhelming burden of guilt for making my parents feel this way. I am more than frustrated that a decision that can make me so happy (or at least, less unhappy) could be seen as a ding to my folks’ parenting skills. My intentions have been entirely misunderstood.

Even though I can’t seem to clear up my reasons for leaving the nest to mom and dad, I am going to clarify them here.

Reason #1: No Curfew. 

My Oma works late a lot, and our schedules make it so that we are rarely home at the same time. Since she is so busy working and also being the best Oma in the history of forever, she rarely asks me interrogating questions. Which means I am free to go out and do teenager stuff with the abundance of friends I don’t have at 2 AM. It’s the principle of the thing.

Reason #2: New Environment=removal of temptation to be a girl with an eating disorder.

As silly as it sounds, living in a new house with a different kitchen has helped me start to mend my skewed relationship with food. I haven’t binged yet, and even my thoughts toward myself have improved. I am starting to lose the rigidity of my routines and rituals. This, on its own, is reason enough for me to not live in my house, as it saves me a significant amount of time, grief, and self-loathing.

Reason #3: No more Condescending, Contentious Little Sister

Woah, that was a rather bold and hurtful statement for a Monday morning, eh? Before you start grabbing your virtual pitchforks and picket signs that say “M deserves the ‘Worst Big Sister In The World’ award,” allow me to explain.

My relationship with my darling ‘little’ sister (quotes have been inserted around ‘little’ because my 16-year-old sis has probably 6 inches and 20 pounds on my short, non-athletic frame) is very unstable. We go through brief phases of alliance followed by extended periods of complete and utter hatred and/or avoidance. When we fight, homegirl gets pretty damn condescending and rude, radiating too many negative vibes for my already too negative self to cope with.

I haven’t spoken to her in a month. Not a word, nor an acknowledgement. And she doesn’t seem to mind in the slightest. In fact, I’m not even sure she noticed I even moved out, and that stings. Granted, she’s a self-absorbed Junior whose entire world revolves around herself and her friends, but I just thought that I had a little higher ranking of priority in her life. But you know, it is what it is, and if moving out removes the possibility of yet another heated, estrogen-slathered quarrel, then so be it.

Reason #4: Java

I’m allowed to have a coffee maker here.

So that’s where I’m at right now. Still not making anybody happy with my life choices. Still trying to please everybody. Probably about to move back home to relieve myself of this overwhelming feeling of guilt for hurting the parents. Still on the quest to find the path to lifelong happiness. Still no where close.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I am going to breakfast over crepes with my Oma and gossip about our wacko family.

*Oma: German for Grandma. No, I will not refer to her as my grandma, for she is not. She is my Oma.

Forbearance

MissM5 Comments

I had my personality professionally dissected and labeled today, (Don’t ask-long story) and I learned some very valuable nuggets of information about the way I’m “wired.”

First of all, aforementioned professional diagnosed me with an “avoidant” personality type, in regards to my relationships to other people. This means that I am the type of person who prefers minimal contact with my few loved ones. A human with an avoidant personality doesn’t necessarily want to be around people in which they have relations to on a frequent basis. They like their space. They feel overwhelmed when people try to get close to them too fast and are frequent ignorers when reached out to.

My, my, my, this professional really knows her stuff. This personality type just so happens to describe me to a tee. I hate being around other people. Alone time is BLISS. I typically end up pissed off or frustrated after interactions with my fellow human beings.

And that most likely explains why I spend the majority of my evenings wrapped up in a burrito of blankets, cradling my Mac, and producing pointless blog posts about my uneventful existence with my faithful sidekick, Fred the Abnormally Large Cat, by my side.

Also, it means i’m probably gonna die alone.

In other news… Gay marriage is finally legal in Utah! Wahoo! Reddest state in the nation for the win.

Oh, and also, apparently seasonal squashes are gendered now, according to the asshat in my Creative Writing class who asked “what is it with you females and your obsession with pumpkin spice during the month of October?”

M.

Lucubrate

MissM6 Comments

I am in a particularly difficult stage of my life. Nothing makes sense. I’m right on the threshold of adulthood, but not quite there yet. Plans change by the second. Nothing feels right.

However, the hardships of this weirdish-almost-adultish state of existence, provide excellent opportunities for learning frustrating, reality-check giving life lessons. Here’s a few i’ve learned lately:

1. I am thoroughly convinced that moving out of my parents’ home will solve 99.4% of my problems. 

Before you slap a label on my disproportionately large forehead that reads, “Snobby, Spoiled, Over-privileged, Ungrateful Brat Whose Daddy Gives Her Everything,” check yourself before you wreck yourself. Then explain to me how you managed to fit so much writing on such a little label. And then hear me out.

One of my greatest growing concerns in my own life is being dependent on other people. I am a lone she-wolf. OWWWWW.

Seriously, though. All I want is to be able to take care of myself completely on my own. I acknowledge that I am nowhere near realizing this goal, but moving out would be a huge leap towards becoming Miss Independent. There is nothing I desire more than to be the dirt-poor girl in the tiniest, hole-in-the-wall apartment with thrift shop furniture and a budget just large enough to sustain life. It’s not even about feminism or having something to prove. I just want a modest place to call my very own-a place secluded from family and friends unless I choose otherwise.

On the other hand, i’m not exactly equipped to take care of myself entirely just yet. I moved out my first semester of college to a faraway land (well, about 350 miles away), and, long story short, I lost 10 pounds and took 2 trips to the E.R. over the span of 4 months. This occurrence should not be disregarded when it comes down to “should I stay or should I go?”

2.. Even if I survived on the thriftiest of diets (we’re talking ramen-noodle and cans of generic spaghetti-o’s) there is no way in hell I will ever be able to afford a place of my own. 

I am a very modest girl with a very modest-paying job. Turns out $700 a month is about 1/4th the income I need to get an apartment of my own with out a damn “cosigner.” Needing a cosigner makes me co-dependent and that makes me want to vomit.

Then there’s utility costs, which is a load of bullshit on its own.

3. When you’re done, it’s time to quit. 

Yesterday, I had a bad day. It was significantly worse than my typical bad days. I broke. My own papa taught me something very valuable that evening; when you’ve had enough, it’s time to pop an Ambien and watch New Girl until you fall into a deep, drug-induced slumber.

4. If Exercise Endorphins aren’t doing the trick, Comfort Food Endorphins sure will. 

Nothing makes me feel like an invincible warrior quite like a 4.5 mile run on the treadmill, fueled by Fall Out Boy and the current day’s rage. But even after that, the persistent Blues can proceed to cling to your back and weigh me down.

Fortunately, we have Molten Lava Chocolate Cake to remedy that.

5. When People Say, ‘I Care About You,’ Let Them. 

Probably due to my independent nature, I don’t allow other people to help me with my problems. I let my frustrations bottle up and attempt (in vain) to solve them on my own until I simply burn out. It’s probably a pride issue, but I need to let other people care about me sometimes. It’s a work-in-progress.

6. We All Have Problems

My problems aren’t any more or less significant than my peers. We all have plenty issues, but some of us are just better at coping with them. I prefer the “break down and bawl under my covers until I feel like my problems can’t find me” method. Other people choose the “be a reasonable, mature adult and push through it because it’s not going anywhere” method.

Hey, i’m learning.

I am quite the hot mess, my friends.

M.

Hedonic

MissM7 Comments

I don’t mean to be THAT girl, the one who’s always a minute behind the latest pop culture trends, but let’s be honest, I’m typically that girl who’s always a minute behind the latest pop culture trends. I live under a rock of Fall Out Boy and New Girl. My scope of pop culture exposure is fairly limited.

I listened to the radio the other day because I forgot my little tape cassette thingy that lets you play music from your smart phone. I hope I never forget my little cassette tape thingy again. Anyway, that preposterous “All About That Bass” song came on.

Aside from its reprehensible tune, I find the song’s lyrics to be absolutely ludicrous. Let’s take a closer look at the problematic themes of this song, shall we?

“My mama, she told me, don’t worry about your size. She says, ‘boys like a little more booty to hold at night.'”

Okay, Meghan Trainor, so your mama taught you to keep some junk in the trunk so that future suitors have something to grab at when you’re laying in bed at night? How is that any different than girls who starve themselves because everyone and their dog knows that the no boy doesn’t like the slim Victoria’s Secret Model body type? I have a really hard time picturing anybody’s mama telling them to do anything to their bodies that make men want to hold them more. In addition, this is a clearly anti-feminist theme because mama says the reason to keep your booty plump is for the sole purpose of attracting men, thus a form of self-objectification, which is completely problematic.

“Go ahead and tell them skinny bitches that.” 

So skinny girls are, by default, bitches? No, no. That’s called jealousy. If you didn’t at least partially covet those with a daintier frame, you wouldn’t feel the need to call them bitches. This ties in to a previous post of mine in which I discuss how women tend to degrade other women by attaching some kind of ridicule about their physical appearance to another insult, i.e. “skinny bitches.” (See “For Maximum Efficiency“)

“Cuz I got that boom boom that all the boys chase.” 

What in the hell is boom boom?

Skinny shaming is no better than fat shaming. I am a complete advocate of self-acceptance, but, in my opinion, (and the RIGHT one, on this website, anyway. Welcome to my totalitarian online world, people.) accepting and learning to love your body cannot be done while shaming those with body types that differ from yours.

This is going to sound completely adolescent, but if you have to shame other people to feel better about yourself, are you really improving your self-esteem?

Perhaps.

If mentally telling yourself that boys like your curves better than hip bones or vice versa improves your sense of self-worth and esteem, by all means, keep telling yourself that. But shall we not incorporate such themes into our media and allowing them to plague the minds of the young and easily-influenced?

As for me, I couldn’t give a damn whether REAL men like curves. Or thigh gaps. I have the body I have. It functions efficiently and I keep it healthy and feeling good. And that is good enough for me.

It doesn’t matter if you’re fat, skinny, tall, short, have an extra toe, have been christened”big-boned,” what have you. Learning to accept the body you have is an entirely separate process from shaming somebody else.

As a side note, “Comparison is the thief of joy.” –Some Profound Author/Poet/Inspirational Speaker.

M.

Irascible

MissM4 Comments

Today, I am bugged.

And I have plenty of legitimate reasons to be. I can count the hours of sleep i’ve gotten in the last two days on one hand. We ran out of my favorite caffeinated drink packets this morning. My Chapstick melted all over my jeans on the way to work. I cut my lip on accident whilst trying to pry open a cup of Greek yogurt at lunch today. Global warming.

So EXCUUUUUSE me for being a little “tender.”

Work went well, though, despite my 10 hour shift and it being Friday.

Not to toot my own horn, but I am becoming quite the efficient little receptionist, if I do so humbly say so myself. I even get my very own pen which i’ve labeled with a note that says, “This has probably been in Maddie’s mouth.”

One of the major tasks of my position as Efficient Receptionist with adorable name tag and special pen is to check in patients and also schedule their next appointments.

Never a dull moment in customer service jobs.

We get a lot of older men coming in to my work, and i’ve suffered more than my fair share of passes from these older dudes. But today was noticeably higher-saturated with passes from older dudes.

Wow, please excuse the atrocious grammar in that last sentence, and then note again the lack of sleep of which I am suffering.

Allow me to elaborate:

Old Dude #1: Thank you, missy, you are too sweet.

Me: …..

Old Dude #1: Uh, umm, (stammers, ad lib.) That wasn’t sexual harassment. (Turns and bolts toward the exit, but stops suddenly upon grabbing the door handle and shouts behind him, “have a great day, my dear!”)

Why in the actual hell would you even say the words, “sexual harassment” in this situation?! We could have easily both ignored your forward and borderline inappropriate comment about the sweetness of which I was exhibiting.

Scenario Dos:

Old dude #2: Hey, gorgeous! Sorry I’m late!

Me: ….

Old Dude #2: Oh, no, I was talking to him. (Nods to my coworker, who is a male.) Otherwise, that’d be sexual harassment.

“Sexual harassment.” Can we just delete that phrase from our vernacular? It gives me the heebie-jeebies.

Scenario Tres:

Me: Okay, Old Dude #3, are we scheduling you for 2 appointments next week or three?

Old Dude #3: two, unless the third one is me and you for dinner.

Me: *slams head against keyboard just hard enough to escape consciousness for the remainder of the work day.*

So that had me in a pretty sour mood for the majority of my shift, but it was my very last patient of the day that about made me lose my marbles.

Before you call me a man-hater and start throwing tomatoes at me, please return to your designated seat, make sure you’re caught up on your meds, have a sip of water, and continue reading.

Last patient walks in, and I go about my routine of getting her checked in and ready to go.

Last Patient: It’s so nice to see young girls like you being so efficient!

Me: *looks up from what i’m doing, eyebrows knit together in confusion and disgust*

I was unaware that “young girls” had a track record for being non-efficient.

What’s so surprising about my abilities to accomplish office and admin tasks at work? Is it that i’m a girl AND that i’m efficient? Is it that i’m young and efficient? Does she not know any girls who are efficient? And when can people finally start referring to me as a woman rather than a girl gosh dang it I am almost two decades old.

Maybe I just read into these things way too much because of my constant, ever-waxing feminist attitude. Maybe I should have just taken her comment as a compliment and not thought anything more of it. But WHY is it nice to see young girls being so efficient?! Would it still be nice if I were a young boy and being efficient?! Would she even say anything?! WHY AM I YELLING?!

I’m pissed off. I’m pissed off and tired. And now i’m going to angrily slump on my couch and efficiently eat Nutella from the jar with a miniature spoon.

M.