why you shouldn't wear sweatpants grocery shopping

In the past few years, I've evolved into somewhat of a non-sweatpants-wearing creature.  Gone are the glorious days of undergrad, when I wore sweatpants pretty much all day, every day -- from 6am crew practice to leaving the library at night.  I now choose to look nice and be presentable a majority of the time, and I threw out my scrubby sweats and replaced them with J. Crew minnie pants. I kept a handful of yoga pants and leggings, and I own exactly one pair of real, bonafide sweatpants, that typically are worn exclusively in the confines of my apartment, or over my soccer shorts to soccer games during the winter.  And once, I wore them to the grocery store.

[Let me make something clear:  I really hate grocery shopping.  And I make a big effort to avoid it-- sometimes I'll even send my roommate with a couple dollar bills and ask him to pick up essentials (diet coke) for me so I can make it by just a few more days.  Getting in my car, turning the engine on, remembering that I haven't put gas in my car for over a month, going to the gas station to gas up, driving the whole 1.8 miles down Main Street to the store, finding a cart, navigating the aisles, price comparisons, waiting in line, driving the car back home... it's just too much for a fragile soul like mine.]

So Once Upon A Time, on a dark and stormy night, I was hungover and tired and desperately needed to grocery shop.  I was wearing the heinous sweatpants, and faced with the horror of another trip to Busch's, I took a risk and jammed my feet into my Uggs, thinking to myself "Celebrities wear their sweats in public all the time." I hopped into my car and after the requisite gas stop, I arrived at the grocery store.  And it's while I'm comparing the prices of Progresso Soups that I see Notre Dame Mark: a Really Really Cute Tall who ran in college, had a good job and a nice condo, and took me on nice dates.  But when he wanted to be my boyfriend, I couldn't commit and I panicked, and stopped answering his calls and blocked him on Facebook in a Very Mature and Sober Moment.

I looked at Notre Dame Mark, who was checking out the canned tomatoes, and almost said hello when I have the sinking realization that a) I am far too embarrassed about the de-friending incident to ever speak to him again and b) I am in the sweatpants.  Thinking he hadn't seen me yet, I fled the aisle and headed for the wine section.  Problem:   He did see me.  And he followed me to the wine to say hi--apparently, my immaturity is charming to some.  I somehow made it through a stiff and awkward conversation, all the while hoping to melt into a puddle on the ground.

Turns out, talking to an "ex" for the first time in months when you are in sweat pants and he is in designer jeans isn't so fun.  It could have been so different if I could have hidden behind a cute outfit, instead of shrinking in shame.  Instead, it was basically the Worst Grocery Shopping Trip Ever. So I have to admit, The Rules are right.  Dress to impress, because you never know when you'll meet someone (even if it isn't The One).  I now vow to wear lipstick at the gym, and I'm considering the nose job.  Next on my list: mastering Rule #2:  Don't Talk to a Man First (and Don't Ask Him to Dance).  Wish me luck--I'm headed to Rick's tonight to practice it!

L

giving the milk away for free

Ever hooked up with a guy, only to have him blow you off later?  Not the greatest feeling. Plus, you have this mental image of a grandmother peering over her glasses at you and wagging her finger, saying "Why buy the cow if you can get the milk for free?"  It's the first dating rule you ever learn (usually in conjunction with that awkward Birds and Bees talk).  In the past couple of years, though, I've given up on dating games and rules.  It seemed kind of silly -- if I like you, and you like me, why are we pretending not to like each other?  Why not talk all day, and I'll text you first and hang up last?  So instead of doing the nimble dance that is dating, I've thrown myself into relationships head first and at full throttle.  Obviously that hasn't been working out too well.

Because the "milk" doesn't have to be sexual.  The milk that I've been giving out for free?  My heart.  I wear my heart on my sleeve and make it super obvious that I like someone.  I shower the object of my affection with flirting and attention and pour all of my sparkle into the endeavor.  But then I end up in situations where I'm giving more than I'm getting, or I'm just left in the dust. So now I'm realizing that there are rules for a reason.  They make you show restraint, and put up a little shield of protection until both parties involved are on the same level.

I'm determined to stop giving away the milk for free, and start playing hard[er] to get.  I've turned to the experts, and downloaded The Rules: Time-tested Secrets for Capturing the Heart of Mr. Right to my Kindle Reader App.  I'm a little hesitant to put my faith in a book that advises me to get a nose job in the first chapter, but these are Time-Tested Secrets-- surely they must be on to something!  Starting now, I'm a rules-following girl (and I'll be sure to let you know how it's going).  So far I've only read to Rule #1, and I'm acing it so far...Rule #1:  be a creature unlike any other!

L

PS:  I got a haircut, so no more ponytails for me!  I have adjusted my doodles accordingly.

are you a reacher or a settler?

So here I am, thrown back into the uneasy world of singledom [again].  For anyone who still reads this, my singleness just means more fodder for my blog.  Yippee!  But for me, being single means accepting the reality that I could die alone.  For someone who wants a husband and adorable quarter-Asian kids someday, this is Really Depressing.  But as I was telling a friend just the other day, there's something even scarier than dying alone:  Settling for less, just so that you don't have to die alone.  This of course led to the How I Met Your Mother theory of reaching and settling:  That in every relationship, there is a "reacher", and a "settler." In my vast dating experience, I've played both roles.  This is how it goes:

Scenario 1:  The Settler.  Settling is a good way to get a good dose of temporary happiness, because even with a less than desirable mate, you've found some relief from the stress of being single.  Now for some, just being coupled is enough to be happy.  For me, the settling has been a bit more calculated.  [SPOILER: You may not like me after reading this.]  Historically, when I've settled, I have enjoyed the position of power I get in the relationship.  I call the shots, I always get my way, and I don't live in fear of being dumped-- because when you're the settler, you get to be the dumper.  And this is all good and dandy, until you start getting text messages that say "Sorry I suck at hitting on you, I think you're the coolest, but you're so far outta my league," or you kiss somebody else and your boo barely blinks an eye.  Or something else happens that makes you realize that compliance and fawning are not love, and they are certainly not attractive or satisfying.

Scenario 2:  The Reacher.  Reaching is awesome.  There's this constant elated feeling of "ZOMG can you believe someone so attractive/interesting/awesome/cool/smart/ahh!! is into me?!?!?!"  Plus, you're trying to prove to yourself, and to Mr. Settler, that you are worthy of his attention and affection.  So there's self-improvement:  working out more, dressing better, doing cool things to keep up with his level of cool, reading up on topics so you can keep up with their interests.  The problem?  You start craving validation, proof that your efforts aren't in vain, and they still like you.  And you're so busy trying to prove that you're "good enough" for your partner that you never stop to ask if he is good enough for you.  You're so busy reaching for that happy feeling that you don't realize that as the "reacher" you are actually settling-- settling for less attention and affection than you deserve, settling for someone who probably doesn't deserve you in the first place, and settling for a dissatisfying relationship.  Because you can't be 100% happy if in the back of your mind you don't think you're good enough.

So me?  I'm searching for Scenario 3.  The perfect balance, where both partners are reaching and settling.  Except it's not called reaching and settling -- it's called compromise and compatibility.   And to get to that point, I'll have to find the self-acceptance and self-esteem to not have the urge to settle, and the maturity to know how to be 100% satisfied. 

And if that fails me, you can find me in Scenario 4, where I move in with Kiwi and we become old knitting cat ladies together.  You're never alone if you have a sister!

L

the ex files, part two: the five stages of breakup

 Blame it on Darwin.  Natural selection.  Evolution.  Human beings are social creatures for a reason --we've depended on living in bonded relationships to perpetuate the species, and our brains are programmed to encourage us to form solid attachments.  Falling in love?  Intense pleasure.  Breaking up?  Serotonin and endorphin levels plummet.  Terribleness ensues.  What's meant to serve as a built-in warning system to keep us bonded and increase our survival really just ... makes you feel crummy.  And that's just the beginning of the emotional roller coaster that is a break up. 

 Some jokers out there might try to tell you that the stages of recovering from a break up go something like: Get really drunk, post sad Facebook updates, listen to Emo music, make angry phone calls to the ex, complain to all of your friends, revert to isolation and depression, and finally, drunken hookups.  Me? I like to stick to the more classic Kübler-Ross model-- the five stages of grief.

 1.  Denial.  This could mean putting on a show of false bravado, and over-exaggerate just how cavalier you are about the whole thing.  It could mean going to your "happy place" and pretending it didn't happen.  One time I didn't tell anyone about a breakup for 3 days, because I was sure it was just a problem that would go away, like a pesky cold or something.  Denial is also ignoring reality and fantasizing about scenarios in which you reunite with the ex.  Cut to dream sequence: It's a rainy and cold night, your ex shows up on your doorstep with flowers, and begs for you to take him back while you weep and compassionately tell him all is forgiven.  Denial can provide a temporary relief from sadness, but don't drown in 'de Nile, if you get what I'm saying.

2.  Anger.  It generally takes a lot to get me mad, but I have had my moments.  Moments of "Why the hell don't you love me?!"  Moments in which I am enraged by my own unlovableness.  Moments in which I am enraged at my friends for not warning me what a jerk he was.  Anger is accompanied by tears, slamming doors, and punching pillows until exhaustion takes over, or I remember it is time to go to work.  (Luckily, I am always able to rely on denial to lift my mood and allow me to get through the day).

3.  Bargaining.  Maybe if I lost weight/stopped texting so much/drank less/called less/didn't hack his email/shaved my legs we could get back together and be happy.  Maybe I can overlook his bad habits of never calling/poor sartorial choices/always being late/never paying/being a jerk/making a mess of my apartment/bad breath/not wanting to be in a relationship.  I snap myself out of the bargaining stage pretty quickly with a simple mantra:  I want to love and be loved.  This is true, so sadly I cannot allow myself to bargain, or settle.  Moving on...

4.  Depression.  Based on past breakups, I know I am prone to depression.  Laying in bed under the covers, indulging in a little too much Nyquil, refusing to eat, crying, and being that pathetic person that sobs hysterically during lame Jennifer Aniston chick flicks and/or humane shelter commercials on tv.  This time around, I weirdly have yet to experience any major signs of depression.  Just a manic abundance of energy to cardio lift, go to hot yoga, work really hard at work, shout out all of the answer to Jeopardy!, volunteer to sub at soccer, go out with friends every night, drive people to the airport multiple times a day.  I suppose this could be depression disguised as distraction.  

5.  Acceptance.  That day when you see a picture of your ex and it doesn't feel like a hamster with ADHD is running around your stomach.  When seeing their name on your gchat list doesn't make you feel like you're having a heart attack in a bad way.  The day when you see them in person and you feel a blissful... nothing.  

Obviously, I haven't gotten to stage 5 yet-- I wouldn't be sitting here writing this if I had. Part of me says "this is all for the best" while the other part of my psyche is riding the coaster of stages 1-4 more times than Single Rider Bob rode the Millennium Force this year.  I believe that acceptance will come later, and I'm thinking that as soon as I accept this break up, I can immediately call my ex and see if we can "just be friends."  And...starting with denial again!

L

the ex files, part one: defriending your ex on facebook

Dear readers,
It's been months, but I'm back...and newly single.   And to get my writing juices flowing, I'm writing a mini series on break ups-- write what you know, right?  Tune back in a couple weeks for topics that are a little more fun, or join me on my journey through the sad, the bitter, the thoughtful, and the sometimes funny moments on my road to getting over Mr. Not Quite Right:

In the olden days, breaking up meant saying farewell and putting your love letters in a shoebox hidden in the depths of your closet. But now it's 2011, and your ex is everywhere -- in your phone, in your digital camera that you lost a month ago but now found, on your desktop background, on your Gchat buddy list, and on your Facebook friends list.  You can change your desktop, block their username on Gchat, and put those pictures in a digital version of a shoebox, deep in the depths of your external hard drive.  Out of sight, out of mind.  But with Facebook, there's a lot to consider:  your ex popping up on your newsfeed, your insatiable desire to stalk your ex, various privacy settings, and the irreversible decision to unfriend.  So, fresh out of a breakup....to defriend, or not to defriend?  That is the question.

I don't know what it's like for other people, but I'm very tempted to look at my ex's profile.  And from personal experience, this is how it goes: 

• Week One:  Look at ex's profile daily hourly.  Feel relieved to see he hasn't moved on, and your statuses are wittier than his.
• Week Two:   Ex makes new facebook friend of the opposite gender.  Spend hours trying to internet search her and determine the nature of their relationship based on the tiny profile picture you can see.
• Week Three:   Ex posts picture of himself and scantily clad girl at a party.  You block him from your newsfeed.
• Week Four:  You swear to yourself you won't look at his profile.  You make it three days.  Yikes.  Pattern continues until...
• Week ___:  Ex posts his new relationship status with a really pretty girl who is 4 years younger than you.  You defriend him.  (Or for the truly masochistic, continue to torture yourself by stalking).

 The first time I defriended an ex, I debated long and hard about what that action would mean.  Unfriending someone might look like a cry for attention, and in the power struggle that a breakup can be, you don't want to be the weak one.  I was worried it would make me look like I was powerless to resist him, or that I had a hatred so strong I wouldn't even consider him a Facebook friend.   Or more importantly, that it would seem immature.

But if Facebook is holding you back from moving on from a person, then it might be a necessary move.  And is it really immature to give yourself a chance to move on with life, and let it go? I say no.  It just means that you're helping yourself get back on your feet, and on the road back to happiness and independence.  (At least that's what I told myself when I hastily defriended my most recent ex after a few too many sidecars at the office party last night.)

Perks to defriending your ex:  Not feeling any [irrational] pressure to make your status perfect in case he reads it.  Forcing them to request you as a friend, thereby outing that they tried to creep through your photos.  And most important--it is a lot harder to miss someone that you never see.

L

just say no to slut-o-ween

 "In Girl World, Halloween is the one night a year when a girl can dress up like a total slut and no other girls can say anything about it." Sorry, Cady Heron... but in my  world, I get to say something about it. I realize that it's no new trend to rant about how girls dress too slutty for Halloween, but I'd like to think my take on the topic is just a little different from your typical outraged feminist's.  You see, my main beef with the slutty costumes isn't that there's too much exposed skin, or that they're impractical for cold weather.  It's that slutty costumes-- the sexy [insert anything here]'s -- they take away from the very spirit of Halloween. 

Remember when you were a kid, and you spent weeks planning The Perfect Costume, getting every little detail Just So, so that you would be the most convincing SpiderMan/Indiana Jones/Ballerina/Little Mermaid/Dorothy on the block?  My sister Bubba carried a fork around with her and my mom let her comb her hair with it.  When I dressed up like a ballerina the year it snowed and my mom made me wear 10 layers of sweatshirts under my costume to stay warm, I cried because ballerinas aren't fat --and they don't wear snow boots, either.  It was a tragic time in the life of Lindsey Marie. 

Because the best part about Halloween is that you get to dress up as anything... your alter ego, your hero, your favorite tv character or pop culture figure, your favorite animal.  You get to escape your humdrum life, whether that means shedding your normal klutzy self for a night and becoming a beautiful ballerina, or pretending you're Lady Gaga for a night instead of a lousy office drone.  That is the spirit of Halloween.

So ladies, since when does everyone want to be a stripper or a porn star?  Because when you dress up as Sexy Dorothy, you are not dressed as Dorothy-- you are dressed like a stripper with a blue and white gingham dress on.  Sexy Teacher is a porn star character.  Real teachers don't dress like that (or at least none to my knowledge).  And stop trying to make things sexy that just aren't.  Chewbacca is just NOT sexy.  Strapping fur around your privates and holding a gun does not make you Chewie. And to be clear, it's not the sexy factor that I find so repulsive -- it's the deviation from the actual character you're dressing as.

Because I say... if you've got it, flaunt it! Last year I dressed as Katy Perry in a cupcake bra and bedazzled Daisy Dukes.  Pretty skimpy, to say the least.  But I was accurate down to the very tiniest of details.  So don't think dressing sexily requires destroying and defiling the image of a beloved childhood storybook character, animated Disney character, or a random inanimate object. Pick a costume or alter ego that is already sexy, and work the hell out of it.  Whether it's Princess Leia in her gold bikini, or Lady Gaga in one of her revealing no-pants outfits, you can be incredibly sexy without looking like a clichéd Sexy [Blank], or like a downright hooker. 

Just don't go the Emperor's New Clothes route... being too true to THAT story might get you into a little bit of legal trouble.

L

why laughing makes you pee your pants

September 11 is a day that no one will ever forget.  And on Sunday, its 10th anniversary, I added a few new reasons I'll never forget the date.  First, I got a boyfriend.  Second?  I peed my pants in public.  (Obviously, after the boyfriend part.  Too late to turn back by the time I was peeing myself, I guess).  It goes like this:

I'm standing there at Cedar Point watching SPF Ghost try to climb the impossible monkey ladders and win me a giant hot pink stuffed monkey.  I'm tired and dehydrated from a long day and late night of drinking tailgating cheering on the Michigan Wolverines against the sucky Fighting Irish the previous day.  And I'm giddy.  I'm giggling hysterically as Ghost falls off the ladder over and over and over again.  He can't even get onto the ladder completely, so he hasn't even technically had one "turn."  And I bought him three turns.  Best 5 dollars I've ever spent.  People are staring and pointing at the guy who sucks at the monkey ladder.  And I'm laughing hard.  So hard, in fact, that I lose it.  My whole body starts to go limp, and I feel a warmth between my legs-- and not in a good way.  I collapse onto the bench, and clench with all my might, hyperventilating with effort.  I need a bathroom NOW.  Ghost doesn't even notice what's happening.  He just tries to make me climb the ladder to prove hard the game is, and I refuse.  I demand my jacket from him to tie around my waist, and it dawns on him that there's been an accident.  He's literally doubled over laughing at me, which re-starts my laughter.  The problem that was barely contained has now become a huge problem.  Somehow, I manage to regain composure and make it to a bathroom to clean myself up (no thanks to the weird Dyson hand dryer), and went on to happily ride 12 more rides that afternoon.

It was not the sexiest moment of my life by any means.  The worst part?  It's not the first time I've laughed so hard I wet myself.  I have a distinct memory of peeing all over the ugly linoleum floor in the kitchen in our house in Beavercreek, Ohio when I was 5 years old and laughed too hard.  (I also remember my mom yelling at me and getting spanked for it).  And I remember dozens more times after that.  More recently, it's been the last 4 Christmases, when Kiwi and I get a little too hyper playing Phantom of the Opera piano duets.  But never in public-- I've hit a new low.

Since the most recent incident, I've done some Very Extensive Internet Research to assuage my feelings of shame.  Laughing until you pee isn't uncommon at all.  In fact, scientists in the Netherlands found that just under a fifth of the population experiences muscle weakness during laughing and other emotions.  When "funny" jokes* made people laugh, muscle response was reduced by up to 88.9%.  (This accounts for all those years during swim practice when I'd be laughing and my whole body turned into a limp noodle).  And when your muscles-- including your urethral sphincters-- go weak?  Extra pressure on the bladder from laughing plus weakened sphincters equals accidents at Cedar Point, folks. 

Short of never laughing again for fear it'll get out of control, there's really only one solution:  exercising PC muscles.  Let's just say that ever since I read a Cosmo article 18 months ago, I've been doing Kegels at my desk every time I send an email (Now you can think about that every time I email you).  So they haven't seemed to help.  I guess I'm destined to a life of occasional accidents... but I figure as long as I don't have an accident a la Charlotte York, I haven't hit rock bottom yet!

L

* "Funny" jokes such as:
         Q: Why do Belgians use such long moving trucks? 
         A:  To take along their garden hoses.
Don't ask me. Weirdo Dutch humor, I guess.