It's My Party & I'll Cry If I Want To

Last year, almost an exact year ago I wrote about a sad love story between a friend and I. I consider it a love story because I really loved her, she was a soul person to me, and so when we went our separate ways it was just as heartbreaking as if it had been a romantic relationship ending. It is important to note this because of the intense contrast that I have had in this year compared to last.
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The cake of my dreams <3<3

I, like maybe a lot of other people, always assume no one actually likes me. I have probably written this before. When surrounded by friends and part of "the group", I am just waiting for someone to pop out of a corner and tell me that I am being punk'd, that it isn't real.

I turned 25 last Tuesday. It is a big deal because 25 is kind of important, but also because birthdays are special to me. From birth to 18 my mother made sure that my birthday was special - not extravagant, but special. 19-24 were up to me and I basically did an awful job and spent most of those birthdays crying alone in a corner, specifically when I turned 20.

It is embarrassing for me to ask to be the center of attention. I love it, I crave it- but not if I've asked for it. Because if I ask for it, that means that I have a 50/50 chance of it not happening. That means that there is an opportunity for me to create my own humiliation in case someone/the world/society doesn't give me the attention I ask for. Asking people to come to me, to celebrate me, to party simply because I was born, is embarrassing. So, around my birthday each year I debate on which is worse - re-living my 20th birthday eating stale cereal and doing chemistry homework alone, or biting the bullet and hoping that at least half of the people I invite say yes.

New York Friends!!

This year, I didn't want to be my usual lame self. I wanted to be fun! I was about to officially become an adult and that meant that I had to get it together and throw myself a party. So in mid October I invited about a dozen friends to come join me. And they all said no, aside from one. I was aghast. I was filled with humiliation. I did have a handful of local NYC friends who agreed to join me, but I was so mortified that everyone from out of town had said no that I didn't have it in me to make it work with those who were going to join. So I didn't make a plan, and then it was about 5 days until November and I still had no plan. I continually told the lone friend who was joining me not to come because I wasn't going to be fun and I didn't know what to do.

I can only describe my emotions in GIF/video, pop culture form, so please, let this do the talking. It was my nightmare.

Looking Fabulous, duh.

So I start calling my mom every 3 or 4 days, almost in tears about how unloved I am. About how much I have done for these people over the years and how I mean nothing to them. (As I write this out, I see how dramatic it is, but, this is my life people.) I lament about how no one should ever have to throw themselves parties because it is humiliating if no one comes to the party you personally asked people to attend and why am I such a loser?! This leads into conversations about how much of a total screw-up I am. How I am almost 25 and have nothing going for me, how I can't even manage to keep my room clean and I can't get a dog yet. I have a tendency to spiral out of control, if you couldn't tell.

Birthday Biddies 

And then my mom came to town, as she had been planning for the last month or so. She showed up to my job looking all sorts of glamorous and rushed me into a fitting room. I knew she had something planned and I had been assuming it was to go see Les Mis. She makes me put on a gold and purple sparkly dress complete with full accessories and then we rush home so I can change me shoes. I mention that it is in the wrong direction and she says it is fine, that we have time. So after a quick shoe change she hustles me into a taxi and again heads into the wrong direction. Maybe I was just exhausted (I was) or maybe I am ditzy (I am) or maybe I have abnormally low self esteem (I do) but I still assumed we were going to see Les Mis. We pull up to a family friend's bar, and I silently chide my mother for sending a text message while sitting in the stopped taxi. (Proper etiquette: You pay your cabbie, get out of the car, then send your text, but I digress.)

A (almost totally inclusive) group shot

We step into the bar, I notice a bunch of people wearing masks and the only thought that crosses my mind is that having a party the day after Halloween is kind of dumb. So I pull out a chair to sit down because my mom is just standing in the doorway and I am wearing 5 inch heels after all.

And they yelled surprise.
And I looked around, just for a moment, because I didn't know who the surprise was for.

And it was for me.
And it was everyone that I thought didn't love me.
And my mom, my poor mom that I had abused via my own self-pity and hate for two weeks, had planned the whole thing.

I kind of wanted to write thank you notes, but that is a very grown-up thing to do, and I am not very grown-up yet. So this is a big thank you note.

Thank you to my family, my brother, my dad (although I still wish you had brought the dog along), my grandmother, and my mom. Everything is impossible without you.

with my family!

And thank you to my friends! To the ones who traveled not so far (although I do know what it is to travel across boroughs on a Saturday night, ugh.) Thank you Ariel & Di (and your men!), Andrew, Joanna, Lisa, Kara, and Vickie. And to the friends who did travel quite far- Bryanna, Paige & Flynn, Kristy & Tim, Kelsey, Kate, Sarah, Juleeann.



Thank you for starting my 25th year of life without tears, without whining. With joy and with friendship and with lots and lots of sparkles!

(Also - shout out to the people who couldn't make it. I love you too! There's always my 30th ;) )

Take a breath, take a step, take a chance, take your time.

"Um, well, I guess I'd like to be an actress."
...
The pause was just long enough to be awkward. And then she laughed.

That's honestly all I remember. My mind lacks the characters of a pensieve and I honestly forget details.
She, in this scenario was my high school guidance counselor. I have no idea what her name was. I think, that in the 4 years that I attended the school, that was the first conversation that she and I had together.

I don't know if she gave me advice as to what a better career might be. I don't know if she gave me pamphlets for colleges, or information to looking things up on the Internet. She very well might have.
All I can remember is the intense shame that came with her laughter. In a series of various happening within the 6 months before and after turning 17, all I can recall is shame when it came to my future.

Shame because the (only) career that interested me was laughable. Shame because I couldn't think of anything else to do. Shame because I didn't know how to apply to college. I mean literally (not figuratively) didn't know what to do. I didn't know to tour campuses, I didn't know to contrast and compare tuition, extra curricular activities, etc. It was foreign territory to me, and since my life's dream had become a joke (in my very dramatic 17 year old mind), I had no idea where to start. So, to spite the world, I abstained from all things college - and as many of my one woman protests go, in the end I was the only one who ended up feeling the hurts of my actions.

Thankfully, my parents quickly became scary and threatening and helped me get my act together and I scraped together a few acceptance letters.

But this isn't a story about college.

This is a story of a wasted life.

The few months surrounding my high school graduation and entry into college I would quite often be asked what I was going to do with my life. And I would stutter out some BS answer and the person who asked the question would quickly realize how this friendly question was a gateway to some awkward silence. They'd eventually shut up my ramblings with something along the lines of "Don't worry, you've got plenty of time."

And I'd remind myself how right they are. Who knows what they wanted to do with their life at 17? I would ignore the nagging voice inside of me that would respond with, "well, pretty much everyone but you."

So pretty soon I was 18. But hey, 18! Just a kid! I can barely make a political influence, how could I possibly have the next 60 years figured out?

And then I was 19. But I was studying abroad! Life was mine! I was a travelin' girl without a care in the world. And all of these experiences would mould me into a better person who knew stuff... about stuff.

And then I was 20. And 20 was scary because I wasn't a teenager. I was "in my 20s" which I knew was supposed to hold some type of weight, I just didn't know what. But I mean, I was still in college, this wasn't the time to figure it all out. I was supposed to be like, sneaking wine coolers into class. (Just kidding, Mom & Dad - never did that!)

And then I was 21. Aaaaand I had just graduated college! And I was blonde! The world was mine to conquer! Plus I had a job all lined up and so basically I was fabulous. Who knew if it'd become a career? They were gonna pay me about 50 billion times more than I made at any previous job and I got to buy clothes on a great discount so....

And then I was 22. Just a mere "freshman of life" - I was supposed to be making mistakes and such. Learning experiences, right? But things were okay - nothing too great, but nothing too awful. Did I know what was happening in my life? Absolutely not. But Taylor Swift was singing about being 22 and I was trying to go with the flow.

And then I was 23. And 23 started to feel good. I was like, a real adult. I had a job, I was somewhat decent at it- but it had to end. It wasn't what I wanted. (Not that I knew what I wanted, I just knew what I didn't want.) Plus, I had a plan! I was gonna more to New York City. 

And then I was 24. And it was shitty. My hair was a weird length. NYC was giving me the cold shoulder. I felt stupid for ever even trying to try. (But it got better.)

And now, I am (almost) 25.
And nothing has happened. Nothing. I feel exactly the same as I did 8 years ago.

When I was 17 and everyone said that I had time, we all agreed. No one said when the "time" ended. There wasn't an explicit expiration date. But I think I'm gonna call it. 25.

I'm starting to run out of time.

Let's just look at the facts:

At least half of my closest friends are married.
I am single.
A chunk of those friends have homes/permanent living situations.
I have moved 3 times in 1 year and rent a room for more money than my parents' mortgage.
Most of my friends have a career that they believe in.
I have a job - that I quit and went back to. And if I tilt my head and squint I can picture a world where the job becomes a career, but it isn't easy.
I eat cheese and crackers for dinner. I wash my hair every 5 days. I can't get anywhere on time.

It's not that I need a husband - or a home, or a career. I just need... something. Something real. Something that isn't just a far away someday dream.

In fact, I take that back, I'd love a far away someday dream. Because I don't have that either. I don't have anything to aspire to anymore. I have no hopes. I have no ambitions.

In my wildest dreams these are the facts:
I pay off my loans within a year.
With the money I now have since I don't pay a small fortune each month into loans, I get a dog.
I wash my hair more often.
I take trips again.
I get an apartment that is mine.
I can afford taxis when the weather is bad.
I acquire a taste for vegetables on a more than once-a-month basis.


I guess what I am trying to say is - in the 8 years since the day I was laughed at, I am still at square one. I have, in other ways, grown leaps and bounds. But that laughter still burns. It still shames me. It shames me from going after anything.

If she laughed, what is stopping anyone else from laughing?

Here's a secret (that I am telling to the universe) - I am picturing you all laughing. Even writing a blog is masochism for me. My desire to tell these stories is fiercely combated by the mental image of blank faces that I went to high school with all crowding around a laptop, reading what I write and ... laughing.

I am not placing the blame of 8 mostly wasted years on one person who's name I can't even remember. The blame is on me for not having thicker skin and for not believing in myself enough to follow through despite a stranger's opinion.

But here I am. I am (almost) 25. And yet I am 17. I pay rent. I have a college degree. I have a grown-up job. I've had boyfriends. I buy groceries. I do my own laundry. I am an adult. And yet, I am 17.

(The title was taken from a line in this song.)

Not Entirely All About That Bass

We are a rainbow of sizes AND STILL REALLY HOT

Last weekend I was in Baltimore with a group of girls all gathered for a bachelorette party. As we were braiding hair and applying lipgloss, a song started playing on iTunes radio. We were talking and distracted but got the gist of the song - some cute catchy thing about positive body image!  We being women who could be categorized in every possible women’s size, nodded in agreement that we liked the little clips of it that we heard. Today, I saw the song shared on Facebook. Not realizing it was the same song that I heard over the weekend, I clicked on it and watched the music video. I’m bopping my head to it, thinking about how I will send a link of it to my friend telling her that i found the cute song we liked and within the first effing thirty seconds it happens.

She hates on the size 2 girl.

Yeah, it's pretty clear, I ain't no size two
But I can shake it, shake it
Like I'm supposed to do
Cause I got that boom boom that all the boys chase
And all the right junk in all the right places

*but why*

Like, why?

WHY?!

Why is it a work of the devil to be of a slim build? Also, whyyyyyyy do we have to be mean about it?

I heard the line and I felt a mixture of emotions, first exasperation, then some bit of shame, and finally it rounded off with indignation. What is wrong with my body? I am a natural size small. Hence somewhere in the 2 or 4 range. And I know girls who are thinner than I am. That is just how they look. I don’t give a single shit if you are a size 12. I don’t ask you to lose weight. I don’t hint that you should eat a salad. I don’t give one solitary, tiny little shit about your weight, Meghan Trainor (yeah, I said it) so why is it so necessary for you to put mine to blast like that?!

She goes on to hate on Barbie’s perfect silicone body, which I am fine with. I am sure we’ve all seen the articles (at least the BuzzFeed one) about how effed up Barbie would be if she were a real person and how her dimensions are out of control. Plus, even if you are size two, odds are that your thighs still move when you walk. We can all collectively hate on Barbie.

I won’t even get into the awkwardness of discussing that her mother informed her that men like extra booty at night to hold on to. And I won’t get at all into the whole “we should love our bodies for us, not for men”, because I don’t even have the emotional energy to go down that road. I am hear for the size 2 girls who are not allowed to feel the same pride as the girls with the big bootys.

We are not evil! Stop making us feel bad!

Today at work I discussed with a co-worker how three particular people at our job who aren’t universally liked seem to all like me. Each time one of the people was brought up, he would respond with, “Well, you’re a pretty girl. People are nice to pretty girls.” It was funny and we laughed but somewhere I felt weird. Was he right? Was that why they had been kind to me? What if I start breaking out like it is the 10th grade again. Will they stop? What if my medicine for my acne makes me gain weight like it did in the 12th grade. What about then?

Meghan, you are really freaking cute. And like, probably a size 8 which BTW, isn’t considered fat. Or even plus sized (unless you are trying to be a Victoria’s Secret Angel). I know that you are caught in the awkward not-fat-but-not-skinny-either conundrum, but could you not take it out on me? Yell at Barbie. Yell at Vogue. Yell at advertising companies. But not at me. I didn’t do anything to you. I am not shaming you.

I am pretty positive that I have shared this story in a previous blog post but just in case I didn’t, I will share it again.

At some point in my teenage years I was shopping the clearance rack at American Eagle. It being a circular rack, the XS/S, which was my current size was next to the XL/XXL. As I leafed through overpriced tank tops, the girl next to me who is searching through the XL/XXL made a comment to her boyfriend about how all these “skinny bitches” blah blah and how it is “disgusting” how anyone can fit into a pair of shorts so small, etc. I was so embarrassed, I was so ashamed of myself. For about 30 seconds and then I was pissed.

In her song, Meghan again uses the phrase “skinny bitches”. It is so bad that I am “skinny” that now I am a bitch? Why must such language be used. It is mean. I repeat, IT IS MEAN. Please stop. Body positivity is so great, all bodies need to feel positive, but when one body type puts down another to make them seem greater... No. Because we all know if there was a song about how great it is to be a size 2 and "ew, bigger sizes are gross and unappealing" that person would maybe be guillotined.

If you google the song (called All About That Bass) you will see little blips stating that it is the body feel good song of the summer, or that it celebrates bodies of all shapes and sizes. And that is true. Unless that size is a small and then you are just a bitch who needs to eat a sandwich. Oh, and by the way, I am a fucking size 2 AND I can still shake it. So, you’re welcome.