5 Things to Realize About Yourself in Your Mid-Twenties

Four months into being 26 and I’m coming to some realizations that I think you ladies can relate to. Full disclosure: I’m sitting on the couch in the middle of the day on a Saturday with no plans, sipping on a cocktail in my bikini watching Pretty Little Liars while periodically reading a book in the backyard and catching some rays. I couldn’t ask for more.

I’ve been reading “I like you just the way I am” by Jenny Mollen.  This woman (wife of Jason Biggs) is pretty funny and isn’t afraid to say whatever is on her mind. I respect any female that isn’t afraid to tell the world that she’s totally obsessed with herself. Which brings me to my first point; As a 20-something you don’t need to know who you are but you should love the shit out of yourself no matter what. As a woman, confidence is key. We’re always comparing ourselves to other women around us. That’s never going to stop but the least we can do is be honest with ourselves about it. While you’re busy envying how skinny the bitch next to you is or how cute her outfit looks on her, remember that there are women analyzing and being jealous of you as well. Being comfortable in your own skin gets people’s attention. Don’t be shy. Give other girls something to talk about.

The next thing we need to drill into our heads is that we’re never going to have that ever-coveted “inner thigh gap”. Scan twitter, pinterest, facebook, etc and you’ll see articles and exercises that promise you can keep your upper thighs from touching. It’s all a lie! If you haven’t seen that gap since middle school, it’s not coming back. Not without developing an eating disorder, anyway.

If you still mark your legal marriage status as “single” it doesn’t mean you’ll be alone forever or you’re going to be the cat lady out of your group of girl friends. Marriage is nothing to rush into. So many women set a timeline for their life and fall into a spiraling depression when things don’t fall into place. Married by 24, first baby at 25, second at 27…what a crock of shit. Let life happen the way it’s going to happen. It’s okay to have other goals. It’s okay to want to be able to carry your own weight and not just be someone’s husband. I am woman, hear me roar. My career and the respect I have in the professional world come first before anything. I love my boyfriend of almost 6 years. We live together, have pets together, the whole nine-yards, but I am in no way ready to be married to anyone, and that’s okay!

Seeing a therapist is nothing to be ashamed of. Giving in and seeing someone about my anxiety issues was the best decision I ever made. It is not a sign of weakness or proof that you’ve completely lost it, it’s a way of regaining control of yourself. All women are crazy in their own way. Talking to a professional and really being able to pull apart your actions and understanding why you do the things you do can help you be a better person. The drugs don’t hurt either.

Your childhood and college friends are not all going to stay your friends. As we grow up, our friends get married, they have kids, they move away, life happens. You’re not going to remain best friends with everyone. That’s not to say those people won’t be there for you when you need them, they just have different priorities. If you are putting in more effort with one of your friends are you’re not getting the same out of it, it’s probably time to back off. Friendship is like any other relationship. You should get out of it what you put in, even if it is not an immediate return on your investment. Just don’t beat yourself up if people start to fall away from your every day life.

People of Walmart

You are better than this

If you’re feeling down, you know you can always go to Walmart and look at the gremlins around you.   Follow that by listing to some female empowering music. My go-to is some Beyonce. Buy yourself a hot new outfit, go out and get hit on and you’re a new woman. First Female Commandment: thou shall love thyself.


Bonnaroo 2014: The Start.


Not knowing what you’re about to live through for the next five days can be overwhelming. Especially when you’re in Tennessee during the scrotum of Summer with two of your best friends and you’ve all ended up having to share a tent. So far it’s pretty fun, (the tent is pretty-baller-shot-caller,) so I think we’ll be fine. Plus we’re just awesome.

12 hours and a questionable Mexican lunch adventure later, we’re in line for the campground, watching everyone’s shit get poked, prodded and confiscated. We were all on fashion patrol too. The rainboots-and-overalls combo must be stopped, feather headdresses still are still being worn by the white man, some girls are dressed totally ridiculous for a camping festival.

But the good, the bad, and the ugly are all part of the visual aesthetic and culture of the festival. And it’s nice to be among the funky. To dance fucking weird in a silent disco to songs about pussy. To watch new up and coming bands charm the panties off of you. Even dude’s panties. (Check out Catfish and The Bottlemen. Amazing.) Oh and probably to watch Kanye West interrupt some white bitches, but I’m getting ahead of myself.

Festival cuisine isn’t that bad – that is, if you make good choices. You have your hotdog/corndog/funnel cake booths that tug at your inner fat-kid-tendencies ( aka overindulgent 20-something-ness) and booths with mouth watering, real human food that your mom would be proud of you for eating.

We devoured some enormous Greek wraps stuffed with an abundance of sex selected from a Zeus-like salad bar and sat in the grass like field mice. Field mice wearing crop tops and camelbacks.

Acoustic music was encircling us and girls were dancing with silver hoops running up and down their arms. The sun was setting and it was hitting us: the slow tornado of the money spent, the money fretted, the months, the days, and the hours spent planning this has stopped: it’s here. We are trapped in a 4 -day music party with amazing food and friendly people.

All three of us work so fucking much that we don’t get to do enough fun things with each other. It’s nice to be out of touch with worries, Orlando, obligation, traffic, I-4, termites, angry truckers, SEO, how you want your fish tacos cooked or working 13 hours for under a hundred bucks.

I feel like this festival will help put some things into perspective for all of us. Sometimes you need to step out to assess things in a new light.

After this nap we will see what’s in store…were gonna go get weird at a rap show.

What is a 26 year old supposed to wear?

I found myself Googling this exact phrase on Saturday prior to a night out in Downtown Orlando with a group of girls 3-4 years my junior. I have 2 closets full of clothes and shoes and yet I had no idea where to even start. Once you make it into your mid-twenties, what’s okay and what will get your ass put on “What Not To Wear”?

Google had very little to offer me in the form of advice. I did come across a blog that talked about starting to upgrade your wardrobe with higher quality pieces as opposed to running in to Forever 21, rolling around and coming out with whatever sticks to you. I don’t have time for this nonsense. Sure, I’ll consider it in the future but this is a “9pm on a Saturday? problem, not a “meeting in a few days” problem.

What makes a woman of my age look too immature and what makes me look like an old lady? Of course, I know not to go out in a damn pants suit (which makes me cringe and is something I don’t plan to own any time soon) but what’s the cut off for wearing short dresses and crop tops? So many questions…

So then I thought about the people I would be hanging out with and the people I would see throughout the night.  There’s nothing that sets me apart from these younger girls that would throw up red flags so fuck it. By no means do I fall into the category of being old and I’ve got a decent body.  I’ll wear whatever I want.  

Look at Carrie from Sex in the City. If she can wear that shit I can push the boundaries a little. For the night I’ll go out in a tight, short dress and wedges and I’ll rock it. I could have done worse.

In general, yeah my closet needs an update from post-college twenty-something to professional 26 year old woman but who’s counting? And who has the time for all of that? Or the money for that matter? Do I have to become one of those women that go shopping for practical pieces that can be a versatile addition to my closet? Barf. Give me a mini skirt, a tank top and a pair of sky-high heels and call it a day.  

Truth Or Nair

My left arm is covered in hives and it burns like someone dropped me on to the surface of the sun. I’m pretty sure my pores want to bleed but they are so burned shut that the blood can’t surface. Even my own fucking blood doesn’t want to be near this shit the people call Nair. What does that even mean? No + hair = Nair? Clever, you fuckers, clever.

It started so innocent...

It started so innocently…

I guess I should stop hashtag-searching #Fail on Twitter and continue to write about what happened to me tonight. I’m not sure what direction I want to take this post: Do I focus on the fact that Nair is devil cream shot straight from the phallus of Satan and if it’s burning and dissolving the hair out of your follicles that you probably shouldn’t be putting it on your skin at all?

Or do I run with the fact that you shouldn’t speed in a 45 to Walgreens anytime a hairless co-worker recommends something without doing a little research first? I mean, it’s a good thing that I decided to test this out on my arms and not my vagina…but damn. When you have two silky smooth friends at work combing through your lady-arm hair with a judgey tone, it’ll make you do that.



I was thinking that I didn’t want man arms, but no one said that I did in the first place and I’m blonde…so what the fuck did I do this for? She – the sexily hairless Ukrainian – made it seem so easy. I can imagine she is naturally a tougher breed than I being from the fucking Ukraine and all…so let’s consider this Jill’s “lack in judgement move number one” for starters. Jill’s “lack in judgement move number two” stems with not reading the warning label. Number three is letting it sit on my arms for too long and number four would be reapplying it for a second go around when I didn’t scrub all the hair off the first time.

Enter: my first chemical burn.

I almost wasn’t surprised when my arm exploded into tiny, white, blistery hives and turned a beautiful shade of red you would only see in a structure fire caused by a meth-lab explosion. My friend Brittany was running around in circles in my kitchen Googling “allergic reaction cure ” and for all I know “closest hospital to Downtown Orlando” while I’m basically lying in my kitchen sink under the cold, running water. I was rolling my eyes at myself, breathing exasperatedly. “Of course,” I said over and over again, “of fucking course.”

This was like the time I impatiently tried to cut bangs into my hair with my mom when I was 20 and home from college. My hair was wet and I was pulling it down in front of my face. My mom entered the bathroom saying, “let me help you.” Letting her in was probably the worst move I could have made that summer besides hooking up with a friend I once wrapped in toilet paper like a mummy in high school. With a sharp snip of the scissors, my locks bounced up to their real place and just like that I had a sexy chunk of hair missing out of the front of my jaw-dropped, naïve face. Spatial relationships were never my strong suit and they clearly weren’t my mother’s either.

Maybe I’ll sum this up by saying that impulse decisions can be either the greatest or the worst ones you can make. Maybe I’ll also sum this up by saying you should not be impulsive about your hair removal tactics. I’m not saying Nair isn’t a product that works for some skin types, but this was my experience and boy, was it fun. Why a girl who uses organic, paraben and sulfate free soaps thought spreading acidic cream cheese onto my arm-bagels was a grand plan, I’ll never know. My arms are smooth, my sanity is temporarily broken. Tomorrow is a new day. And now I want a bagel.

The Great Leg Battle

ImageI have this problem with keeping up with my workout routine. We all want to have a great ass and legs but the work that goes into it takes dedication. Don’t get me wrong, I love being in the gym, getting sweaty, and listening to those sexy, sweaty dance mixes on songza. My problem is that I also help run a business and love to go out so there’s a balance issue with my time.

This past week I took a morning off to hit the gym with my bestie, Jill. (If you haven’t read any of her blogs I seriously suggest it.) I was so psyched to go through this full body workout I had planned. Cardio, legs, arms, back, abs, the whole package. After taking some crazy pre-workout shit that I’m not actually supposed to take with my medication, and giving some to Jill, we took our now babbling mouths and extended energy to Planet Fitness. We made it through everything and went about our days.

The next day. I want to die. I can’t move my legs. I’m like a fucking cripple. Someone get me a wheelchair for my frozen muscles and where is Forrest Gump offering me ice cream?  It doesn’t help that I sit at a desk all day and if I’m walking I’m in skyscraper heels but this all comes with being a woman with a shoe addiction in a position of power.

The worst parts of this situation are always anything that involves sitting down. Getting into position to pee becomes an Olympic sport. You’ll use anything around you to help ease yourself onto the seat and you gain a new appreciation for the handle bar in the handicap stall. Falling into your boss’s Mercedes convertible in a short skirt is just embarrassing. Getting out of it in ridiculous shoes is even worse. Instead of making it out gracefully and standing up to my natural 5’4″ I have to balance on my stilts to become 6 foot tall without flashing my ass to everyone. Ladies, I know at least a few of you have to feel me here.

Walking is a separate challenge all together. You first start moving like you have braces on your legs and slowly accept the fact that you can’t have someone puppeteer you to the places you need to go. Must remember: this is all for a greater purpose. I’ll temporarily look like I have metal legs and a stick up my ass to not have to deal with friction burn between my legs on a regular basis. Sacrifices people, sacrifices.

Best of luck with your workouts and the results that come from them. No pain, no gain.

Maybe I Have Adult Braces…

And I say adult in the least sexy way you can say it. I say adult in the “you-have-to-pay-out-of-pocket-because-your-insurance-hasn’t-kicked-in-yet” kind of adult. I say it in the “of-course-you-would-get-braces-while-you’re-trying-to-be-single” kind of way.

The line is around the corner gentlemen…

The real ass-burner here is that this isn’t the first time I’ve had them either. (Thank you wisdom teeth, you’re all a bunch of assholes.) Without getting too deep into the vast subject of body image issues, I’ll focus on a couple common annoyances with having little pieces of horror cemented to your teeth.

It goes beyond the inevitable soreness and pain which some of you may remember friends complaining about in…you know…MIDDLE SCHOOL. You can’t chew properly, talk without stuffing wax in the back of your mouth, or smile too fast because you WILL rip your lips open. Cons, cons, cons.

I am painfully self-aware of my face at all times. I might have straight beautiful teeth in the end, but it’s highly possible that I’ll also have PTSD from having to keep my mouth’s shit together at all times. I can’t just bite into things like a normal person. To your inner, ravenous, fat-kid…this blows total ass. It’s not that you can’t swan dive into that Gringos Locos burrito at 2 a.m., but you better be around people who love you. Your mouth will look like the grill of a car after a cross-country road trip – except instead of bugs it will be black beans. Or dangling tortilla. Or sexy green cilantro. Mmmm….who’s hungry?
Ripping things into little pieces so that you can place them into your mouth makes you look like a psycho. CONS, CONS, CONS.

By the way, Gwen was 30 when she rocked these.

At a whopping 30 years old, this wasn’t a good look for my Queen – Gwen Stefani.

It’s like having volunteered to be in jail for 8 months because not only do you feel emotionally and physically trapped in a certain circle of hell, you’re also not getting laid as much as you want to be getting laid. Even when you think to yourself – “I’m an adult, I’ve done this before, fuck other people!” – one immature comment from a douchebag in a Metallica shirt can send you home crying in the back of a cab. Or sometimes you get the “you look like my high school crush” comment. Or the ever too popular question, “Can you give blowjobs with those things?” Well let’s not find out, shall we? Again, FUCKING CONS.

I’m not alone, I know this. One of my best friends is also on this messy, wire-laden adventure with me. We can both attest to this leaving you feeling super uncomfortable, unsexy, insecure and ugly. Beauty is pain, ammirite?

I also realize I have provided you with ZERO Pros in this post. But here is the shining nugget of greatness: If you’re considering adult braces, it’s going to suck. However, you will have a traffic stopping, confident smile after this is all over. The people who love you and who are attracted to your light won’t give a shit. So cheers to that! 3 months and counting…Wish me luck! Or good luck to you!