Why I will not date online

This post is going to be rather short.

As a single, twenty-two year old, I often feel pretty hopeless about the dating situation. I haven’t had a relationship for a while. I mean a long while. Now, part of it is my fault. I am always very busy and I do not go out actively looking for a relationship. Naturally, all of my friends and family tell me to date online: “It’s what everyone is doing to find a relationship. You can find some great guys.” I always tell them no under the guise that I do not find dating online productive, or that I do not trust the men that are on these dating sites. I mean, we all have seen those movies or news reports. But what I do not tell them is that I do not want to date online because of my appearance.

We all hear it, the girl who went on some online date and was promptly told that she was too overweight to be attractive.  Guys write about it all the time: Why men should ignore “fatties” “oinkers” “lard asses” etc. Just do a google search and it all pops up in a matter of seconds. I do not want to subject myself to anymore humiliation or rejection than I have already faced. I really struggle with my body. This past week, I could barely force myself to go to work because I had a picture taken of my outfit and I saw my disgusting body.  So no, I will not date online because, I’m barely surviving on the side glances or sneers at my body. I do not need it to my face.  How do I know that this is going to be all men’s reaction? Well, just look at the society we live in.

Hello… again

It has been a few months since I last posted anything. In the past few months, I’ve graduated with my Bachelors; I’ve been accepted into a Master’s program. I did an internship at Elmira College Archives and the Center for Mark Twain Studies. I’ve been interviewing for some jobs. Everything is seemingly great, yet I cannot help but feel down– tend to get that way in the summer. Pardon my bad grammar in the last sentence. Pardon this post, too. It will probably read like one long ramble.

Summer has always had a strange affect on me. I should be glad for the break from my hectic life, and all but beg for it at the end of the school semesters, but summer really is not that great for me. I always feel down.  Maybe it’s seasonal affective disorder or maybe it’s the simple fact that I’m lonely.  I guess that is the downside to being an only child. You don’t really have anyone to talk to, not that I had anyone to really talk to at school but at least you’re surrounded by people.

Summer is about parties: being young, carefree, and finding love. I’ve been honest about my struggles with my body image. I’ve dedicated quite a few posts about it. Mostly, I try to keep positive and tell myself that my weight does not  equal or decide my self worth. But summer is the time when your body is the most exposed and it’s hard for someone like me, a girl who struggles with image issues and wants to hide every imperfection, to wear summer clothing. I try to just wear dresses but I have a hard time being that exposed. Mostly, I feel like a large marshmellow rolling around.

Besides my body image isssues, I struggle with something else.  I hate to be the girl to equate her self worth to interest from men, but between my body issues, and the fact that no guy has even attempted to date me since my ex-boyfriend in high school. I feel pretty crappy.  Only one guy has made an attempt but he wasn’t interested in me. He just wanted a girl to date. We never talked and only shared two literature classes together before. When I turned him down, he asked out five other girls in the same literature class. We figured that he just wanted a girl or for us to give him paper topic ideas. Made me feel really great.

It is especially hard looking on social media and seeing everyone being happy, moving on with their lives. A ton of girls I know are getting married, are married, are having kids or have an established life. I feel stuck and undesirable. Society kind of makes women feel bad for not having these things. My intelligence and my heart should be worth more than my appearance, but that doesn’t mean anything to anyone anymore. Not this generation. The poet Tyler Knott Gregson just posted a great poem (# 1927) about feeling out of place in this age. I feel exactly the same way.

Anyway, have you guys been affected by the “summer time blues?” How have you gotten through it?

“I Am More Than Just a Label on a Fucking Tag:” The Story of My Body Acceptance.

My body at a size four.

 

My body at a size ten

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I recently read a post on Facebook from a woman telling her story of her life as a “fat,” according to society’s standards, woman.  I was amazed at how brave she was for telling her story and of the suffering that women put themselves through to look beautiful– to be considered desirable to a man. Through her bravery, I decided to put my story out there for others. I want people to know what I have gone through for my entire life.

I have been dieting since the age of eight years old. When I moved from Connecticut to New York, I was changed from a private catholic elementary school to a public elementary school; in this school, I was the “fatty.”  I was the girl who would be publicly mocked for the way she dressed, for what she ate, and her overall appearance. The experience of someone calling you “fat” is horrendous at any age, but as an eight year old, it forever changed the perception that I have of my body. The first time that I was called fat, I went home and weighed myself and I’ve kept weighing myself everyday for the past fourteen years of my life. I would refuse to eat; I remember vividly telling my mom that I wasn’t going to eat a dinner that she made because “I wasn’t hungry,” even though I was, but I was too afraid to put any type of  calories in my body. I just want to remind everyone that I was eight years old, a third grader. My mother, who is a nurse, wouldn’t  let me starve. She ordered me to eat; she was afraid that I was developing an eating disorder, but I didn’t. I developed something much worse: a deep self loathing of myself.  Every time I looked  in the mirror, I see a disgusting being.

Flash forward to high school. I was still the fat girl– the undesirable– the girl that guys were disgusted by if she happened to have a crush on them:”No one wants to date a ‘fatty,’ just ask How I Met Your Mother or Friends. They make reference to it over and over.  One night, at a chorus concert, I was wearing this really pretty blue dress. I was pretty happy with how I looked until a girl told me that I resembled a “blueberry,” not for the color of my dress, but for my shape. I was destroyed.   I was counting calories at that point for a while, but I figured that had started not work, so I put myself on a modified Weight Watchers, as I was too young to actually do the program at the time.  I still was weighing myself everyday. If I lost weight, it was a good day. If I gained an ounce, I was miserable and depressed. I refused to go out of the house in clothes that emphasized my “weight problem.”

The summer of my sophomore year, I lost twenty pounds because I was diagnosed with Irritable Bowel Syndrome and I could barely eat. I went from 145 to 125 pounds. I started dating my ex at that time. Funny, I dropped twenty pounds and suddenly  I became the ideal dating partner. I think that I resent that most to this day. He invited me over to his sister’s graduation party and I was excited to go and meet his family. An hour before the party, his cousin, who I went to school with, texted him and asked why he wanted to date me because I “was so fat.” I saw the text and I almost didn’t go because I was too upset.  Do you see a trend? If I was fat at 125 pounds, then what was skinny?  These comments happened all throughout high school. I cried a lot.  I was thin for one year, and then I gained the weight back.  It sent me into a further spiral of portioning food, weighing myself,  and crying myself to the point of getting sick. I wouldn’t eat out with my family and if I did, I would eat a salad with no dressing or toppings or a piece of grilled chicken.

The second semester of my freshman year in college, I gained twenty pounds from the food. I wasn’t happy and I could see the look of disgust from people that walked past me. For those of you who don’t know, yes we do see the judgment and it breaks us even more than we are already broken. I went to the gym and ate regular meals but I was heavy. I wasn’t happy with my body. I would cry because of the snide remarks that I would get.  I contemplated throwing up my food to get thin, to stop eating at all. Luckily for me, I don’t like puke or I might have developed an eating disorder. I went to London the semester after that and I dropped ten pounds. It sparked the weight loss that I so desperately needed. I’m not going to lie; I hated myself with every fiber of my being for being that big. The months following London, I dropped another fifteen pounds and I was so happy to finally be getting somewhere. I was still continually asking my mother if my clothes made me look fat, and  I counted every thing that I put in my mouth. I finally was on Weight Watchers Points Plus because I was old enough to have a subscription. I can tell you to this day what I would have for lunch, everyday: six triscuits, six cracker cut cheese slices, and a sliced apple.  It was working really well, and then last year, I stopped thinking about my weight because my mom was diagnosed. I gained ten pounds back. I went from a size eight to a size ten.

I guess this post isn’t about me totally accepting my body, because I still don’t fully accept it. I still attribute my weight to the reason that I haven’t had a date in four years. I still think that if I wear leggings, someone will tell me not too because I’m too fat to wear them. I wear cardigans to hide my muffin top. I took a photo today of me standing in the rain and I thought: my god, I look disgusting. However,  I’m slowly getting there. Today, I decided to wear the leggings because I wanted to wear something comfortable as my IBS is bothering me; I wanted to wear something other than jeans. I feel self-conscious but I made the decision to be comfortable over someone’s perception of me.  I would normally put jeans on even if I was ill because I would be so paranoid over being perceived as fat. I’m embracing my curves because they enhance an outfit.  I’m getting better at revealing my body a little more. I wear way more dresses than I used too. In high school, I would wear jeans in my car with no air conditioning in the summer to hide my body from others.  I still loath myself if I eat something that I think I shouldn’t. I still use weight watchers and diet regularly. I do Pilates for exercise, but none of this should matter to who I am. I am more than just a label on a fucking tag.

I’m writing this because I am sick of women feeling disgusted with themselves for their body.  I am sick of being disgusted with myself. I am sick of society making us feel that way.  We should be desired. To all the men who don’t “want a fatty,” it’s proven that women with bigger hips have more success birthing children. Without us curvy girls, you’re legacy wouldn’t continue but maybe that’s a good thing if you judge us for our appearance.  The average size woman is a sixteen in America, and those women are beautiful.   I don’t want this post in any way to make someone feel bad about their appearance.  A woman at a size zero is beautiful and so are  women  size eighteen or above.  We are more than our sizes and our appearance.

 

London

 

I am deeply saddened by the attack in London. London is a place that I felt so at home at. That I someday want to be my home. My heart is so heavy for the people that been affected by this horrible attack. I wrote this poem a couple of months ago in celebration of London. London will remain strong. Let us all pray for London during this time.

London

London calls you back, once more:

to stand on the ledge of the underground

as the tube rushes pass you

in a warm, red blur until finally hissing to a stop;

to find Shakespeare, Marlowe, and Ford;

to once more, feel leather binding between your fingers

at the Bodleian.  London calls you back to

the Portbello Star for a cider under the orange

glow of streetlamps. To once more, stand

on Shaftesbury Avenue under the neon signs

of West end theaters.   To feel the ebb and flow

Of London pulse through you, once more.

For My Parents

A year ago, I was sitting in a waiting room with my mom as she was being diagnosed with Neuroendocrine cancer. A year ago, my mom’s life shattered; my life shattered; and,my dad’s life shattered. Somehow we made it through the toughest thing in the world. A year ago, I didn’t think that anything  else could tear me apart like that but, now a year later, my dad is going through a health thing and I’m broken all over again. We haven’t gotten bad news or anything, and I hope we don’t,  but I just keep replaying all the things I need them to see. I need them to see me graduate in two months. I need them to see me graduate from two masters programs, get married, and have kids.  I don’t know what I would do without either of my parents. Anything I accomplish does not matter without them by my side, cheering me on and seeing the person I am becoming. You see it’s hard because I’m an only child. They’re my life. Below is a poem I wrote for them this  fall. It’s about my first childhood memory. I just want them to know how much I love them. I know that putting this personal stuff out there is not the best idea, but writing is all I know to get through the pain.

Quinnebag

The sunlight streams through the bay window

Casting its silhouette over the miniature houses,

And compact racecars strewn throughout the room.

In the air, hangs the white particles of sweet powder

Swirling and descending in the summer breeze.

You toddle up three, blue carpeted stairs to the glass door,

Smudged with tiny hands that have pressed and passed,

And meet your mom.

Leaving this little daycare, you go to the place

That connects the two of you through words.

A place where tall shelves shelter your bodies

As you comb through the stacks, running your fingers along

battered russet covers, searching for The Cat and The Captain.

Behind this old, red brick library, lies a path to the decaying

Bridge where the two of you walk, listening to the prattle of the brook.

You hang your feet over the sides, cradling your book

Tightly in your arms, as twilight settles into its slumber.

Soon she and you will be reunited

With the man who loves the two of you the most. The man that stands

In the kitchen smiling, as a pot bubbles and burbles with the night’s meal:

Memories now deeply embedded in your cramped and scattered mind.

Memories that you know will always be there, waiting to be recalled.

*This poem is mine and mine alone so I please ask that you do not copy it.

Countdown to Graduation: Who Are You Going To Be?

In ninety days, I will walk across the stage and officially end my undergraduate career. I have always been a planner. I’m a Capricorn; it’s in my blood. Before I started my freshman year of college, I had changed my intended career path multiple times. I knew that I always wanted to be involved in English. I , at first, chose to be an  English teacher. I loved reading and  English came naturally so I wanted to share my love of literature with others. At some point, I decided that I wanted to be a journalist. My high school English teacher encouraged me to be on the paper, and I was pretty good at it. I declared communications when I first applied to my college, but I soon changed my mind. I found that I would not be good as a journalist as my personal bias continually got in the way of my writing.

Before I stepped foot onto campus, I declared English as my future major. I have never regretted the choice. I am so passionate about literature that I don’t know who I  am without it. My next career choice was to be in the publishing business. I wanted to discover the next Harry Potter.

Soon life started to get in the way, how could I leave my family? What if something happened and I was miles away? What if I married to a guy in the military? As most of my family has? I couldn’t have a job that couldn’t be carried to where ever  I lived. What about children? If I wanted to have children, then I couldn’t have a high demanding job.  I made the decision to follow a career in teaching high school, again.

It is now getting down to the wire. I’m waiting on a decision  on if I got into the graduate program for education 7-12. I only applied to my college because I love the school and it’s logical. Lately, I’ve been panicking. I feel like I am not done with my education in literature. I want more. I want more time to study what I love. I want to study Elizabethan and Jacobean drama and Renaissance drama. They’re both interconnected but there is a distinction.

Today, my professor asked who was going to teach high school and half of the class raised their hand. She was discussing that high schools no longer study literature but how to read and write well. For the third time this year , I panicked. I’m not entirely sure that I want to teach high school. I want to teach literature. I want to study more literature. I don’t know what I am going to do. I feel lost.

Maybe this is just a last minute panick. Maybe this is just me realizing that I’m done in ninety days. I realize that I’ve screwed myself over during these last four years. I didn’t do an internship because I decided to teach.  Instead, I tutored. Do not get me wrong.  I love tutoring. It is absolutely rewarding and I’m a damn good tutor, but I should have done an internship. I should have done more. I should have networked more, because now, I’m not sure teaching is my career path and I don’t really have any other options. I don’t know what to do. I want to get my Masters in English, but my practicality side is fighting it. My mind asks: What can you do with just a Masters in English?  I guess society has instilled this in me.

Who do I want to be? I want to be happy. I don’t know what that entails. I don’t have the answers. Well, I do actually. I just don’t know if I’m brave enough to do it.

I don’t have the answers. Just know that if you’re in the same situation, that I feel it too. I know the panick. You are not the only one.

When You Lose Yourself

I’ve always been the strong one in my family. I am the one, who holds herself together and stays logical in tough situations. Anyone who knows me knows that the past year has been one of the hardest. My mom’s diagnosis was a complete surprise to everyone, including my doctor, and since then we’ve just been being pulled along with the tide and kept going. By the grace of God, my mom has been okay; three of her tumors have shrunk in size on their own without any chemotherapy or radiation. I’m thankful for that. The diagnosis is part of a long line of situations that have been happening to my family that I have had to been strong for.  Recently though, I’ve realized that I have had a whole year go by and I haven’t stopped to breathe and I still have yet to get that breath back. I feel that it all started when my dad developed a lump on his jaw. I just kept thinking that I could not have another parent with cancer– that I would officially break. I think that is when I noticed that I hadn’t been complete in a while.  I don’t know if I’m in some twenty-two year old crisis or if I have developed depression but I know that, somewhere along this past year, I am the girl who lost herself.

When I first started out in college, I wanted to be in the publishing business. I wanted to be the one to discover the next Harry Potter or the modern Christopher Marlowe but as I started to go through my program. and as I started to age, I started to become more practical about a career. If I wanted to stay around my family. and if I wanted to have a stable career for a future family, then publishing was not an ideal career option. I settled on teaching. I figured that teaching would give me state benefits, would be flexible for children in the future, and if I ever had to move, then it was a career that could be easily moved. I applied to the graduate program that my school has for education and now I am awaiting the letter on whether I have been denied or accepted.

Recently, however, I been feeling that I want to be more than a high school teacher. I know that I want to teach but I am unsure I want to teach 7-12. I want to share my love of books, and talk on end about books and their themes, but I realize that many high school students will not give a care. I started looking in to teaching students at two year colleges. Most only require a Masters in the intended field. On Monday, I woke up with a changed mind. I was going to apply to a couple of schools to get my Masters in English with an emphasis on the English Renaissance. I was determined, but as I started researching, I talked myself out of it. What if I applied to all of these schools, got accepted to the teaching program that I applied to, and I was waiting on the responses to the other schools. What would I do? What if I turned down the acceptance into the teaching program and never got accepted into any of the Masters of English programs? I looked online, and there are not many jobs for people with a Masters of English.  I decided to just stay on the path to becoming  a high school teacher because of the future it would give me. Isn’t sad that in this world, we are forced to choose between happiness and fulfillment and being able to provide for yourself?

Many probably wonder why I am so attached to London. Well, I feel that was the last time that I was truly whole. I feel that London, in some way, completed a part of me that was missing. There was something about the culture and the history that fulfilled the part of me that needed more. London holds everything I love: history, theater, literature, art, and music. If I could, I would get my degree and try to find a teaching job in England, but there is a lot that is holding me here and I’m sure England has its fill of English teachers.  In two weeks visiting: I witnessed a protest, went to the theater, saw famous art in museums, went to Oxford, had great pub adventures with good friends, and lost ten pounds. I felt alive. When I came home, I continued my weight loss journey. I lost twenty pounds with the help of Weight Watchers points plus program, but in December of 2015, my mom was diagnosed and I stopped focusing on my weight to make sure that I was strong for both my mom and my dad. We needed to all be strong, and I needed to be the one to lean on. I didn’t focus so much on my appearance. I gained ten of those twenty pounds back. As I said, I’ve turned around and a year has gone by but I don’t know how. I don’t know what happened in the last two school semesters. Somehow, the semester I found out about my mom’s diagnosis I pulled a 3.7 GPA and this semester, which I honestly didn’t focus on because I’ve been focused on my family, I pulled a 3.9 GPA.

I have been trying to find a way to write about the deep sadness that I feel. I guess something in me cracked a while ago, and that small crack has finally shattered something.  I guess as any writer (if that is what I am), I use writing to get through my issues. I feel that I am stuck– stuck in this small area, not going anywhere. I know that I’ll be graduating with my bachelors degree in four months but I still do not feel accomplished– that I haven’t done much with myself.  I see that my best friend is in a good relationship and about to start a family; I see many of my peers moving forward with a career; I see everyone’s life moving on or becoming settled and I feel that I am here– in the same place that I have been. I love my family, and my best friend, but I still can’t ignore that I feel incomplete in someway.  My love life has been dead for a while now. I am unhappy with my appearance, but my looks got lost the same time my spirit did.  I feel that I am being forced between something that I love and something that will be practical in the future. I have stopped doing a lot of the things that I love: I can’t get myself to pick up a book for fun and read it; I stopped doing Pilates and Yoga. I have stopped trying to look good; I’ve stopped my weight loss journey. We go back to classes in a week and I have no ambition. I’m not sure where to go from here after this blog. All I know is that I am lost, and to be cliche , I need to find myself again.

The Ugly Truth of Irritable Bowel Syndrome

Bloated Irritable Bowel Tummy 

Regular Tummy 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A couple of posts back, I discussed the facts about Irritable Bowel Syndrome– the medical side of the disease. While this post will be short, this post will discuss the actual struggle of living with the disorder. The real truth. I’ve been getting quite annoyed with my attacks, lately. I needed to get my experience out there.  There are a lot of articles on the web: what you should eat, what the symptoms are, what exercises you need, what pills to take. However, there are not a lot of post from the sufferers. I do want to say that everyone is different. What happens to me may not happen to you but I hope that this helps. I hope that my article will get a discussion open about how real Irritable Bowel is and just how uncomfortable it can be.

1. The Bloating:

Pictured above is a photo of how my stomach looks right now during an Irritable Bowel attack. Yes, I know, I look about four months pregnant. Fortunately and Unfortunately, this is an Irritable Bowel food baby. I suffer from bloating just about every day. Some days, I am not too badly bloated; other days, my stomach protrudes out like the photo of me above in the blue shirt. To put it in perspective, I buy three different sizes of pants to wear. The bloat determines my pant size. I’m a size 8. I buy pant sizes 8, 10, and 12, and even then, my stomach bloats so large that my pants are too uncomfortable that I have to wear yoga pants. Somedays, I wish it was acceptable to go without pants .

2. The Cramping/ Twisting/ Stabbing:

Walkig is often unbearable. The pain is unbearable. These pains come in two forms: immense stabbing cramps where you want to curl up in a ball and just lay there, or intense expanding/ twisting pain where you can’t walk because you feel your stomach is going to pop.  My attacks always come after eating something that my stomach disagrees with. These are labeled trigger foods. Those who suffer with Irritable Bowel know that trigger foods can be anything on any day. For example, I went out last night for my birthday celebration. I ate food with a lot of margarine on it and I had some alcohol; both of these things are considered part of my trigger foods, so I was not surprised when I woke out of a deep sleep with immense stabbing cramps.  Today, I ate a lot of lean protein, green vegetables, and fruit. I’m now writing this blog with my stomach ballooned out with immense pain.  It’s a game of chance really.

3. The Nausea:

I feel like I’m always in a constant state of  nauseous. If you’ve ever been carsick, that is how IBS nausea feels like.  I normally have to sit down and wait for it to pass with a cup of tea. When I was first diagnosed: I would get jolted out of bed by my alarm clock, go down stairs to greet my mom and to have a cup of coffee, and as soon as my foot hit the bottom step of the stairs, I would projectile vomit at her. Thats over now, thank god.  I quit the coffee in the morning and drink Red Rose tea. It’s calming. Now, I only vomit often. Most of the time, I’m at school. The ritual is the same thing. I feel sick; I start walkig to my dorm to lie down;  I always make it to my dorm room; I feel fine so I think the moment has passed and then I promptly vomit in my trash can. It’s great.

4.The Weight Problem:

I can never keep a normal weight. My weight fluctuates every three to six months. I’ll be stuck on a weight for three months, then I’ll rapidly lose twenty pounds; six months later, I’ll be back up 10 or so. It’s always the same pattern. Weight loss, when I want to lose weight, is the hardest thing. My weight will not budge no matter how hard I exercise or diet. It’s whatever my body wants. A lot of the medical people believe that it has to do with wheat in the diet. That could be, but I’m not sure. I follow a gluten free diet when I can and I don’t often see a difference in weight loss. When I was first diagnosed, I dropped thirty pounds between June and August. I stayed 120 pounds for two years. I could eat whatever I wanted and did not put any weight on. As someone who has always struggled with weight, this wasn’t normal for me. Suddenly the summer before my senior year of high school, I gained 15 pounds back. I didn’t change my eating, I went to the gym more, and still just like that it was back on.

There  you have it. The main struggles of Irritable Bowel Syndrome. It’s hard as a woman sufferer too, because menstrual cycles make the symptoms amplified. Curling up in a ball is always a good option, and my perferred option of getting through the attacks.    To other sufferers: feel free to contact me about your symptoms and issues with your Irritable Bowel. My email is in my contact information.

“Can I See Your I.D. Please:” The Struggle of Being A Baby Faced Twenty-Two Year old

I am  a five- one, baby faced college student, and young professional, who constantly gets mistaken for a young teenager– the youngest I have been labeled recently is fifteen. I am always horrified and embarrassed at how young I look , and I am so sick of constantly being perceived as younger than I am. I hate trying to buy alcohol with my state issued license and still getting suspicious looks from the bartender. I  have gotten  so desperate to look older that  I’ve decided  to revamp my look.

I have first started with my body. I have discussed openly about my struggles with weight loss and body insecurity; I am considered a plus sized woman, and I have chubby cheeks. Well, high cheekbones but I see them as chubby. According to  many fashion sites, the thinner and more toned you are, then the older you look;  therefore, I am  attempting to thin my face to age myself.  I’ve been working out way more than I normally do.  My normal workout routine is to do  Pilates three times a week. Now, I’ve added running into my workout program.    I’ve spent an enormous amount of money on makeup: contour palettes, illuminating palettes, eye shadow palettes, eyeliner, darker lipstick,etc. I have spent more money on new clothes to make myself look more professional.  I’m researching new hair ideas: should I keep my hair on the longer side or should I cut my hair shorter?  I am at my wits end.

Most of my older companions always lecture me: “Enjoy it, you’ll love looking younger in your thirties, forties, and fifties.”  I realize that looking younger than you are is a blessing to some, but to a young professional,  it is an absolute nightmare. As a woman, my authority is already undercut. I’m sorry if this is news to you, but we live in a strict patriarchal society. Men rule the world and women fight for ever bit of power they have.  I want to be a teacher so as a woman, and someone who looks younger than her students, my authority will mean nothing to a high school student. I realize that I am not the only woman in her twenties that has gone through this issue.

This week, I have witnessed multiple young women, who have dealt with the same scrutiny that I have or who want to look older.  Yesterday, I was in Walmart buying more makeup to help with my age problem. In the line next to mine stood a woman shorter than me with her mother, who was buying her own things. The cashier openly stated to this woman: “Oh, are you sick or are you just skipping school?” I was appalled just at this cashier’s boldness, especially in front of this woman’s mother. It was not any of her business.  The girl sighed and stated, “Well, I am in college so I am on break,” with that statement she paid for her things and left.  Today, I was scrolling through my social media and I noticed three of my female friends posting that they want to look older.   What is happening? I guess I want to hear what everyone thinks. If you would like to give your opinion, please send an email to lifeinyourtwenties12@gmail.com. All opinions will be posted anonymously.

 

Why January Is My Cursed Month

Any of you have a month that you try to avoid because every year, without fail, something unfortunate happens?  I have, and it’s January, which also happens to be my birthday month. I know what you all are thinking. She’s dramatic; she’s cynical; she can’t possibly believe in a cursed birthday month. Well, I do.  I’m going to start off with a chronological  time line with the most important events that have happened on or around my birthday. I really have no idea what purpose this blog serves. Normally, I have a theme or an idea that I want to discuss. Maybe, I just have a case of the birthday blues: I’m not getting any younger, I’ve been single for five years with no hope in sight, I’m a broke college student with massive amounts of debt etc.This blog is not meant to blame anyone but the cosmic world or fate or whatever it is. I just want to vent a little.   Isn’t that what blogs are for? So let’s begin:

4th grade: (I can’t recall what year this was).

My birthday fell on a school day, so the plans were that my parents would get me from school and we would go celebrate. I was perfectly happy with that. I was excited. I was not a very popular child or teenager, but I didn’t care as long as I could spend it with my parents. At the planned time for me to be picked up, I raced to the front office ready, but when I rounded the corner, there was my aunt waiting to pick me up. I was confused on where my parents where. She informed me that my dad had slipped and fell on ice and hurt himself. My dad was in the ER and my mom was with him . Until my dad was released from the hospital, my aunt would watch  me. He didn’t get out until 8:00 pm that night, and was out of work for a while from this accident. And so the cursed birthday month began.

 

2008:

I was in seventh grade by this point. The day of my birthday ran smoothly. My mom’s a nurse and she happened to be on call. That night, she got a call to come into the hospital at 12 am. After hearing the phone and my mom getting ready, I woke up and decided to go downstairs to be with her while she got ready. I made it down the stairs alright. I ended up falling down the stairs, hitting my head, and hurting my tailbone in the process. Apparently, I had a concussion from the week before, and  I ended up with more of a  concussion from that one. My mom, feeling bad for leaving me, headed to work 30 minutes away. She got all the way there to find out that a relative  had been admitted and she couldn’t work on the case after all. Hence, she didn’t have to be at work but couldn’t leave because it was too late to call the other on call nurse.

2010:

This year, the day went smoothly. I had planned a small dinner with my boyfriend at the time and my best friend at the time. We ate and played board games. It was a nice day. That is until my boyfriend decided to break up with me the next day and spend the rest of the month telling everyone how horrible I was. Oh, and, the little jerk gave me Mono before he broke up with me and I was sick for about two months. I still don’t recall why I decided to date him the fall of that year, again.

2014:

I happened to be driving one day when the brakes decided to go on the car. I managed to steer the car around the corner and down the street into a Barnes and Noble parking lot. I waited for AAA, and while doing so, I lost my card somewhere. Luckily, the men who came to tow the car told me that it was okay that I didn’t have the card.

2016:

My mom found out she had lung nodules in her lungs and found out they were pre- cancerous / cancer on January 11– the day before my birthday.

2017:

My dad has a giant hard ball on his jawline. I know that this is probably a huge swollen lymph node, but as a person who has one parent with cancer, I can’t help but go straight to the notion that it’s a tumor.

Both my parents have doctors appointments right after my birthday, one day apart, so this should be interesting.

I know that I’m too cynical for my own good, but sometimes I believe the cosmic force is laughing at me. I should say that the birthday celebrations with my family, or in London, are always special and always lovely. It just seems that January is the month when everything happens. It’s hard to enjoy the month, and my birthday. As the day gets closer, I’m going to try my best to enjoy the day, but there is always that shoe that drops right after.