I wish Mom Jeans were popular. They make so much sense for the practical, every day thirty year old. In my opinion, you don’t even need to be a mom to make this fashion statement. Instead, you need to be a woman whose metabolism has decided to basically stop at the age of thirty encouraging the seedlings of love handles to bloom or a part of the anti-crack campaign.
I went to high school in the late nineties when low rise jeans were starting to hit their stride. I couldn’t wait to wiggle my way into a pair of jeans with a one inch zipper. I was thin, in shape and had a body I envy today. I looked great in those jeans. I had not a worry in the world, except constant plumber’s butt. It was awful. I needed a higher waist jean. Even when I stood perfectly still, my crack was practically waving to anyone who looked its way. This was the beginning of my struggle between dressing in style or being comfortable. I was always tugging at my pants and my Wet Seal shirt in an effort to get them to meet somewhere in the middle. It was a constant battle for me but one I was going to win. I was not going to be the teenager who succumbed to Mom Jeans.
My high school skinny left me as soon as I went to college. I filled out due to the large amounts of beer I consumed and late night meals of anything that could be made in a hot pot. Just like the rising of water as it starts to boil, there were my newly formed love handles rising out of top of my jeans. The skin was soft and buoyant like a warm muffin. My crack looked like it had cheek bones. My pants and Wet Seal shirt were losing the battle. The ship was going down. At the age of 22, it was time to move to a mid-rise jean. Continue reading
Tragedy struck in my cube today. As I was organizing, Sky Guy fell and broke his arm. He was given to me as a present at the holiday party last year and has been my cube mate ever since. I’ve always imagined he loved to flail his arms while shouting motivational quotes. His ridiculousness has gotten me through many of eye rolls and frustration.
Here’s to Sky Guy’s left arm. May it flail on forever.
The statement above is exactly why I should not play the lottery. I become delusional. For every dollar I spend on a ticket, I have at least three days of the best day dreams. I think of the first thing I’ll do, which is most likely pee my pants in excitement. Then, I glaze past the important things like a financial advisor and lawyer to focus on the fun stuff like buying an awesome condo in the city followed by a beach house. I think about how I will kick a fair shair of it to my parents and siblings so we can all live a luxurious life together. I will hire a personal trainer to get Jennifer Anniston’s body. I also think about the ridiculous things I could do like shouting, “Hey bartender! I’m buying a round for the house!” Queue cheering and applause
It surprises me when people hesitate to think about what they would do with millions of dollars. I think about it so often that I’m concerned there’s too much I want to do and I’ll run out. But that’s exactly why I love the question. The answer tells you a lot about a person. Continue reading
I always thought I would be married with children by the time I turned thirty. Clearly, I didn’t give myself much credit as a teenager. The next sixteen years of my life was much more interesting than finding Mr. Right and settling down. I’m not judging those who got married and started families early…wait, who am I kidding? The judgment started as soon as I realized my ten year prophecy was not going to come true. And while a part of me wished it had come true, I realized life is too short to dwell on things I don’t have. Life had taken me on a different path; one that would lead me to self-discovery, drunken nights, best friends, belly laughs, how to survive a week with only $10, first and last dates, vacations, happiness and finally one day, love.
My freshman year of high school, I was required to create a time capsule that I would open the day I graduated. It consisted of friend books, letters from family, essays and a self-prophecy. The latter asked me to write where I wanted to be in ten years. It didn’t take me long to plan out my life. I was getting the hell out of my small town and going far away for college. There, I would study biology leading me to a career in optometry (I’ve always been blind as a bat so it seemed like a logical profession). While at college, I would meet my future husband. His proposal would come post-graduation and we would be married by twenty-five. The only thing I wasn’t sure of is what city I would eventually call home.
I was right about one thing in my prophecy – college. I went a ten hour car ride away to a small, liberal arts school in the Midwest. It was perfect. I did not know a single person. As my parents drove away on that first day, I told myself, this is my moment to shine. And I did. I made great friends, had an absolute blast, made mediocre grades and quickly realized that I was much more suited for a life in marketing. Biology would have never worked with my lifestyle of late nights and beer.
I didn’t meet my husband in college but I did meet lots of boys that have influenced my outlook on life and relationships. However, we’ll save those stories for later.
After college, I moved to one of arguably the best cities in America – Chicago. And that is where I have been ever since. The last eight years have been quite a ride especially since I recently moved out to the suburbs AND turned thirty. I have so many stories to tell you about how I’ve gotten here today. Some are funny, some are sad, some are ridiculous and some will be just my everyday life as it is today.
I am an amateur writer that might seem much more entertaining if you read with a glass of wine. So pour some Pinot and enjoy!