The Jean Problem

I love jeans. They’re my solution to many simple problems. If I don’t want to shave my legs? Jeans. If I want to show off a cute shirt? Jeans. If my uterus is throwing a tantrum because I haven’t fertilized my eggs? Dark jeans.

Regardless of the occasion, jeans tend to be my “go-to” pants choice. That is, of course, so long as they fit…

My weight likes to yo-yo over the year. During the fall and winter, school leads me to stress and lose weight (it’s opposite I know). During the summer, well, I’m at home eating my parents’ food…one does not simply pass up seconds of Italian food! I’d love to say stuffing my face is balanced with equally epic workout plans, but that just doesn’t happen.

And inevitably the morning comes when I go to throw on a pair of jeans and this happens:

  1. There’s tightness around my thighs as I pull them up.
  2. My butt takes up the space where I could once put my hands in my back pockets.
  3. Buttoning them suddenly becomes a yoga exercise and a denial phase…

–        “Suck it in!” Stomach sucked in, posture rigid and slightly bending backwards…the extra jump to pull them up…

–        “Maybe I’m bloated….” “Have I pooped today? No. They’ll fit after I go.”

The worst part? They do not fit after I go to the bathroom. The struggle is real.

Of course then it comes to having to shop for jeans that will fit my well-fed body. That’s when the self-loathing and inner sobbing begins. It all comes down to the number. I hate that stupid number on the tag. No matter if it makes me look good that number makes me walk out of that dressing room mildly depressed. It’s equivalent to the pain I feel after math tests.

Dealing with that number is a battle I face. I’d love to be a size four or something small like that. My reality though is that I will never achieve that size healthily. I am a proud Hispanic who has the butt and boobs to match the ethnicity. That J-Lo butt just does not fit in a small size.

Guess what? It’s okay. That fact is something I have to remember on a constant basis. It’s okay if I never fit into tiny jeans. I ought to embrace the body I have. I may eat a little bit more than I ought to, but I am beautiful just the way I am.

As I write this post, the new song “Try” by Colbie Caillat is playing. If you haven’t already watched the music video I’d definitely recommend it.

At the end of the day, don’t be afraid to buy a new pair of jeans. Live life to the fullest, enjoy that favorite dish of yours, and don’t be afraid to embrace the body you have. It’s beautiful just the way it is.

Hey if you want some more really awesome blogs to read just check out some of these. They’re really great reads and the bloggers are pretty cool as well:

  1. Green Embers
  2. Ronovanwrites
  3. Feliciakimmel
  4. Maria9saif
  5. Bmyshot

***Youtube video is Kristin Schrot’s not mine.

My Valentine’s Day plans…

Okay, let’s face it. Every woman in America was having a minor hot flash as the release of the Fifty Shades trailer was aired on Thursday. I was one of them. Woooohoooo!

Now, I’ll be honest. The concept of a man with severe mental baggage forcing me in to sexual acts is a little too intense and borderline creepy for me…

However, if the man I was with decided to use vanilla ice cream and a tie to, uh, get things going well I certainly wouldn’t object. Like at all. I suppose it’s time to go out and find myself a Christian Grey…minus the baggage of course.

The day the trailer came out my phone was bombarded with texts from my friends asking, “Ohh my god have you seen the trailer yet??”

So of course I had to watch it. And as I did, my estrogen levels spiked way, way up. I texted my friends about it and we began to gush over the movie.

Yes, the male lead was not who I pictured as Christian, but it’s incredibly difficult to please every woman’s idea of what he ought to look like.

My ex-roommate, of whom I talked about in my last post, was very pleased with the trailer. Our conversation went a little like this:

Natasha: “Dear God this trailer is beautiful.”

Me: “I want to be Anastasia…”

Natasha: “OH GOD YES!”

Me: “Sooo we’re going to watch it?”

Natasha: “Of course we are. I’ll bring a vibrator if you do!”

Me: “HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!”

Natasha: “Just saying…”

Me: “We wouldn’t be the only ones. There’s going to be a quiet steady buzz of many women enjoying the movie…”

We tend to be rather blatant in our conversations. One of the many side effects of being roommates for a year. Though just as a disclaimer: I do not have a vibrator! Neither does she. Trust me, I was her roommate so I would know. Fifty shades will be very similar to Magic Mike in the sense that the theater will be overrun with excited women who will happily go home and greet their men. Just saying!

Throughout the rest of that day I had many other amusing conversations with pleased women. Needless to say, I think there will be an entourage of us going to that movie. My Valentine’s Day plans are set. Who’s with me??

The phases of roommate relations

Ah the dorm life. It’s just great. Privacy becomes a thing of the past. You get to shower in stalls while someone else’ shower water splashes your toes from the adjoining stalls, listen to the sound of alcohol saturated women stumble in the hallway trying to find their rooms, and best of all you get to poop in community style bathrooms….

And being women we know exactly who is stinking it up by the shoes you’re wearing (Ugg season is everyone’s savior in the bathroom). Privacy is really nonexistent.

However, the most interesting thing about college is the roommate situation. More often than not you’re going to end up with a stranger. Being squished in a 10 foot by 15 foot room is so much fun. Especially when the periods sync. Then it gets really fun.

Now let me just say that my roommate and I get along great now. In fact, she’s one of my closest friends…but it wasn’t always that way. Our roommate relationship went through three phases:

  1. The “Let’s be best buddies forever!!!” phase
  2. The “I’m about to shank a b***h!” phase
  3. The “No shame…” phase

The first phase lasted for a grand total of a month and a half. We got along famously. If either of us were hungry we’d go get something to eat. If either of us wanted to do something fun we’d go out and do stuff together and then of course return to our room where we got to spend even more time with each other. We shared a tv, microwave, and a mini fridge. It was like living in a Bob Marley song, it was all happiness…

Minus the cannabis. Just saying.

And then of course phase two hit… We got tired of each other. Really, really tired of each other. It’s one thing if you’re upset with someone and you can separate yourself for a while, but no, being mad at each other meant angrily staring at opposite walls.

The lack of communication and constant tension continued to build until one day things exploded over a sweater… through angry text messages…

Yeah, real mature right? My generation in a nutshell…

Anyways, we went overboard. Everything that was hers went on one side of the room and everything that was mine went on the other. It was as if we had erected the Berlin wall between us. We weren’t going to do anything, but we sure as hell were going to be as intimidating and silently angry as possible. This continued the rest of first semester. I got my own fridge and microwave, and the tension stayed there.

Thankfully we had a month off for winter break and had the chance to get away from each other. When we came back from break things were still awkward. The room was still split down the middle and covered with ice( a metaphor for the awkwardness that was still there). It wasn’t until we had a nice random conversation about why our boobs annoyed us that things finally calmed between us.

Yes, boobs saved us. And yes to the men reading this, we women do in fact talk about our boobs. On a somewhat regular basis actually.

This is when phase three hit…

After our argument and the newly-made friendship that followed, nothing was off limits. We simply didn’t care. We talked about everything. There was no subject left untouched. And don’t even get me started on how comfortable we got. I could walk in the room from taking a shower and toss my towel to the side and search for clothes without her ever even blinking in surprise.

We simply had no shame around each other. We lived in the same room and after being stuck with that person for several months you just learn to not care.

It was great. I could go pants-less to bed and not feel awkward about it.

By the end of the year we were close friends and I was sorry that our roommate life was ending. She was getting an apartment one place and I was moving to a different one. To this day she is still one of my closest friends.

Having a roommate is hard, but it teaches a great lesson. You learn how to deal with people you might not otherwise interact with on a day to day basis.

On a completely random note, shout out to Ronovanwrites for helping to get my blog out there. His blog content is really cool and has something for everyone. He’s also one of the most polite and kind bloggers I’ve had the chance to come in contact with. Check him out!

Ode to the Real Men in my life

They say in life you’ll find that one perfect man that will be there for you, comfort you, and make you feel all gooey on the inside. For me, I’ve found two wonderful men. Now, I’m all for monogamy, but in this case I cannot just pick one. It’s impossible.

Their names are Ben and Jerry. Oh yes, it’s quite a love affair. Their delicious, mildly overpriced pints of ice cream comfort me in times of grief and sorrow.

They are there for me when my uterus screams at me for not fertilizing my eggs. And dear God does it get pissed at me… When the bloating, self-loathing, and illogical urge to break down in fits of sobbing over ASPCA commercials come, Ben and Jerry are there.

When the grades from midterms come back and I question my intelligence as a whole, Ben and Jerry are there. Oh I confess we have had a dirty, raunchy love affair. The late night study sessions, the Friday night Netflix marathon while I pretend I’m not at home and partying instead, yeah….Ben and Jerry were there.

Sometimes, I get really naughty and let’s just say chocolate sauce and whip cream get involved…oh it’s kinky. There is nothing like watching the Notebook with Ben and Jerry. They just let me cry when Ryan Gosling kisses Rachel McAdams…..damn her.

Ben and Jerry are there for me when the other men in my life let me down. Through break-ups, arguments, and the heart ache of being rejected they are there.

Now I will admit… I have strayed in times of sadness… Nutella has been my secret lover. When Ben and Jerry are away…Nutella comes to play.

But alas, I stray from the point… Thank you Ben and Jerry for being there in my times of sorrow, grief, and ravenous food cravings.  

No one else can contribute to the delinquency of my abdomen like you do…. I think I love you Ben and Jerry….that is all.

Kids really do say the funniest things

As the big sister of a little brother and sister, both under the age of 6, I hear the most amusing things when I visit home. In light of a few things I’ve heard lately, I just had to share!

So my brother likes to get into things, he rambunctious and energetic. Here are things I’ve heard yelled to him:

Mom: “Do not put your foot in the bongo! You’ll get it stuck!”
(So of course he does it and gets his foot stuck)
Brother cries: “Mom!!! My foot’s stuck!”

Mom: “Dude! Pull your pants up! We do not do Magic Mike dancing!”
(Brother wiggles his booty at her)

And then of course there’s my little sister…

Sister: “Mom, my penis hurts..”
Mom: “Honey you don’t have a penis, you have a vagina.”

I’m sure there are moments to come as I hang out with them more, but it was just a little tid bit that cracked me up.

Kids are funny. And I can honestly say I don’t want any for a while…hahaha!

When toots let loose…

Here’s an honest truth: we all toot. Even women. Yes, I’d love to say when it happens to us females it smells like rainbows, sunshine and joy, but it just doesn’t. It sucks.

But God forbid we let men know that!

I know when I’m on a date and a storm begins to brew in the…rectal region, I suddenly have the most impressive sphincter control. Let no muscle go unclenched!! He must not know I toot.

But what happens when that veil of ignorance is shattered on a date? Ha! Allow me to enlighten you…

I was hanging out at Jeff’s house (yes the same Jeff that lit fire to my lady parts, see Too much spice in my love life) enjoying a quiet evening of movies and good conversation, we had been clear of awkward moments for at least a good month….needless to say we were obviously due for another round of it.

In the midst of playful arguments and teasing Jeff began to tickle me. Now tickling isn’t dangerous thing, but mixed with whatever Satan-given food I had ingested earlier that day….well let’s just say it was like shaking up a can of soda.

One minute I was laughing and trying to push him away and then IT happened. I would love to say it was cute and dainty like a fairy’s giggle but NOPE! I apparently am not that lucky. It was like the mating call of an elephant seal or something horribly awkward.

Jeff froze. I stared at him like a deer in headlights. For a second he looked embarrassed (later he told me he thought HE had done it) and then realized I had been the culprit. What was worse, I had a stuffy nose from allergies so I couldn’t smell a thing! I had no idea if it was just loud or if I had suddenly released toxic fumes from Hell.

“Oh my god don’t breathe!” I yelled breaking the shocked silence. He burst out laughing as I began to tear up, completely embarrassed. To make matters worse, as he brayed like a freaking donkey he quickly got up and found a can of Febreeze.

“It smells?!” I asked horrified. Jeff only laughed harder and sprayed.

“I don’t know, my nose is stuffed too!” he laughed. Tears were coming from his eyes from laughter…jerk.

Still horrified I kept repeating, “I’m so sorry. Oh my god, I am so so sorry!” as if I had purposefully passed gas in front of him.

As his fits of hysteric laughter subsided he assured me that he wasn’t grossed out by it, only surprised that I was capable of such a thing.

He gave me hell about it for weeks until inevitable he slipped up accidentally and evened the playing field.

Men, please realize we pass gas. We do our best during the dating phase to hide that fact but try not to be judgmental if it happens.

Women, it happens. Chances are he’ll laugh it off and probably end up rating it on a scale of 1 to 10 on the “epic” factor…..I don’t understand men, but girls don’t be mortified if it happens.

We all fart.