By MBPDLPayday Loans

Archive for September, 2009

Sep 29

“You look tired.”

Yes, I know. Thank you for telling me. I LOOK tired because I FEEL tired. Really tired. Excruciatingly tired. Inhumanly tired.

But look! Look at me! I’m here, aren’t I?And I’m wearing pants, too. I bet I even brushed my hair this morning, just for you. If you look very closely, I’d be willing to bet you’ll find some remnant of some makeup somewhere on my face. That’s because I knew it’d be a long day, and that by this point, I knew that I would look tired.

I did, I knew, and I took preparatory steps to look less-tired, just for you, and just so we could avoid having this conversation. But, alas! Here we are, talking it through, both growing increasingly uncomfortable with those purple bags growing under my eyes.

Don’t worry. I’m not insulted. I know I look like The Walking Dead. I feel like it, too. It’s just, it’s one thing to know I feel this way. It’s something else entirely to know that everyone else knows I feel this way. And it’s a whole new ballgame to know that everyone knows all this information about me because of how I look.

Here’s the beauty, though, and I can see you eyeing the exit for a getaway, wishing you hadn’t mentioned it to begin with, because you were just trying to say a polite hello. The beauty, is that I am too tired to care.

That’s how tired I am. The fact that I’m standing here, with half-combed hair and pants? That is an epic success for me. And I’ll tell you why.

I’m so tired that I can barely remember my name, let alone yours. So you’re completely off the hook. Chances are I’ll forget this even happened, and we can go on being friends, and it won’t even be weird.

So next time you think that perhaps I look a bit drab, consider that perhaps I’ve spent the past ten days running an emotional gauntlet, and that I might be nerve-wracked over BIG NEWS that is taking longer than anticipated to come together.

And instead of politely insinuating that I look like decaying-human…

Just buy me a cup of coffee, pat me on the head and tell me how great my shoes are.

It’s just easier for that way.

-M.

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Sep 27

Keeping up.

There’s this scene in Through the Looking Glass where the Red Queen snatches Alice by the wrist and drags her off on this terribly fast run. Alice can’t breate, she can barely keep up, and they run for what seems like hours. Finally they stop, and Alice realizes they’re in the same spot where they started. She is rightfully shocked, and tells the Queen that where she comes from, running like that would surely get a person somewhere new.

The Queen replies to Alice, “A slow sort of world,” and tells her that one must always run as fast as possible simply to keep up… Twice as fast if one hopes to get anywhere!

That’s the moment I reconnected with my favorite childhood story as an adult. My Ambition is my Red Queen. She has me firmly by the wrist, egging me forward when I’m too tired to push myself. And sometimes feeding me dry biscuits to quench my insatiable thirst.

And I’m just Alice, sometimes, feeling very much at the mercy of it all, trying most days lately simply to keep pace with my surroundings. Every application to graduate school is another leap over another brook on this giant chessboard. Every conversation with my bosses about my potential and taking on more responsibility is another bound forward.

Hold your breath. Close your eyes. Make a wish. Pray your strategy works. Jump.

The trick is to open your eyes in the morning and take in the magic that comes solely from being here. Get life-drunk off it. Breathe it in and let it fuel you. Lock eyes on your dreams and slide your hand into Ambition’s. Donn your running shoes, and hit the ground in motion.

Two more days until I have an update on my *big news.*

‘Till then, I have a race to run. At the rate of Twice As Fast As Possible.

Hopefully, I’m getting somewhere.

-M.

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Sep 25

Unfair Tradeoff

Now, I’m going to tell you something, and I don’t want you to get angry at me. This is how it works, right? I’m really honest with you, and you have to cut me some slack, because honesty is sometimes hard.

So… deal?

Stop pouting. I promise it’ll be worth it, but you have to agree. Patience. No angry-faces. Deal?

Great!

… I’m up to something. I can’t tell you what, yet, but it’s *something*. Something *big*. Something big enough that if it plays out, you’re going to fall off your freakin’ chair. So, posting is going to be light for the next couple days, because this *something big* involves a lot of paperwork, and thinking, and spell-checking. And we all know how I get when I have to multitask like that.

(All my sorority sisters are now have violent and vivid flashbacks to the week before I had finished my thesis, wherein I holed up in the 24-hour student lounge, hunkered in a corner, foaming at the mouth and surviving solely on vending machine food products.)

In the meantime, watch Grey’s Anatomy. Season 6 started. I did not cry as much as I normally do (translate: I am not PMSing this week). But I was delighted in the continuance of my favorite former-tequila-chugging-TV-kindred, and her awesome new highlights. **Sidenote– I know half of you might not like Grey’s. I know the other half will scream blasphemy for even admitting People Who Do Not Like Grey’s even exist. 1/3 of you will have already seen the episode. 3/8 of you will have thought it was BRILLIANT, and 1/76th of you will stop reading this blog because I like Grey’s Anatomy. I am OK with all of this. I am aware it’s happening. And I am going to make this perfectly clear: I am not going to stop watching that show unless they REALLY kill Meredith Grey, because I really, really like her character. Not up for discussion, debate, or something from which I can be persuaded. Much like the 7th shot of tequila… It might not be my finest indulgence, but it’s there. And loving me means accepting it, taking it in stride, and reminding yourself that my favorite movie is Fight Club, so I do have some redeeming qualities. I also make very nice crepes. So there’s that, too. Back to your regularly scheduled blog.

So. Until next week. Probably Tuesday. Bear with me. Enjoy Grey’s. Call your mother. Wear clean undies.

Smile. Hug. Laugh. Breathe.

Dance it out if you have to.

And wish me luck. :)

-M.

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Sep 23

Hallo out there!

I’m back from Newport. I’m adjusting to Real Life again. I have not yet unpacked, or put away my laundry from two weeks ago.

… I have come up with the chatcter arcs for my first novel, though, and jut got done introducig them to one another.

Things went well. I believe their story is going to be a good one.

I’ll have more for you once my sleep patterns return to normal. :)

-M.

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Sep 18

Wind in your sails.

I’m in Newport for the week, which I should have said before I left on Wednesday.

Surprise!

PUMA is participating in the Newport Boat Show, and I’m here to represent Tretorn and chat with sailors. No problems there. Sailors are a hoot and I can tell you about Tretorn product in my sleep.

I’ll be coming back Sunday night, an sleeping most of the day on Monday. The trip has been great so far; I’m working with G, who is hands down my favorite manager outside my district. She’s amazing, with a lit of great insight into the business and into planning an education and a future.

Until we meet again, let the wind fill your sails.

-M.

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Sep 14

“I love you very much.”

The only things I remember about the weekend are the things I failed at, and the closing of a phone conversation I had with my mother.

The things I failed at weren’t real failings, they were irrational customers who yelled at me for “unsatisfactory customer service” – which really just means That, after exhausting every single one of my resources as a person and a manager, I still fell short of their expectations by failing to produce a magic wand or magic genie and procure what they wanted.

I know, guys. I suck. It bugs me, too, sometimes. Not as often as one might think… But sometimes.

It doesn’t matter. I survived. The week at work was hard, and pushed every manager in the store to their limits. I explained to my mother, after griping to her about the workweek that we all put in, that it’s not that I was frustrated with anyone. It was just the circumstance we found ourselves thrust into. The fact of the matter is that we made a lot of money and moved a lot of units in a very concentrated period of time with little preparation and even less support. “Nobody worked less hard than anyone else to get it done,” I told her. “We were all equally exhausted, equally tested, equally frustrated. We all worked equally hard. That’s teamwork.”

I called my mother Sunday night as I left work, because I was struggling to remain a composed human being. I had a migraine. I was dehydrated. I was starving. I was exhausted. I was unraveling. We chatted for a minute or two, she made me feel better, got me laughing again.

And when we went to hang up the phone, I told her, “I love you very much, and I miss you horribly.”

“I know,” she laughed. “That’s how it should be. I love you very much and miss you horribly.”

And I had one of those moments. One of those ah-HA! moments, where something clicked. She’s right. It’s not supposed to be easy. We’re apart, and that’s hard. We’re not supposed to separate like this from our families. At least not the way I was raised. So it’s a struggle, especially when everything else is a struggle, too.

But it’s alright, because we still love each other very much. If there’s a single gift that my mother has given me that I treasure above all else, it’s that she has taught me how to love. I’ve run over the list of things she’s taught me several times over the past 48 hours– how to nag James until he wears a sweater outside in the evening, for example– and the things of which I am most proud (how to be gracious, strong, reliable, forgiving, open) can all be acutely summed up in saying that the most profound thing she showed me how to do… is love.

It’s a blessing and a curse. What an amazing gift to give your child. But love stings, sometimes, when separation tugs it tight. Mom and Kar and Dad and Jorge are all coming down for The Birthdays, which are not that far off in the future. I know everyone will be together again before I know it. Until then, I have 450 minutes each month and 1700 minutes that roll over.

I’ll use them wisely. Like when I have no idea how to cook steak, and Mom calls me back to make sure I’m cooking with wine.

chickweed20050162799231

-M.

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Sep 07

My (Un)Glamorous Life

There was a big to-do happening at Longchamp in SoHo the other night. It reminded me that it’s Fashion Week, and I should be in stiletto heels. Except, I was too busy shoveling Trix cereal into my famished little mouth to really notice or care.

Paparazzi flashed, diamonds embedded against an otherwise dark wall. That wall is Fashion, to get past it, you must have the secret code word. You must know the secret knock.

It wasn’t long ago I’d have smiled for the cameras. I’d have sweet-talked the doormen into letting me crash the party. I’d have shmoozed the bartender–who I probably knew by name, anyway– and had the time of my life. There was a time I always stood at the ready for all the adventures this city has to offer.

But that night, I stepped off the sidewalk in an attempt to circumnavigate the crowd. They all looked so perfect, with their tan faces and high-high heels. I didn’t want my tired visage to smudge their glamorous photographs. If I looked half as tired as I felt, I didn’t want lingering photographic evidence.

Even at my best, that limelight doesn’t really interest me anymore.

I’ve started to settle. Not for less, but definitely in. Into my comfortable life with my perfect boyfriend. Into my simple routine, and the challenges of my job. I’ve settled into that niche of people who the highly fashionable only tolerate long enough for me to fetch them the new trendy sneaker.

I’ve become invisible.

I can’t tell yet if that bothers me. It only just occurred to me; I’m still turning over the possibility and the perspective in my mind. Arguably, this could have its merits. You get more done if nobody sees what you’re doing, enlisting help only when you need it, not having productivity hampered by too many questions or cooks.

But then on the contrary, when it comes time to dole out the credit, often the invisible remain overlooked. And do I want to risk that?

I’m not producing anything of value lately anyway, it seems, and I can’t imagine much consequence in not getting credit for that. On the same note, I know that that will drive me mad before long.

This week, I’m too busy to think straight with work. Next week, I’m being sent to Newport for a boat show, and will be gone for the week. When I return, I’ll have to take my GMAT.

Then I can worry about my contrtibutions. And who’s getting credit for what.

Until then, I’m fine living my unglamorous life. The highlight of my day will be snuggling my kittens, talking to my mother and having a very late supper with my boyfriend.

The goal is to keep my head above water, and my face out of the shades of limelight Holly Golightly warned would ruin a girl’s complexion.

-M.

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Sep 06

Not an airplane.

The Boat Ride.

I stood up on my very tip-toes, the wind cascading across the water, pushing through my hair. The sun sparkled down on the water, glitter strewn across a grey-blue blanket. We sent it flying with every splash. Each time the boat bucked, I laughed, sent into the air several inches.

We were only out on Oneida Lake, but there was an unmistakable feeling that I was about to embark on a marvelous adventure at sea. It brought back to me how vivid my imagination used to be, how good it feels to get back to your roots and unlock the sleeping parts of your soul that only come alive in that very special place. The place you became. I closed my eyes and turned my face into the wind and tried to picture a giant pirate ship crashing through the water toward us.

Glitter across a blanket.

Don’t mistake me, it’s not always like that. The day before, the water had been rough, choppy and rainy. It’s days like that when you’re reminded how fragile life can be, when you suddenly realize you’re on a small boat, floating in such a large, deep body of water. You’re just being tossed around, at the mercy of nature, and suddenly your man-made engineering seems so archaic and clumsy. So trivial, and small.

We were almost all the way out to Sylvan Beach when we saw the lightning off the port-bow. We had been going in the direction of the wind, and had to turn around. Lightning on a rough day like today was my father’s beacon-sign of Get The Hell Off The Water. Things went from thrilling to nerve-wracking in a heartbeat.

And then the rogue waves hit. Dad explained that normal crests were 2-3 feet high on a choppy day. That day, they were averaging around 4-5 feet high. And then there were rogue waves, waves built high by the wind being stopped by nothing as it pushed across 28 miles of water. Those waves, Dad guessed, were around 7 feet high. Which means they could eat me for breakfast. Alive.

Suddenly I realized that the slamming of the boat against the water surface was no longer just at the bow. I turned to my father:

Me: “Dad… Are we going airborne?”

Dad: “Well, *smirk* maybe a little.”

Me: (nervous) “Uh… can the boat, ya know… do that? Like, can it handle that?”

Dad: *laughs* “Well, kiddo… It’s not an airplane. But it seems to be doing alright.”

The Captain.

We got home safe. If Mom had seen the conditions and knew we had gone out in the boat, she’d have killed us all immediately upon our safe arrival to the dock. Life’s just like that sometimes. It’s the never-ending boat ride, where you feel so big and daring and then again, so small and pitiful.

It’s hard for me to be away, and it’s hard for me to come home. Sometimes I feel like I’m about to capsize. But I always find the lighthouse; that’s the beauty of having people as exceptional as mine. There’s always a lighthouse, winking at me, calling me to safety. There’s always a silver lining.

My Silver Lining.

It’s always worth it to make the trek Upstate, whatever I leave, whatever I find. I’m a country beach girl at heart, my soul recharges best on the deck of my father’s boat, as I laugh into the horizon, the wind running its fingers through my hair.

The Hard Life.

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Sep 05

Nobody lied.

Kristin sat to my immediate right, bouncing on the couch and laughing in that way she does that wrinkles her nose all the way through her forehead. James was on my left, both hands in the air, trying to defend his question about cows. Ryan smiled broadly from the armchair next to the couch, Jonas bouncing slightly on his lap, little burps bubbling from his very tiny mouth. I sat there, in the middle of it all, soaking in the goodness of Home. The trek had been long, and stressful, with kittens, and bad weather, and lack of sleep and impatience. Like all things that classify as Worth It, it was a challenge getting there. But in the warm orange-light of Kristin’s living room, strewn with New Baby Stuff, laughter filling the air…

It was a perfect moment.

I had sat, earlier that day, with my head pressed against the cold glass window of James’ parents’ SUV. Moose was asleep in my lap, having been knocked out with an Herbal Kitty Behavior Remedy… He had spent thirty seconds of the drive from Long Island being good, twenty seconds howling, and then had two failed attempts to escape the carrier by extending both his front paws through the grated door and barrel rolling. That’s when I made the executive decision to get our asses to a PetCo and sedate him, as he was clearly going to hurt himself or Ellie if we left him to his own devices for the rest of the six-hour trek. (Ellie was already asleep, because she is perfect.)

Moose, being antsy.

Moose, knocked out. Thank you, Good Cat.

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It took one syringe of water mixed with a couple drops of Good Cat and Moose was out like a light, slept for the remaining five and a half hours in various positions strewn across my lap in the back seat. And I sat, with my forehead pressed against the cold glass window of the car, watching the grey world cascade by, waiting for the unfamiliar shapes of pine trees and fences and creeks to melt into places I recognized. Places I called home.

We missed a turn off. We had two Evil Kittens with us. Neither of us could eat because we didn’t feed the cats breakfast so we wouldn’t have to worry about them needing to go en route. We didn’t want to eat in front of them, that would be cruel. So we all went hungry together.

Mom and Grandma were waiting for us when we pulled into the driveway, and there aren’t words to describe how amazingly perfect a Mother’s Hug fits, even after all these years. It hangs on all the right spots, and warms parts of your soul that nobody else can touch. I breathed her in; she smelled like country air and Mesmerize, the perfume she always sprayed on our pillows to ward off bad dreams and let the angels know where to find our sleeping heads.

Grandma had slow-cooked meatballs waiting for us, and I got to meet my sister’s new boyfriend Jorge, who is a welcomed and balanced addition to the family. Dad was cracking jokes, with his easy smile and Irish sense of humor. We all sat in the glowing light of the front porch, the kittens chasing the dog around (poor Snickers, didn’t know what to think of any of it, all these strange new people mixing with her herd, and more than once she tried to hide from Elephant behind Grandma’s legs).

When I had said my Hello’s to everyone, and the meal had been eaten, I announced that it was Time To Go See Kristin. My grandmother will tell you that I talked about nothing but Jonas and What The Kittens Were NOT ALLOWED To Eat the whole time I was home. Guilty as charged– that first night, the only thing I cared about seeing was my best friend.

The front door to their house was cracked open, easily my favorite thing about the Upstate community culture. If you’re expecting company, chances are you don’t just leave the door unlocked. Chances are you leave it propped open a smidge, so upon arrival they know how wholly welcome they are. Come on in, settle yourself down, beer’s in the fridge. Except before I got to the libations, Ryan strolled into the kitchen from the dining room and plopped the peanut into my arms.

The Perfect Little Peanut, in Kristin's lap.

It was like we hadn’t missed any time at all. Most of the moments spent together, we laughed, the four of us, two young couples and a baby. There’s something about seeing your best friend again that will make you absolutely love-drunk.

And the peanut was so adorable.

Le petit grenouille.

The little guy with his daddy.

Kristin was brave enough to eat out with us twice, once at a sports bar where the wings gave everyone upset stomachs, and once at Johnnies, where my mother made it her personal mission to make sure everyone knew better than to touch Kristin’s perfect new baby. For the most part, Jonas slept.

He fussed at the sports bar (which is really more of a restaurant) and I jumped at the opportunity to follow Kristin into the bathroom and hold her diaper bag for her while she attended to the little man’s wet diaper. It was like college, only instead of making sure she didn’t drop  her phone in the toilet, I made sure her son didn’t roll off the changing table. (Which is to say, it was like college, only a hundred times better.)

And he needed to nurse. I took the opportunity to ask her a thousand personal questions about the experience, things I’d never ask in front of the boys, things that you only share in hushed tones with your best friends in moments of peace, when you’re peeking at something so secretive and glowy that you can’t help but be enchanted. It’s life. It’s the circle of life and the cycle of it all, and the glorious messiness, and the constant mild anxiety coupled with the constant overwhelming joy. It’s beautiful. My best friend had a baby, and he came a long way from looking like a Hello, Kitty! gummy bear. He’s this little butterball of light that united two people in a profound way, even when I was fairly sure they were as united as possible.

Kristin and Ryan are wholly a family, and she’s still fully my best friend, and nothing has changed for the worse. Not even from the perspective of selfish, self-involved little old me. And have I mentioned how handsome they are?

Getting the hang of it.

Cut them some slack. They’re still getting the hang of it.

Picture perfect.

My heart is achy to be around them again.

I don’t mind it, though. It makes the reuniting so much  more delightful. Jonas is a happy, healthy little boy. Kristin is glowy. Ryan is in his glory.

The car ride was a mess, the pregnancy was hard, the delivery was stressful. It was all totally worth it. Kristin was right. “Nobody lied.”

-M.

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Sep 04

Kindergarten lessons.

Early in my life, it became apparent that I inherited my mother’s razor-tongue and dry, sarcastic humor. Not long after this revelation, my mother taught me a simple, fundamental lesson. “If you can’t say something nice, you keep your mouth shut and your opinion to yourself.”

This had grown into an appreciation for a very specific kind of criticism: constructive criticism. Mom’s point, more acutely and in subtext, was that if you look hard enough, there is always something nice to be said. Even if there are negative sentiments in tandem.

The formula for giving negative feedback is very, very simple. You start with praise. You cite the area for improvement. You end with a positive note. Not only does this make the receiving party more receptive to your invaluable insight, but it creates an interaction from which nobody has to leave feeling trampled upon. I learned this more advanced principle in high school, but that fundamental tidbit about reigning in negativity and blunt honesty? I learned that in kindergarten. This leads me to believe that it is not, in fact, rocket science.

So when I stumbled across Adrien Field’s reaction to the Glamour Magazine model who slumped forward and showed the world what a woman who doesn’t have a team of stylists and make up artists fussing over her every second of the day looks like, my knee-jerk reaction was They give this guy a byline? This uneducated and shortsighted opinion should have been kept locked up in the small recesses of this dude’s tiny, dusty little brain.

Oh, but what would my mother think? Better stick to the formula and give this poor, simpleminded man the benefit of the doubt. Let’s first take a look at what he stated that merged on accuracy.

1. She is a very pretty woman, and Adrien credits her for such.

2. He states that his thoughts are just an opinion, then cited in an addendum to his original piece that he prefers his models stick-skinny and emaciated.

3. He brings up a semi-valid reasoning, that fashion to him is not about lauding the everyday woman, but rather about indulgence, opulence and a world of fantasy.

But there are areas of his audacious piece that I feel he could have phrased more tactfully.

1. Calling anyone fat is just mean. I don’t care who you are or what your perceived status in any given industry is. No title gives anyone the right to be so openly rude and so blatantly disregard the feelings of another human being in this crass manner. He should wholly be ashamed of himself for such a fundamental act of disrespect.

2. This woman did not put these photographs into the magazine under the pretense of being a supermodel. The point of the article was to focus on everyday women with normal bodies. We can’t all be super-models. (And to speak to the comment he made that I find singularly the most infuriating, the one about the model needing to unhand the cheeseburgers: the shape of her stomach more closely resembles a woman’s body after bearing children than it does after a McDonald’s binge. As it turns out, the girl is a plus-size model, age 20, and avidly plays softball and belly dances. Some women have a specific body type, and any girl who has glanced at her mother’s thighs and had a small heart attack over her curvy destiny will tell you: you can’t cheat genetics. It’s a fact of life, sir. Not a fact of fat.)

3. Adrien seems to be out of touch with two pivotal factors in contemporary print media content planning: the economy and the consumers. Glamour’s demographic encompasses women aged 18 to 49. Their mission statements and content speak to functional and practical garments, their pervasive theme being practicality. Anna Wintour can focus solely on the couture and highest-end designers and the skinniest stick-insect-model prototypes all she pleases; that’s what her readers expect when they collect their hefty Vogue September issue. But the reader of Glamour does not have a real vested interest in or practical use for a pair of $3,000.00 shoes. She reads Glamour for the warm wit and best-girlfriends-swapping-secrets take on beauty, health, fashion and social lives.

Which hones in on two pointed issues here: Adrien isn’t the demographic, and Glamour consequently does not speak to him. I’m not shocked; it’s not supposed to. Even if his post had been aimed at the actual content of the article instead of the subsequent reaction to it, he would not have liked it. It doesn’t play into his ideal of fashion– fantasy and unattainable body types. Which is to applaud Glamour for holding true to what it stands for as a publication and providing the Every Woman with relatable fashion and beauty content.

Now let’s end on a positive, shall we? There are enormous opportunities for lessons-learned here.

First, one must always consider the feelings of the people about whom they speak their opinions. In sure Adrien will not see this, nor would he care if he did, as I am, admittedly, a nobody. Still I’ve tried to be diplomatic in language and tone, and have tried to critique his opinions, not his person.

And this uproar has given us yet another priceless opportunity to discuss body imaging and positive self-imaging. It’s an issue that warrants constant and increased attention, and I’m glad that it’s back in cultural focus

Most importantly, I don’t want criticism like Adrien’s to stop other brave women– and I do believe that model to be brave, knowing that she was willingly opening herself to such scrutiny– from putting themselves out there. The first steps toward creating new outlets and facets in any industry is challenging, fashion not the least difficult culture on that list. Women who applauded this model, whose name is Lizzi Miller, applauded a woman who advocated for the acceptance of normalcy. Who normalized something with which most women struggle on a daily basis. And no, I’m not talking about weight. I’m talking about body image. They’re distinct.

And yes, I appreciate that sensationalism was probably Adrien’s motive here; chances are good he did this to boost traffic to his website and generate buzz around his name. In which case, and to his merit, he was successful. Many of my outraged friends read the article after it hit Twitter.

Bravo to Glamour, too, for embracing the sensationalism– even the ugly bits– with grace and poise, and their signature wry wit in this special article.

Regardless, I encourage anyone who was affected to decide how they’d have liked to see this play out differently, and get involved. Use the links below, educate yourself, and find your voice.

Dove Campaign for Real Beauty Stand Up, Stand Out Girl Scouts USA

But don’t forget mother’s formula. She does, afterall, absolutely always know best.

-M.

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