Ever since I started college, I have found it super inconvenient that Spring Break usually happens during Lent. I am torn between being a good Christian and, well, enjoying myself! Spring Break is not like it was in junior high, where you listened to music and hung out with your friends. Instead of really thinking about what I should give up, or add, for Lent to make myself a better person, I’m thinking about what bathing suits I should pack! After all, it is my senior year, I gotta enjoy it! This is the one week during my last semester where I don’t have to worry about getting a job after graduation

So my Lenten promise is to have myself a great Spring Break, without going too over the top. I’m going to look back at my past spring breaks and try not to repeat the same mistakes. I’m going to take care of myself so that I look good in my bikini by working out and eating right, instead of crash dieting. I’m going have a bronze goddess glow and make sure my ex (who I’ve stalked and know for a fact will be spring breaking at the same place…with his new girl) wishes he never let me go. And just to make sure I give back during Lent too, I’ll bring back some amazing souvenirs! Woo hoo Spring Break 09!

Finals week drained me of a lot – my last pint of Cherry Garcia, my final cup of Folger’s, my sanity – plus the extra cash I had stashed in my wallet all semester. Cash that was supposed to help buy gifts for well, everybody, on my holiday gift list.

But it’s the holidays and sometimes magical things happen. So I’d like to extend a big THANK YOU! to the Holiday gods for sending this little gem my way: SwapStyle.com. It reminds me of my junior high days when my BFFs would bring over extra clothes for me to model and “borrow.” We all knew that “borrowing,” however, actually meant my friend would never see her A&F tee again. And she was cool with it, because she only brought it over because it made her look fat.

Yeah, so it’s just like that only on a much larger scale. Thanks to the information superhighway you can “borrow” clothes from women from all over the globe! That means you’re not limited to extra large, ratty Mickey Mouse T’s and super-flare Mudd Jeans from your somewhat-frumpy best friend’s wardrobe. Instead you can “borrow” Coach bags, Forever 21 dresses and MAC eyeshadows.

Plus, clothes-swapping is super environmentally friendly (you are reusing other people’s things instead of wasting new materials!) and the site is easy to use. Did I mention it’ s free to sign up?

Check it out here.

I have an inner Chub-Scout. Sometimes, on binge days, she gets embraced a little tighter than usual. I use the term to be funny about it, and it tends to get a laugh, but it’s the bane of my existence.

By looking at me, you probably would just be confused by this statement until you saw me on this “binge” or “cheat” day. I’m your average twenty-something: purposefully purchasing jeans that do not induce OSTS, and have even been called ‘thin’ by the rare observer. Which is nice. But in my head, dear reader, it’s sweet but simply not true.

Bottom line is: no matter how I look now, I was the fat kid.

I know what you’re thinking: if I appear to be an average-sized girl now, what difference does it make that I spent my childhood chubby? The weight didn’t stay with me, right?

Not even close.

A fat-kid complex isn’t something you can shed by counting calories and drinking your eight glasses of water a day. Not when you’ve been on a diet half your life, have dealt with the name-calling and — what can actually be worse — being flat-out ignored. You’re stuck with those memories of the gangly girls in your elementary school classes calling you “fat” with that look of disdain, like you’re a failure at life because you’re bigger. You’re ignored by the boys you have crushes on in junior high and high school, convinced that your fate is to go unwanted.

And so it’s been ingrained in your head. You don’t know why it has to be this way, but what you are is not good enough. Period. Read More »

First, sex was something to be afraid of.

It was big and complicated and hush hush. If I was watching a movie with my parents and the PG rating went just a little too far, my mom would start talking loudly – signaling that whatever was happening onscreen wasn’t for my eyes. My Catholic priest would stand on the pulpit every Sunday, telling me that God was always watching, and every time I did something (or thought something) not good, He would know. Sex was probably bad – why else would my mom get so nervous? – and so if I even thought about it by accident, I was gonna have God to deal with.

Then, sex was something to be in awe of.

Junior high whispers. High school high-fives. I would listen to friends and friends of friends talk about it like it was Vegas and Heaven combined. Those who had it were admired. Those who didn’t were ignored. I so desperately wanted to know what all the giggling was about.

After that, sex was something to be good at. Read More »