Outfit Post: You can't run away from yourself

I've always gotten my cardio workout as God intended: Through fast-paced walking from store to store; doing bicep curls with shopping bags; and during stair-climbing sessions of those daunting steps in the mall. But last summer, after "celebrating" my 36th (sniff) birthday I decided to take things up a notch. I joined a gym and started a running program.

Initially, I started running for the challenge of it. I'd never participated in team sports, or any sport for that matter. I hate getting all sweaty. I adamantly refuse to wear workout clothes in public. I could never, ever be one of those chipper energy-gel slugging women in matching Nike sports bras and Tempo running shorts (by the way, what the HELL is the mystique with those things? Yesterday at Starbucks I saw high school girls wearing them layered with leggings and Uggs. Layered. With Uggs.) But I digress. I longed to be toned, and strong, and knew running could bring about those results. Even better, running has an additional benefit - it reduces my anxiety and stress. When I run, I have lots of time to think. I can let my mind wander and all the stress of my world fades away.

But occasionally my thoughts turn negative. Sometimes I truly question the existence of that elusive "runner's high," the mythical release of happy jolly endorphins that supposedly warm your body like crack. When I start to feel fatigued, usually around mile 1.5, negative thoughts creep into my head. I realize I'm having some sort of identity crisis. I think, what the hell am I doing here? Do runners think this is fun? I must not be a runner! You know what's fun? Lounging on the couch, watching bad reality TV all night and gorging myself with a gigantic bowl of butter and salt-drenched popcorn. Or sitting at a bar slugging Maker's Mark and laughing with friends until my throat hurts. Now that's fun!

I keep running until I reach mile 2. Runners adore this, I think. They love to persevere and push themselves. Don't get me wrong; I love this feeling too. But sometimes I really feel like I'm going to die. Or suffocate. This is hard. I must not be a runner.

Mile 2.5. My mind continues to wander. I'm hungry. What's for lunch? Uh-oh. I must not be a runner. Runners eat energy bars and protein shakes. I like shakes too, but the chocolate ice cream kind. As a matter of fact, theoretically, I could be in my kitchen making a shake right now. Not that that has EVER happened before. The only drinks I like to mix are the alcoholic variety. But still. I am SO not a runner, I decide.

By the time I finish this little chat I've usually made it to the end of my run. Suddenly I remember why I got on the treadmill in the first place - to feel better about myself and work towards a goal I thought impossible to obtain.

On mornings like today, when I find it hard to even get out of bed in the first place, I am convinced I am not a runner. Runners pop out of bed, wide-eyed and bushy tailed, at 5:30 in the morning. Runners run 6-7 days a week. I run 4. I am not a runner. And today I am especially not a runner because it appears I have done something wicked to my lower back. Seriously, you guys. I'm hurting. Which is most definitely not fun at all.

I decided to throw on something soft and easy this morning. My back was begging for something unstructured and loose. Thankfully, my closet held the perfect pieces.

Forever 21 blazer; Forever 21 blouse; thrifted Paige jeans; Forever 21 oxfords; Forever 21 necklaces; Hype bag (I might be smiling in this pic, but believe me when I say that I'm hurting bad. Hence the bendy hunched-over pose.)

Childhood dreams, or why I dressed like an 80's power bitch

It’s difficult to remember my thought processes back from when I was a young girl. My loftiest dreams involved how many times I could swivel a hoola hoop around my hips, and little else held much importance. Times have changed, but it’s fun to recollect some of the simple things that I hoped for as a child.

1. A pantry stocked with sugary cereal.
2. A pony, preferably white.
3. A backyard.
4. A pink Powerwheels car.
5. A tree house.
6. A younger sister.
7. More Cabbage Patch and Barbie dolls.
8. Curly blonde hair.
9. A doll house.
10. Lisa Frank stickers.
11. Cable TV.
12. To have magical powers, i.e that I could fly and make myself invisible.
13. To grow up and move out of my parents house.
14. To live in California (I have no idea why.)
15. To be as stylish as my mom.

In my eyes, my mother's beauty was akin to Joan Collins and Debbie Harry. She was almost aggressively glamorous, and took trends seriously. She had trademark long burgundy nails, with lipstick to match, and wore eighties power suits with dangerous-looking shoulder pads, and straight high-waisted leather skirts. God, I remember those skirts - she owned them in red, cream, purple, and black, made from buttery soft leather, with a long back zipper and small kick pleat. Every morning, after getting dressed, I would perch on the edge of our bathroom sink and watch her carefully apply her make-up. I was fascinated just by the abundance of products - concealer, foundation, powder, liquid eyeliner, multiple eyeshadows blended to the brow, lipstick liner and lipstick applied with a tiny little brush. When she was done, she practically looked embalmed. But I suppose that was fashionable back in 1987.

I suppose I was channeling a bit of her in this outfit. My skirt and red lipstick are very 198o's woman :


Ann Taylor cardigan; Anthropologie ikiat sleeveless swing top; J Crew turtleneck, vintage thrifted leather skirt; Target tights; Justin boots; Hype bag, Forever 21 long rhinestone earrings.



What were your childhood dreams?

(And, can anyone tell me where I can get black opaque tights that are not shiny? I have tights from J Crew, The Gap and Target, and they all photograph with a shiny gleam. Help!)

New Year's Eve: Losers edition

Some people spend New Year's Eve listening to loud music in an overcrowded club, drinking cheap champagne and nibbling stale hors d'oervues well past when the clock strikes midnight. They break out their most festive party clothes and dance with abandon. Others participate in a smaller gathering at a restaurant or bar, where they eat a lavish meal and toast in the New Year with martinis. Then there are the kind of people who prefer to stay home and watch the Times Square ball drop from the comfort of their own couch. Often, a gigantic bowl of popcorn and six pack of Shiner's provides company.


I am the latter type of person. Just the thought of going out on New Year's Eve exhausts me. First of all, I hate large crowds. They make me feel suffocated and claustrophobic. I hate standing around feeling trapped to make uncomfortable small talk with some overly accessorized, pretentious creep. I hate driving on New Year's...my overly active imagination puts me squarely in the middle of an accident between myself and a drunk driver. But the thing I hate most about going out on New Year's is the pressure I feel to go out on New Year's. It's completely ridiculous. From commercials on television to sitcom story lines involving New Year's celebrations, the message communicated is that if you dare spend the night in front of the television in your jammies, there's something wrong with you. You are a loser who probably wears mom jeans and lives alone with 10 cats and finds Cathy comics hilarious. Truthfully, I really could care less about being a loser. And I'm perfectly happy on my couch.

However, yesterday I received a last-minute invite to a friend's house. Very casual, wear what you want, guaranteed to be absent of complicated finger foods and loud drunken people. It was perfect. AND it gave me an excuse to wear sequins, which we all know is a Very Good Thing.

Gap blazer; Loft sequin vest; J Crew button-down; Gap Outlet jeggings; Hype washed leather bag; Justin boots; Target pyramid studs.