I Just Realized, I’m Twenty-Five And My Life Is Over.

I think the best and worst moment of my life was when I realized I had turned into my parents.

Not the sixteen year old realization, though, that would be sad. Not that the twenty-five year old realization is that much more profound.

But there’s something about growing up; I mean, actually growing up that really just grows arms and slaps you in the face and lets you know that everything that happened before this moment was just a prelude to you being an internally old human being, destined to live in yoga pants, braless on your couch watching reruns of Friends thinking about all those “good days” without responsibility.

At sixteen, if I had realized I turned out to be my parents I would have done everything in my power to regain my youth and just mess shit up for the fun of it.  As a junior in high school, you never, under any circumstances, want to be your parents.

It’s like going to that party and realizing that the girl who was always “the mom” was there, and she was going to make sure you didn’t drink too much beer, fall asleep somewhere inappropriate, or raid too much of that host’s refrigerator, so when the actual parents came home, it just looked like the kid in charge got super hungry one night and binge ate all the deli meats.

The worst part about realizing that I’ve turned into my parents is the fact that I’ve followed the status quo – depending on what you believe in, of course – and have finally graduated from crazy, party, uncontrollable college girl into full blown quasi-housewife, happy and willing to anticipate the needs of my significant other far beyond my own.

And the stark contrast is that I’m borderline, if not over the fence okay about it.

It’s like I turned twenty-five and all the sudden my brain cells and neurons started triggering all this nonsense about me not being the most important person in the world, and that someone else’s needs matter far more than my own.  And holy shit, I haven’t even had a child yet so this post will change in about five years.

I digress.

The best part about turning into my parents is the fact that I am saving a boat load of money.  I mean, like, saving is totally the thing to do right now.  I am hoarding without intervention because no one seems to think I have a problem with the fact that money isn’t confetti and I don’t need to throw it around to prove that I have it.

And hormonally, at my age, some people know putting it in a bank is far more worthwhile than drinking four glasses of wine at some bar called “Taco” that doesn’t even serve mexican food.

Sidenote: Not that I don’t still drink wines at Taco and complain about the fact that they don’t serve Mexican food. I still do that. It’s god damn outrageous and the owners need to be quarantined and condemned to a lifetime of solely eating burritos.

The other great part is that I don’t think I’m hormonally imbalanced, although that is still up for debate, but there is something extremely and unfortunately true about the phases of life.

We all go through these stages, obviously at different paces considering the circumstances, but we all do.  Birth to teen being the nourishment, get what we need to survive stage.  Teen to young adult being the fake it ’til we make it stage. And then here, where I am, the holy shit I’ve made it, I’m an adult, paying my own way through life, figuring out who I am and what I’m going to do for the rest of it stage.

Whatever stage you’re in, you’re going to make it out alive. It might not be on your timeline, it might not be the way you want it, but you’ll make it.

Just look at your parents.  The entire time they were telling you what to do, where to be, what grades to get, and what goals to set, they knew that someday, down the line, whatever you were going through was a phase. Because they went through it too.

And when you take a step back and realize that, on a Friday night, you’d rather be home, pants off, braless on your couch watching reruns of Friends and remembering the “good old days,” then you’ll know that you’ve turned into your parents.

Life is funny that way.  Things always seem to come full circle.  The people you distrusted the most and hated being around now become the sole reason for your coming home.  At the end of the day, your parents are fucking awesome.

Because when they had you, they had to wait twenty-five years or more for that moment to come, and think of how goddamn grateful they are that you are just now realizing how much shit they had to put up with in order to get to this place.

And be thankful that you finally turned into your parents.


Have you turned into your parents? If not, are you scared?

Advertisements

I Got Promoted At Work Today And I Couldn’t Be More Excited About It

The most responsibility I have ever been given at my job unfortunately starts and stops in fifth grade when Mrs. Johnson let me be line leader from our classroom to the assembly hall.

Because in times of need, you call on the true leaders, the ones who can guide a pack of rambunctious fifth graders through a crowded hall and safely usher them to their respective seats in the auditorium. Or you just pick the girl who has been nagging you all year to lead the gaggle of sugar-high children and you know won’t stop until she gets what she wants.

I’ll let you decide which one I was. (Choose wisely).

Regardless, I took that responsibility with stride.  I knew that extra work didn’t necessarily mean extra rewards, but it was the personal understanding that I was doing something for the good of other people that made my experience worthwhile.

But today – as a twenty-five year old receptionist moonlighting (daylighting?) as a wannabe motivational lifestyle blogger, but in reality just being a receptionist with exceptional hair – today, I can say that I have been given the most responsibility that I’ve ever had in my life.

(And I’ve waited tables, so that’s saying a lot. People are assholes when it comes to dealing with food, remember that when you want to order a burger but don’t want meat, cheese, or a bun. Just make your food at home, butthead.)

Im proud to announce that I have henceforth claimed my role as the Jr. Fire Marshal at my job. Horray for me! Claps! Cheers! Lighting bolts!

I’m sure the biggest question on your minds right now is not only why you are reading this blog and not learning about dairy creamer, but what exactly does a Fire Marshal do?  And to answer your question, I honestly haven’t the slightest idea.

But, here’s what I do know about the job:

There will probably be fire. And other than grilling pizza, fire is generally a bad thing. This means I am supposed to protect and serve the people in my office. And for anyone who knows me in real life, I can’t even hold open a door for people without getting a sore arm let alone take lives into my own hands.

I’m going to be a marshal. I’m going to go out on a limb here and say that this might have something to do with the retailer, and maybe there are gift cards and free swag in my future. I mean a fire marshal needs to have a uniform, and Marshall’s seems like the best place to get that started.

There is a large chance that I will get to use aggressive hand signals in the event of a crisis.  And BOY am I excited. When I was fifteen freeloading off my parents every summer instead of working, my mom tried to get my friend Katie and I to work as runway directors at the local airport. She saw something in my enchanting hand gestures,and only now did I truly recognize my talents myself.

Sidenote: I didn’t end up directly plane traffic because there’s no way anyone would have landed alive. I’d just be waving reflector flags left and right for the sole purpose of making that “SWISH” noise when the fabric hits itself. 

I’m about 30% certain I am qualified for this job.  I hate small spaces, despise taking the stairs, and generally don’t like being outdoors when it’s below 40 degrees.  I’m not sure I’m up for this type of responsibility, but there’s only one way to find out.

Now excuse me, I need to go light a fire.

(Just kidding?)

fire033 - fire marshal for this department is


What’s the most responsibility you’ve ever had?

 
Follow Me On Bloglovin

Is There Anything Worse Than A Bruised Banana?

20140611-051241-18761863.jpg

EW.

I say this with the utmost sensitivity, but also not being sensitive at all because I’m at the airport, sans coffee, and all I had to look forward to after the debacle that is TSA security was the banana I liberated from my office yesterday afternoon.

To my dismay, after removing said freed work banana out of my trusty satchel, I found that it looks mildly discolored.

Normally, this is fine. I’ll take a brown spotted over a hard green any day of the week and twice on Sunday, but this particular banana was full of lies and deceit.

After the initial peel, which usually fills me with glee and anticipation of eating a potassium induced fruit that, after consumption, alleviates me of an annoying pulsating cramp in my left shoulder from sleeping weird, I noticed that the one or two spots on the outside revealed a more disturbing inside.

This banana was dead.

And there was no saving it.

It was like I opened a yellow protective peel expecting to see a freestanding fruit, yet I was greeted with a pile of brown mush that was only held together by a damaged outer shell.

The banana that held my hand through security, the banana that helped me save one whole dollar at Dunkin Donuts, the banana I worked tirelessly to liberate from the kitchen cages of corporate greed, my friends, that banana was inedible.

If you know anything about airports, you know that getting through security unscathed and with your entrails intact is a feat most people don’t overcome.

But I thought luck was on my side When the TSA woman at the initial check point let me know that I basically don’t look like a terrorist.

Round One: Meg – 1, Airport – 0.

I was selected to pass through security in the fast lane. No shoe removal, no invasive body scans, no suitcase search, just an innocent face and a plane to catch.

And the thought in the back of my mind that I would be enjoying the
deliciously ripe banana that accompanied me through airport security.

After pretty much getting upgraded to the first class security line, and fast tracking it through metal detectors like it ain’t no thang, I was shocked that after the good fortunes I was again rewarded with a wonderful window seat to watch planes departing whilst eating my potassium.

Round Two: Meg – 2, Airport – 0.

Only then did I realize that my morning would take a turn for the worst.

I could not enjoy my banana.

I couldn’t even look it in the eye and tell it why I was throwing it out.  It just needed to go.

I am hungry. I am tired. And I am still twitching in my left shoulder because I slept weird.

Fuck you, banana. Get a hard shell. Adapt, evolve, do something and stop ruining my life.

Airport/Banana – 1, Meg – 0.

It Has Come To My Attention That I Am Deformed.

doctor-holding-prescription

Thanks, Dr. Obvious.

I didn’t know if I should speak out on my personal struggle with this particular malformation, but after reading this post on a similar subject, I felt it was my civic duty to enlighten the interwebs and at the same time, acknowledge my condition, so in case I become rich and famous, TMZ and E! News will not be able to use it against me.

It is also high time I take my responsibility as a newfound adult seriously and admit that I am not perfect.

In fact, I am deformed.

A month or so ago, my boyfriend was visiting, and it since was under sixty degrees outside we were able to hold hands whilst traversing around the city.

Sidenote: This may or may not be another unknown medical condition I need to research, because if the weather is above sixty-eight degrees, my hands sweat uncontrollably and I can’t lock fingers with anyone or anything.  I used to nanny and when I would walk anywhere with the kids, I had to assist them through the crosswalks by grabbing the collars of their t-shirts like dogs in order to avoid an unwanted sweaty palm debacle. 

But anyways, I’ll look into that another time, back to the part where the air was the perfect amount of crisp so I could link phalanges without fear of being dumped due to aggressive hand perspiration.

He picks up my hand, examines it, and then says something that smacks me in the face (metaphorically) with a big, fat dose of deformed reality.

“You have toe fingers.”

It was at that moment I realized I did not have hands fit for a ring model, rather my mitts looked like I should be wearing socks instead of gloves.  I was horrified.

Exhibit A.

Exhibit A.

After he pointed out my enlarged nail beds and all encompassing fake fingers, I refused to give high fives. I didn’t want to shake any more hands.  It was embarrassing.  I was messed up.

Moments, maybe hours went by feeling singled out, but a side-by-side comparison of my thumb and my big toe revealed that his accusations were not in vain, they were actually true.

Thumb or Big Toe?

Twins?

Then I realized how inexplicably good I was at handstands when I was a kid and it was probably a direct result of the Meg Lago toe finger epidemic.

I also conveniently remembered how committed I was to the Toe Sock trend in the early 2000’s, which makes sense now since they are essentially gloves for your feet.  I was a foot game pioneer at an early age, and no one sought to hire me for various endorsements.

Honestly, toe socks would probably still be cool if Nike or Adidas had called me when I was thirteen for a sponsorship.  Let that just sink in for a second.

I just want the world to know that Toe Fingers exist, and if you have them, announce yourself to the world like me.  We can start a support group, talk about all the things we wish we could do if we were only born normal.

We can wear gloves on our feet and socks on our hands, parading about like we own the world slapping soccer balls into goals and making foot fives the new craze on the streets.

Somebody get me some toe gloves and hand socks, PRONTO.

Somebody get some toe gloves and hand socks, PRONTO.

I guess diversity is what makes the world turn.  We all have differences, and mine just happen to be the sheer fact that I have feet hands and I’m not afraid to show it.

Dear Girls Of Tomorrow,

I’ve been there before.  I’ve made those mistakes. Take my advice: here’s how not to dress.

We live in a digital age.  It’s no secret that most things we do eventually end up on the internet.  This is awesome for events like New Years Eve, birthday parties, and charity events or functions.

Then there are the events involving a face plant in the street running to catch the late bus that your friend HAD to document.

To put it bluntly, not everyone is photogenic.  But that doesn’t give you an excuse to throw common sense out the window with the baby and the bathwater.

What I’m saying is, there’s going to be pictures of you girls circulating the internet for the rest of your lives.  You need to take preventative measures to ensure that when you do land your dream job interview, a picture of you in seventh grade wearing a Ronald Regan mask and your grandmother’s bathrobe doesn’t surface during the process.

So you should not do any of these things before or during taking a picture that will represent you for the rest of your life at that age, and your friends and family will also see it and that is how they will remember you forever.

2nd Grade

2nd Grade

A general rule of thumb is to not wear your grandmother’s tablecloth when taking a photo.

A nice pink embroidered doily collar may seem cutesy and innocent, but in reality it will only make your co-workers and peers question whether or not your mother took outfits off your life-sized Raggedy Ann doll and dressed you in them in an effort to save money.

Also a good thing to remember is to not do dangerous activities before a known photo-op.  Going on a two-wheel bike adventure when you aren’t the most confident rider isn’t the type of activity you want to roll into when your third grade yearbook photo is right around the corner.

3rd Grade

3rd Grade

If you’re just too adventurous and crazy to avoid indulging in extreme sports, you’ll inevitably be the girl wearing long underwear because you can’t fit regular sleeves over your cast.

REMEMBER: THERE ARE ALWAYS RETAKES. ALWAYS.

Borrowing argyle sweater vests from your youngest brother is not only frowned upon, but in some countries it’s illegal.  I don’t care how flawless your hair looks that day, or if you were an ombre pioneer before ombre was a ‘thing,’ you do not need clothes that badly that you resort to rummaging through your brother’s drawers to find an outfit.

4th Grade

4th Grade

(But I mean look at that blonde to light blonde fade, it’s totally magnificent, right?)

Make sure your shirts fit you.

A good way to determine if a shirt fits is by making sure it is not two sizes bigger than every other shirt you own. Or that is not your mom’s.

5th Grade

5th Grade

Don’t wear choker necklaces, even if that dangly bead in the middle is the most jaw-dropping plastic gemstone you own, and it makes Rose’s sapphire necklace from Titanic pale in comparison.

Seriously, don’t get bangs in puberty.

I don’t care if they look great on Sabrina, the cool girl, you will ultimately end up gluing them to your scalp with a can of Rave hairspray every morning and consequently looking more like a guido-gremlin hybrid than a fifth grade girl.

Oh yeah… and braces. There are no rules about braces except that it’s required to change the rubber band colors to coordinate with the holidays.

Don’t set the tone for your middle school reputation by wearing a floral v-neck from Limited Too.

6th Grade

6th Grade

Also, practice your smile extensively before taking any pictures.

Photographs aren’t forgiving – neither are parents when it comes to allowing you to hang out with their children.

Creepy smiles will not get you very far.  It definitely won’t get you a babysitting job.

Puberty is the worst time in your life.  Try and make the best of it.

7th Grade

7th Grade

Wearing half-turtle neck argyle sweaters is not a way to make the best of it.  At the very least, if you’re going to do it, commit to a full neck or at least a scarf.

It’s imperative that you never, ever let your mother attempt to tame your pubescent mane by straightening it with a curling iron.  You will end up with tresses shaped like a voluminous frizz triangle and have people asking if someone rubbed a balloon on the back of your head to create static electricity.

Wearing your hair in a half-up, half-down fashion is completely acceptable, if done correctly.

8th Grade

8th Grade

Wearing half of your hair in a bun from gym class and the other half down as the remnants of last night’s botched straightening job is a big, big no no no nononononoNO.

Plus, wearing a collared shirt with a lace-up neckline is one step shy of actually going cookoo for Coco Puffs.

And again, with the smile. Please, for the love of God, practice your smile.

Avoid shopping at Aeropostale, Wet Seal, or Rave.

9th Grade

9th Grade

Don’t take two tiny tresses located at the widow’s peak section of your hairline and wear them in a bang-like, accessory fashion, not pulling them into your ponytail or headband.

You will regret this.  Mostly because you will slightly resemble a dinosaur.

Last, but definitely not least, if your friends ever tell you it’s okay to take sweatshirts from lost and found and parade around claiming them as your own, please ignore them and immediately question their intelligence.

By not doing these things, and following my instructions, strangers will not have to wonder – even just a little bit – if you grew to develop an odd affinity for fedoras or played the tambourine in a traveling band.

Ultimately, fashion consciousness is not always second nature with every girl, clearly it wasn’t my strong point.  At the end of the day, if you don’t do or wear what makes you happy, you’re missing out on a lot of what life has to offer.  Do what you love, and wear what you want.

Unless it’s a lace up, argyle, v-neck polo.  Please, please, please avoid those.

UP NEXT: How to NOT apply make-up.

Love,

Meg (President of the Late Bloomers)

Teach Me How To Do… Anything.

Some people just have it all.  They’re gifted with athleticism, gorgeous flowing hair, the ability to eat a thousand bags of cool ranch Doritos and not gain a pound.  The “have it alls” are naturally beautiful, conversationally gifted, and can generally stop drinking after one glass of wine.

Then there is me.

On a good day, which is usually a Thursday, I snooze three times before getting out of bed, realize I don’t want to there is not enough time to shower, and opt for a headband to conceal the collection of greasy follicles on my head.

Make up is a struggle.  Picking an outfit is a war.

Despite the fact that I’ve made several resolutions to be more polished and put together, I can’t seem to get my body on board by taking sleep off the top of my priority list.

Basically, I’m a hot mess and I can’t do anything correctly due to the fact that sleep dominates my life and I was given the short end of the stick in the talent department.

Given the opportunity, or a new body that miraculously is good at stuff, I would like to know how to do the following:

Cooking:

It’s no secret that I am the worst chef on the planet.  You ask me to make you toast, I’ll give you a plate full of bready ashes and a glob of jelly on the side.  I just don’t know how to do it.  My idea of a fully cooked dinner is a bag full of microwaved steamed broccoli and a side of 90-second rice.  I like microwaves because you don’t touch anything, and at the end of three minutes, your meal is hot and you didn’t ruin anyone’s day.

Construction:

If I have to look at another piece of IKEA furniture and try to assemble it based on picture directions, heads will roll. There are always four extra pegs and a structure that, to me, looks sound, but once I place an item of more than a pound on it, the whole thing will come crashing terribly to the floor.  I can’t build anything.  Except bears, I can totally build a bear.

Anything involving cars:

I bring in my car for a routine checkup and the mechanic tells me I have a four-foot-long boa constrictor in my engine and a nest of African rats in my trunk.  Seems reasonable, so yes, I’d love to pay $800 for you to alleviate that problem, Mr. Mechanic.  It would be nice to know that it isn’t possible for my gas tank to be under the hood of my car, or the general location of my spare tire.

Navigation:

If I text you and tell you I’m five minutes away, multiply it by four because I will be lost in thirty seconds.  I cannot, for the life of me, navigate to and from a location in one successful attempt.  Sure, you may think to yourself, “Why doesn’t this chick just buy a GPS?” And to you I say, thank you, but even GPS are not immune to my idiocy, and I have no idea how far three-hundred feet is, so now seems like a good time to make a right.

224686_2232136958046_140348875_n

Yeah.. um, let’s just take a left.

Sixteen Things I Wish I Knew When I Was Sixteen

110_1005991425174_1486_nI’m going to let you in on a few secrets.  It might make your life a little easier.

But I also know you don’t listen, so this will probably fall on deaf ears.

Right now, you’re in a bubble.  You are comfortable. You’ve been in the same place for your entire life.  But there are things you need to know.  It’s important to understand that when you grow up, your perspectives on things change.

You’re going to be mature as hell.

So stop spending so much time worrying about what other people think of you.  High school is only temporary, and you’re only going to keep in touch with about seven people after you graduate.  These four years of your life are nothing compared to the time you’re going to spend after college with new friends who are with you through the actual hard stuff.

You should still take care of your appearance.  No one looks put together when they come to school wearing their brother’s sweatpants.  Waking up ten minutes before you have to leave is only acceptable if you’re an infant and can’t set an alarm clock.

Put on some jeans and some mascara and look like you actually care about being alive. Dead people kind of tend to emit this “don’t come near me” radar, and it’s pretty powerful.

Don’t drive like an idiot.  But also don’t drive like a senior citizen.  Find a balance somewhere between a glacial pace and road rage and get comfortable.  Always use your turn signals, and never call it a traffic circle.  It’s a rotary.

Eat whatever you want.  Just stop when you’re full.  Moderation is the only way to keep yourself sane.

People go apeshit when they stop eating chocolate.  And no, eating six mini-Kit Kats does not equal eating one regular sized Kit Kat.  Candy math is not a valid reason for overindulgence.

Please stop complaining about how hard your life is.  It’s difficult to take you seriously when you drive a Jeep Wrangler and have an inground swimming pool.  Get a job.

Slap yourself in the face whenever you use the term ‘literally’ and you’re not talking about something that is actually going on in that precise moment.  Do not say you are literally going insane, unless you want to be committed to a mental institution.  This will save you from looking stupid.

Stop saying ‘like’.  It’s really annoying and it makes you sound like Cher from Clueless, except, Paul Rudd will not like you.

Organized dances are overrated.  Spend less money on your prom dress and more money on making sure your hair doesn’t look like an afro.  Highlights are encouraged; a straightener is required.

Start to take more emotional risks.  Closing yourself off will only leave you feeling left out when everyone else has found someone to share their lives with. Figure out what you want and go for it.  Not everything is handed to you.

Rejection only hurts a little.  And wine is the cure for all sorts of emotional bruises.

Save your money.  You will eventually want to move out.  You will not want to bring your poster of The Jonas Brothers to your first apartment.  Buy some art.  And maybe a comforter that doesn’t scream, “I threw up pink.”

Stop being rude to your mother.  Understand that she’s been where you are and is just trying to help.  She also is completely justified to ground you when you sneak out, drink underage, come home late, or don’t call.  Avoid all this by communicating with her.  It will be so much easier.

Your father is pretty cool.  Sit down and talk to him; he will make you laugh.  A lot of your weird tendencies and comedic attributes come from him anyways. You don’t spend enough time with him, and you will regret that.

You might dislike your brothers.  Sorry to say it, but you will still get pissed off at them later in life.  They are boys. They do not think.  Stop holding grudges and get over it.  You’re stuck with them forever, may as well make the best of it.  (Sidenote: you will end up being good friends, just wait it out.)

Don’t take life too seriously.  You’re not here for very long.

For what it’s worth, you turned out okay.  You grew up, you moved out, and made your life interesting.

In A Nutshell, This Is Why I Am Single.

377838_2231746724329_619540547_nIt’s hard to believe really.  I’m walking around this world without a hand to hold.

(Sorry, Mom. I’m too old for your sweaty palms!)

Maybe I’m not “the total package,” maybe I can get too comfortable around boys and forget to get “out of the friendzone.”

Really though, I’m sorry I burped in front of you. I thought it was okay.  My brothers don’t mind, but I guess that’s because they’re forced to have me in their immediate circle for the rest of my life. Where as you, unknown boyfriend of the future, you do not.

I mean like who wouldn’t want to date someone that does the following:

Disclaimer: Some of these have been embellished for entertainment. Either that or I’m just trying to have you not think I’m a total wack job.  But I guess that has been thrown out the window by now. 

  • Unbuckle my belt before I get into a stall in the bathroom
  • Constantly listen to female power ballads by Celine Dion in my car
  • Burp in front of the opposite sex and still expect them to think of me like a dainty, polished lady
  • Avoid showering for a couple days
  • Forget to shower for a couple days
  • Forget to shower for a week (I haven’t done this… in a long time)
  • Actively avoid eating vegetables
  • Lock myself out of my car and/or apartment
  • Drunk dial people on a Tuesday night
  • Barely shave my legs in the winter
  • Internally accept that “winter weight” is an epidemic and can’t do anything about it
  • Use the poop emoji more often than necessary
  • Talk about sexcapades in front of people I have a crush on and expect them to think I’m a pure, polished, non-hussy
  • Wake up on Saturday morning with ketchup stains on my elbow from the bar the night before
  • Argue with other humans that wine is just adult grapes, so I’m getting my fruit intake for the week
  • Irrationally hate other women for having good hair and a nice figure
  • Can’t civilly discuss politics or religion without going on a tangent about either (I know nothing about either, either.)
  • Attempt to talk to boys at the bar and the first thing out of my mouth is how rarely I do laundry
  • Utilize the same vocabulary as a filthy sailor man
  • Have daddy issues
  • Get too drunk and cry about all the feelings I internalize during the workweek
  • Think that twinkies and club soda is an acceptable dinner for a working professional female
  • Live in a closet
  • Sleep in a twin bed… with one set of sheets
  • Talk about my electronic devices as if they are humans
  • Throw a tizzy fit if I miss happy hour by 10 minutes

So boys, LINE UP!

The Common White Girl’s Thoughts On Smiling

Honestly, I don’t really get why people don’t smile more often.

Life isn’t that hard.  I put on my designer jeans one leg at a time just like everyone else. I embellish my elegantly tailored satin shirt with a cute, overpriced bubble necklace from J Crew.  It compliments the color pallet perfectly.

I look great.

Granted, I won’t be smiling until I’ve had my Starbucks triple shot espresso macchiato with half skim, half regular milk straight from the cow’s udders, but the world could probably perk up a bit before 9am, for my sake at least.

If I’m having a bad day, which is pretty much any day that’s not on the weekend, I like to do therapy.  Retail therapy.  There is nothing that turns my frown upside down quicker than swiping my father’s credit card and getting a bag full of new outfits I don’t need at all.  Because when you look good, you feel good.

I’ve learned that you have to smile through the hard things in order to get through life.  One time my aunt gave me a Dolce and Gabbana bag that was clearly fake, clearly ugly, and clearly not my style.  But I smiled through the pain of not having real leather to hold my car keys and used the extra cash my parents gave me because it was a Wednesday to go out and buy the new iPhone.

Crisis averted, smile affixed.

When walking down the street in my new Michael Kors bedazzled flats and freshly painted nails, it’s hard to be sad about life.  I’ve had my fair share of struggles but I’ve come out the other end of the tunnel victorious.  I don’t understand why others don’t adopt my “can-do” attitude.

I actually had to interview for my job.  At my father’s company.  Working for my father.  We went to breakfast and he asked me really tough questions about organizational tactics and people skills, to which I replied, “Have you seen my closet?  I color code and arrange my clothing by season, organization is totally my thing!”

Really, I’m a simple girl.  I am happiest when I’m driving in my Range Rover SUV, sunroof open, windows down, and sunglasses on my face.  Normally, I don’t have anywhere to go, I just like driving. I never take public transportation, people always look miserable on the subway, and frankly, it brings down my mood.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to take my lunch break and get a massage.  I deserve it.