In response to the below attached article written by, ironically, the most uneducated person in the history of underdeveloped man kind:

*caution: tears will be shed and blood pressure will rise

Read and weep (not in an epic, poker sweep, way, either)…

Despite the sneaky prologue which would only get beyond the sheltered young men the article boasts to be worthy of English 101, unlike the girls this article claims should not be able to place out of (don’t even care that this is killing my ethos, I’m angry), this article and organization, which you so shamelessly and proudly take credit for, is asinine.

In response to reasons 1&2 for not sending daughter to college: she should be trusted, not that she owes it to you, to not attract the “wrong type of men,” aka 18 yr old boys. Also, her interactions with men are not up to your interpretation of what is appropriate or not.

And the continuation of my response, despite the likelihood of it reaching the pea sized brain beyond your thick skull…

3: your unfortunately existing kind generally argues that women innately know how to be mothers, and that is why their responsibility to children is so much greater, so why do we need to so vehemently practice? Being at your child’s whim, I imagine, leads to a lack of autonomy, which, if you even let them leave the house, will be disastrous. Furthermore, if you don’t set the example that education is highly valued for humanity, gender aside, it will eventually become irrelevant, not only to your daughter but also your apparently predisposed-virtuous son. I love children. I want a few. I AGREE that abortion is horrifying, but I DISAGREE that I can remotely understand anyone else’s situation to tell them what to do, because I have at trust in humanity to ultimately do what is right, that you apparently cannot conjure.

4: but your son is worth the debt?

5: I doubt she wants to prove anything to the world, other than maybe to prove you’re an idiot. Maybe she can be more empathetic than me due to what I see as the few virtues of your text—the example of a kind man that did chill with the lepers and “sinners”. I’m going to go to guess you’re afraid she’ll get her hands on well-respected philosophical texts, both theological and secular, which will make her maybe hate you until her uncertain death. Just a guess, though.

6: For reals? Maybe if wifey went to college, to at least get a latte and get the hell away from you, she wouldn’t be insecure enough to let her anxiety lead her through some rollercoaster ride of tax deductions then leading her to a dingy clinic on the “bad side of town” under the name Sally Fields to get some pills-of-death—her breasts will swell, you’ll find her stash, and I will then hear about how you murdered her with no remorse for her sins on the news at 8 (I get home late from work so I can’t see it at 3—extra help will only lead her down a darker hole). I will then watch your trial on television, and likely grind my teeth at night down to nothing, and take other pills to turn me into a robot because I’ve lost faith in the rest of human kind. Maybe if you paid attention in college you wouldn’t have the time to fabricate such a theory while she’s too busy to fall in to the “occasion of sin” of thinking for herself, and then hire a PI to follow her to the grocery store. Oh wait, you go on the weekends in your turtle necks, because someone may look at her ankles in that wool moo-moo. In your defense, I get really cold in the produce section after the gym in my yoga pants (this is just too easy—sorry Grandma). Maybe, just maybe, I could be looking at kittens in rain coat pictures rather than angrily punishing my keyboard to fruitlessly communicate how much you wasted your undeserved education.

7: your undeserved education also underserved you mathematically–by definition this last and equally as asinine reason would not exist. Nonetheless, I will go on to prove how much smarter a buffoon is than you. Ooh, evolution, you scared now? I am, because you’re proof it’s in a regressive state. But, I digress. So, quick Q—isn’t telepathy against some passage in the bible you of course misinterpreted? Unless you surveyed the likely too many girls suffering by this product of psychosis, other than the one you quoted and then modified to your liking, you have absolutely no idea that this is remotely true. Where were you in stats class?
My summation, or closing remarks:

Your gut reaction is to discredit my angry reply due to yes, some statements bore out of passion rather than logic. Luckily, I have basic philosophy on my side, rendered by great philosophers older than your beloved profit/prophet, another philosopher I hold in high esteem, myself, as much as he’s sadly been misused. The power of a strong argument is in the well rounded use of ethos, pathos, and logos. My ethos, or credibility, which some of you poor creatures may or may not know of due to not getting the chance to expand your minds (remember to clear your search history 😉 and Wiki is a good source for preliminary knowledge—try to crack a database[later information to come]), is not only being an educated woman, and educator to well deserving humans, male and female, but a logical human being. Which leads me, yes, to logos. Simple logic implies how illogical and barbaric this is. If you distrust Darwinian theory (again, I just assume based on logic associated with such idiocy), why are you acting like an underdeveloped Animalia idiotica? And pathos—pure, ticked off, human reaction to literally the dumbest thing I’ve read in a long time. You, the writer, and you the reader remotely agreeing, I will cry, and then laugh crazily for you.

I could go on, but then I just really can’t. I have the immediate urge to read Nietzsche, or even St. Augustine: “It was pride that changed angels into devils; it is humility that makes men as angels.” And women—let us not forget the lepers of our time. Ooh, I can get manipulative, too. What sick creatures we’ve become. I want to run up a mountain full speed and scream in my lowest register, beat my chest in solidarity for your kind and then cry like Ophelia, laugh like Margery, and then scheme like lady Macbeth, in no specific order (what’s the probability I will Margery, to Ophelia, to Lady Mac?). I am, through and through, an adolescent Katherine. As much as I grapple with her eventual “submission” to Petruchio, I can put aside my moderate feminist sensibility and accept that he is a satirized character, much more laughed at by the educated members of the audience than nodded upon by the buffoon-y-tunes, than the empathetic Kat. But again, I digress, another long-forgotten philosopher has filled my head with a well-rounded liberal arts education I am so unworthy of.

The only virtue of your beliefs is there is a fiery pit in which you can dwell for eternity, if Jesus or whoever is deciding your eternal fate, can put aside empathy and practice their well-deserve Aristotelian Appeals.

Stay human,
Molly Bru

21st century educator, woman, human, B.A., B.B.C, lover, laugher, daughter, sister


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Paradise Between the Pages

I am a lover of stories. Even when I was a little girl, digging through the shelves during “library” at school, I had an eye for aesthetic. I was looking for a very specific combination in the books I’d elect to check out. First, there needed to be a substantial story, as I’d consumed books rather feverishly and needed a steady supply until our next class visit. Once I scanned each page for a sufficient amount of words, I studied the art within the books rather critically. The right art could absolutely captivate me. What I was looking for was difference. What do I mean by that? I did not want to see myself, or my friends, or my home. I wanted to go somewhere, to see new faces, and have new experiences. I vividly remember a book in which an African American girl moved about her apartment–from  the small rooms she shared with her family, grandparents included–to the rooftop of the same building where the moral of the tale was brought together, underneath the hazy night sky. I can still picture the brush strokes of the artwork of that book, and how beautiful the stars looked.

From my spot on the couch I could feel the wind in my hair riding horses on an Indian reservation out West, and warm up by the fire inside an igloo somewhere on the edge of the world.

My love for reading and learning about other cultures evolved as I grew older. By high school, I typically put aside my assigned “American classics” for the works of the great Julia Alvarez, crying with the Mirabal sisters through their experiences with the Trujillo dictatorship in 20th century Dominican Republic, and laughing with the Garcia girls as they navigated life in their new home, New York City. For me, the magnum opus came, however, when I read Reading Lolita in Tehran by Azar Nafisi. Best selling and translated into 32 languages, the author recounts her experiences during the Iranian Revolution and the book club members she met with weekly. The club reads and discusses forbidden Western texts, with the book artfully being divided into sections “Lolita,” “Gatsby,” “James” and”Austen.” This was right around the time I should have been reading Gatsby.

I found myself in these women. While they eagerly poured over the pages of Fitzgerald and discussed what they imagined life to be like in America, I read texts that took me far from these 50 states, to learn about the people that inhabited the same planet I did but yet seemed worlds and worlds away. I felt a deep yearning to know them all.

It comes down to human connection, and wanting to understand and love one another. As my own president makes grotesque generalizations about entire nations, and continents of people, I cannot help but look back on the beautiful places I have been, exotic foods I have tasted, and soft hands I have held, from the comfort of a bed or chair. As Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie so eloquently concludes in her prolific talk “The Dangers of a Single Story,” “when we realize that there is never a single story about any place, we regain a kind of paradise.”

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Love is.

Love is this.

3am and I’m sitting on the couch watching episode 18, season 2 of The Blacklist. I was last on season 1, maybe the finale? Yeah, my socks didn’t match today.

It’s him. That guy. The one that ‘put a ring on it’ to my extreme suprise the first week of my dream job. Huh? What? How? He left me in the dust! On his opposite, low-on-the-totem pole night shift schedule he sits up all night screaming at strangers on Madden live and binges on Netflix.

Jerkface?  Dream man. I don’t care! I sit here thinking how? How am I able to love. like. this?! HOW?

Lately I’ve been thinking how awesome a handful of the young ladies in my class are.  They’re funny,  hard working,  and so, so kind. I was a nightmare.  Exactly what I pray these girls don’t suffer. Don’t take years to mend.

He is love. He knows this,  accepts this,  mourns this.  I came to him broken and stay with him whole. We just spent an hour Google Maping how far our dream house is from every state forest, brewery, and coffee shop. And goats. How many goats take to “mow” 7 acres? Is it gross to make your own goat cheese? Am I insane?

I also ate french fries for dinner, with malt vinegar.  And banana ice cream. I never knew what malt vinegar was and I still don’t know how I actually feel about bananas.

Love is. Love, pure and true, is just being, saying, adapting each other’s weird food habits, and spontaneously crying when thinking how much I have to grade, how much I can’t imagine having any other career, and how lucky I am to have this man, this mutt, this family,  these friends, this love.  This is what it is.

Love is.

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The Truth of the Matter

I’m back, baby. I’m currently writing at 4 am on what is technically day two of my April vacation. I’m about three months in to my very first job as a 7th grade ELA teacher. The exhaustion has set in as I sink in to my couch and lay in to a tall brewski [BBC coffeehouse porter, you are a thing of beauty] and reflect on what has been nothing short of a roller coaster ride. I’ve cried, I’ve laughed, and many things in between—nonetheless my heart sings as I feel very fortunate to be surrounded by inspiring children and dedicated, innovative, brilliant people.

Many of my laughing and crying sessions have been in front of a mirror. Sometimes these episodes were predetermined, other times due to the seizure like wiggle required to secure my pants around my waist. Here she goes again, you’re thinking, but I swear, there’s an epiphany. I’ve stood by my vow. My very first post on this part-time blog/psychobabble was my declaration of freedom from the torments of the socially constructed and delusional standards set by society for my hip-to-waist ration as a creature of the female variation.

First off, my job rocks, because there are bagels. I’m sorry, but if you say you don’t like bagels, you’re a bold faced liar. Crunchy on the outside, soft and loving on the inside, spread with full fat cream cheese and yes, a sprinkle of salt…then washed down by a fresh coffee made bright and early by our saint-like janitor who also fixes the chairs children love to torment—this is what makes the sun shine. So for the first two months, on about five hours of sleep due to over planning, brooding and my love-hate relationship with grading, I somewhat mindlessly indulged in this delicacy.

I now find myself reaping the delight of being a New Englander. My relationship with snow, which many find sick, has finally expired and we’ve agreed upon irreconcilable differences. I’m ready for that big hard sun—for frisbee, Polish horseshoes (it’s past the point of political correction), and the long awaited purchase of a new bike. Not only do I want to rock my inevitable sporty-spice farmers tan, but I also want to ride this bike for more than 20 minutes without feeling like I need to lay down and die.

Okay, I skimped over wanting to look adorbs. I mean, who doesn’t? Women are darling, amazing, brilliant creatures on the inside and out, and we should be proud of our multi-faceted virtues. I will be a part of what I know will be a beautiful wedding this June as my best friend of 12 years is in preparation to walk down the aisle. Herself, along with the other bridesmaids, are some of these said multi-faceted beauties—I want to be part of this club!

I’m not going to beat myself up over not fulfilling some of my fitness goals this year, because in honesty, I have sustained what I declared to be most important of those goals: my overall health. I run around my classroom like an idiot trying to inspire or at least make laugh my sometimes stubbornly stoic students; I make sweet potato fries like a boss on the regs (with real sweet potatoes! Oh, and sea salt…can’t kick it!); I laugh a lot and cry a lot which studies say (yes, I do believe much of Women’s Health—judge meeee) are both dang good for the body and soul.

Again, I want this for you. Generally, posts of this nature are to the ladies, but if you happen to be a dude that made it this far, you too. I harp on the gals as the details of this story are the crappier end of the stick bestowed upon us—fight the power! Because it be weak, and another delusion. You’re an amazing being; an amazing animal (I swear I won’t go Darwin fan girl on you). If there is some higher power that created us, well bravo, because you my friend rule (I also won’t go theologian on you, yet…) You’re going to look purty in your maxi dress this summer because your smile will beam from you. I know this is all mushy and stuff, I’m not trying to go Janice Ian on you (even though falsely accused of what was no one else’s business), but seriously, I hope you know this.

I just wanted to get this out of my mind. I know how many women, and also sadly, young girls, unfortunately beat themselves up as the spring and summer approach. I’ve seen a lot of “no excuses,” fitness-junkie propaganda lately that I just simply don’t agree with.As I wait in line in CVS, every annoying celebrity drag-rag boasts the stars secrets to making your collar-bone pop and the best stance for not looking “gross” in the ever dreaded mike’s hard/bikini in front of the Atlantic pic. I mean, what the heck! Stuff happens—we transition in life, constantly as it’s our nature, and therefore some things fall in and out of balance. If we can just maintain the understanding that it is okay, and we’ll find our way back to what most importantly our minds and spirits, and yes bodies too need, we’re going to keep on being awesome.

Due to the craziness of all our lives, if I don’t see you, or maybe don’t know you, enjoy the reverie of spring and the bloom of summer. Take time for yourself and those you love, because you all deserve it.


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Thank the Lorde

I have been in pursuit of the right song for as long as I can remember. What do I mean by the right song? The song that can serve as my anthem for whatever mood I find myself in, which as a self-proclaimed tortured artist can change many times within a 24-hour period. As Americans, and human beings in general, of course “Don’t Stop Believin” by Journey is a go-to mood-mediator, but there’s also that natural inclination for the “right song” to also be “your song.” It could be your “get-pumped-up-its-Friday-night-and-I’m-not-wearing-yoga-pants-tonight” song, or it could be your “its-Sunday-why-didn’t-I-do-a-load-of-yoga-pants-and-towels” song. More seriously it could be your “damn-he’s-the-one” or “oh-hell-no-he-is-definitely-not-the-one” song. Whatever song you need to be yours, many of us work hard to find “our” song.

My interest in music goes back to my dad, also known as Pete the Tweet, and “Fast Women and Fast Machines.” Can’t figure out who that’s by? That’s because it’s an original score by my dear old dad that hasn’t hit the public air waves quite yet, though I’m pretty sure he’s convinced to this day that it has a fighting chance, based on how often he belts it out:

                Fast women and fast machines

                Fast people if you know what I mean

                I’ve been cruisin’ all night long

               Radio blastin’ singin’ that song

What song is the radio “blastin’,” might you ask? It remains a mystery even still, but offers a great opportunity to “change the channel,” pop your ear buds in and keep on fighting the good fight.

I’ve explored many corners of the musical world. I’ve happily sustained my love of jazz, rhythm and blues, bluegrass, folk and classic rock, a love I credit Tweety himself for fostering. I’ve pursued all the internet has to offer along with the not-so-friendly record stores in nearby trendy towns, hoping to find a new lead. In contrast, there are some musical phases I care to forget, including a mildly troubling fixation on all things Kurt Cobain. I was playing the whole troubled teen card a little hard, but I must admit I do occasionally enjoy an archaic Cobain-interview-YouTube-binge here and there, and still tear up watching Kurt Loder announce his untimely death. Then I end up watching Courtney Love interviews and the shock of her strangeness still baffles me, but I digress. Where am I going with all this? Despite a concrete, reliable and respectable repertoire built up from 23 years of musical exploration, there’s still and always room for improvement.

My latest fixation is 17 year old, New Zealand bred sensation (yes, 17!) Lorde. Being from New Zealand, number 1 on my “places-to-see-before-I-die” list, of course she’s automatically on the awesome list (I have a lot of lists…), but she takes it much further. Her catchy “Royals,” has taken the radio waves by storm, and now her equally as catchy “Team” has started making a splash as well, to use radio lingo. The seeming rush to get “Team” out there certainly serves as a testimony to the impression she has made on the mainstream radio robots. Often, and sadly, an “indie” jam hits us hard and then fades away, which is the worst kind of musical death, at least according to Cobain (“I’d rather burn out, than fade out” was one of my many concerning mantras at 14). It seems safe to say that Lorde is just getting started on bringing a little edge to our morning commutes, along with reminding me how unworldly I was at 17, and I’m more than okay with that.


If you’re looking to explore what Lorde can offer you, I encourage you to give her Pandora station a whirl. The following is a little survey of what other impressive artists you can expect while tuning in, which provides an excellent opportunity to continue the good fight:

Lorde: Of course, this is where it all starts. This is what brings you to your new go-to Pandora station. As I mentioned, Lorde is everything I wanted to be when I was 16. She is cool, sexy, and her sultry voice is haunting. Unlike many of her indie counter parts, underneath her seemingly apathetic lyrics hides pure poetry. Have you actually listened to “Royals”? It took me awhile to get beyond the catchy beat and come to the realization that this young lady is single-handedly denouncing the idolization of material goods and social status glorified by most of the music industry. Enough said. I’ll discontinue my fan-girl gushing and let you see for yourself.

Not sure where to start? Check this sure-to-be hit out:

*Warning: I’ll agree the video is a bit strange, but be open minded! Plus, isn’t she stunning?!


Birdy: You know those popular songs you want to like but secretly hate? In comes Birdy transforming what you once found just a little too “hipster” into undeniably beautiful numbers you feel you must listen to at least once a day, preferably over a cup of tea, snuggled in a family-heirloom quilt (she’s also British, increasing her awesomeness exponentially). Ready for your heart to swell?

Not enough? Try her cover of Phoenix’s “1901.”


Jasmine Thompson: If you didn’t get sucked in to listening to Birdy songs for the rest of the afternoon, you’re in luck, because Jasmine is another British sweetheart you’ll fall in love with. Also, a shocking fact I just came across, she is 13! Holy moly! At an age where I was eating fruit-by-the-foot and shamelessly belting out the latest Nysnc jam, this young lady is burning down the house producing covers of already prolific songs. I’ve heard some pretty terrible covers/remixes of Bastille’s “Pompeii,” but this little lady’s cover, in my book, is held at equal caliber. If you have anything pressing to do today, I’d come back to this YouTube link, because your schedule will need to be cleared. Also, I think she just made me like “Wrecking Ball”?


Purity Ring: Once you hear a bit of this “dream pop” (whatever that means) duo, you’ll be racking your brain trying to figure out where they got the name for this one-of-a-kind musical group. I’ll admit, it’s pretty far out there stuff, likely most appealing the fantastical, poetic type, but once you get hooked there’s no going back. Check the below jam out. The tagline “there’s a cult inside of me” comes in handy when you least expect it, namely when you “Dutch Oven” your  significant other or make an awkward joke no one laughs at, which happens a lot to me (as in right now). Also, if anyone has an interpretation of the wild album art, please let me know.


Ellie Goulding: Apparently British women know how to get it done. I will admit, however, Ellie and I have had a turbulent relationship. The air waves, in their usual greedy manner, abused the hit “Lights” for just a little too long, and I gracefully bowed out of our courtship for quite some time. The Lorde station offers a great remedy to my desire for limiting my synthesized intake, providing me just enough “folktronica” (seriously, where do they come up with this stuff?) Here is an older, softer hit that first turned me on to the British beauty.


Lana Del Rey: I’ve been feeling really guilty (okay, not that guilty) because Lana used to be my go-to. I hold her in equal esteem as I do Lorde. I sort of view Lana as the 20-something-year old I hoped to be when I was a 16 year old aspiring Lorde but that I can’t actually be as a member of the real world rather than part of the sexy, inhibition-less female vocalist world. If I did anything Lana talked about in her songs my family would have me on Intervention in a New York minute. There is definitely some psychological stuff going on here. I’ll let the following speak for itself.

*Best paired with a cold shower. You’ve been warned.

Love it? Feeling risky? Like JFK references/critiques of American culture?


The dudes: There are also some pretty great male vocalists on this channel. Now that I’ve psychoanalyzed myself and this Pandora station, I’m beginning to realize that these are the equally as sexy chaps I imagine these women may be bellowing on about (except Jasmine and Lorde, they’re babies. Oh wait Birdy is 17, too…). Honorable mentions include the moody The Neighbourhood, (a group out of California despite the British spelling of the group’s name) and Mat Kearney, an old favorite who makes me believe in true love and also makes me want to drink copious amounts of fair trade coffee in a cozy coffee shop, for whatever reason.


These are just a few of the amazing artists one can be lucky enough to experience while tuning in to the ground breaking Lorde Pandora station, and bring you that much closer to “your song;” whatever song you may need to get you through your day, week, sweat session, or cry session. The power of music is in its ability to allow you to lose yourself, find yourself, love yourself, be yourself, or whatever else you need at that very moment.

Until next time.

Stay human,


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Hunger Games Tastes Weird

I know we’re coming off some heavy stuff, and you think I’m slightly deranged, but I had to record this somewhere before I forget, because it is too amazing not to.

As mentioned in my “About Molls,” and as most of you know due to the fact that I’ve only shared this with people I know (still working on whole following other blogs bit), I’m a teacher. That felt weird to say…

Weird because it hasn’t been too long. I just finished my student teaching in December, and I am now job hunting/interviewing. Hence why I have time to make a blog and look at kitten pictures. So anyway…I did a little substitute teaching at the school I had formerly student taught at, despite my pride telling me not to, and trust me, Bill Cosby had it right…kids really do say the darn-dest things…

So of course I was grilling the students on all things English teacher: What do you like about English class? What don’t you like? Why? Explain, give evidence, and interpret. And it always leads to “What do you like to read?” I hold my breath and hold my ground in a staring match as 90% of the time they say “nothing, I hate reading” and another cuddly kitten in my soul dies. Every hour wounds, the last kills…

I got especially lucky this particular day and roughly 3 of the 12 students revealed to me their literary pursuits. As expected I got the usual post-apocalyptic/fantasy/sci-fi responses (excluding that one time I heard “50 Shades” and a whole litter of kittens died in my soul). I’d say 75% of the only 25% of high school students that read outside of the classroom are more of my fellow nerd types, and I love them for that. But where was I? Ah, yes. So, I begin to interrogate the students on their chosen texts, noting a few but mostly looking at them with genuine admiration; a look that says thank you for being you. Per usual one chap really takes over while the other two talk among themselves.

And then it happens. I hear it. Or did I? I ask for clarification from the two girls talking about The Hunger Games. Peeta. Michael Cera. Come again? What is Peeta (who I can legally say is attractive) and Michael Cera (who I can also legally say is attractive, in a strange way)  doing in the same sentence. Ready for it? “When I was reading the book I pictured someone who looked more like Michael Cera than the guy they chose, that Hutcherson guy.” My eyes widened and I got a full ab work out as I attempted not to let out what I knew would be uncontrollable, uncomfortably long laughter.

I don’t think there is much more to say here folks. Picture Michael Cera tossing bread in the rain, kissing Jennifer Lawrence’s all-holy lips, or my favorite, disguised as tree bark in the mud until he is found by Katniss. Only in the classroom can this organic, uninhibited humor occur. I leave you with the following…


” I remember the first time I saw you. Your hair was in two braids instead of one. I remember when you sang in the music assembly and the teacher said “who knows the valley song” and your hand shot straight up. After that, I watched you going home everyday. Everyday. ”

…Wait, didn’t he actually say this to Norah in “Nick and Norah’s Infinite Playlist?”


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Are We Really Stronger Than Skinny? #OutlookOverObliques

I’m not proud of it, but I’ve definitely been that girl. The girl that obsessed over numbers: weight, portions sizes, pant sizes, bra sizes, hell even shoe sizes. Within one year of high school I dropped nearly 20 pounds, followed by almost 4 years I choose not to remember; Years I spent equating my worth to numbers I thought defined that worthiness.

Again, I’m not proud, but it took falling madly in love for this abuse to end, which doesn’t exactly align with my feminist sensibilities. Nonetheless, I met who I believe will be the one I spend the rest of my days with, and gained nearly 10 pounds. I’ve had my moments where I’ve blamed him, nearly broken up with him over it, still clinging to the insane idea that I had to wiggle in to those size 2 jeans (I’m a girl that needs a little stretch in the pants, whether a 0 or a 6), and that the 100 had to be followed by a twenty something–preferably early 20s, mid-20s is pushing it, and once you hit the dreaded 128, well, it’s full melt down mode. I won’t even get in to what happens at 130, but it’s sort of like the scene from “Yes Man” when Jim Carrey has to play “Jumper” to get Manny off the ledge–Idiocy.


Not enough? You’re welcome…

Two years in to our relationship, with many ups and downs (often literally,) I’ve come to my senses. You don’t throw away your “one” over a little bit of late night Ben & Jerry’s action, nor do you feel guilty that yes, it’s nice to share popcorn at the movies, or watch people roll their eyes when you do the one-milkshake-two-straws thing (yeah, I’m that girl, too.) So where am I going with this? This is not an effort to justify “letting myself go” (I kid, I’m past that whole part for real!) It’s to address what has been pitched as the cure to all this nonsense–The “strong over skinny” movement.

You may also know this movement by taglines such as “lady in the streets, freak in the gym,” (okay ‘Luda) “eat clean, train mean,” and so forth. I first became interested in all this stuff when I realized the remedy to a lot of my issues was exercise. At first, again, it was for the wrong reasons. I told myself, “okay, if you work out a lot, you can be a little less psycho about the food stuff.” Luckily, as I evolved, realizing that I cared more about the important numbers–how often I had lunch with my grandma, my GPA, or how many date nights my beau and I could sneak in with our busy schedules–the real benefits became my motivation. When I work out consistently, I feel great. My mood instantly lifts, my body ticks like a clock, and I can hit the stairs without feeling winded. It took a while, but I finally get it.

So then I discovered Instagram. Because I’m technologically challenged, I thought the app was just to make your pictures look cool, or eliminate the slight shading above my lip when I missed a monthly wax, but I digress. It wasn’t until a friend asked me what my “Insta” username was that I made the whole “this is a social media outlet” connection. Well, let me tell you, I made up for lost time. I could write witty captions, oh, and look, tag friends! But wait, what the heck is a hash tag…? Oh hot damn, I can look at everyone’s #dachshund pictures? Goodbye world…I’ll be in the corner looking at wieners #sicksadworld #dariareference #1photofound.


So then I started posting foodie pictures. Now this wasn’t some sick form of tracking my “intake”, those days are long gone, I assure you. Rather, I’ve always been a picture person, and this was another way to record my cooking ideas, or cool restaurants I’ve been to in any of my favorite little artsy towns, without breaking out the digital cam (yeah, I’m old school, or a hipster, #youdecide) I could also share with my other foodie friends: “dude, check out this #avocado and #freshmozzarella #omelet with #garlic and #basil accompanied by #homemade #sweetpotatofries that I made for a quick breakfast.”

Then I remembered “oh yeah, I can click the hash tag, and see if anyone else casually mentions avocados in their posts, they’re not just to be funny/annoying. Maybe I can even get some more recipe ideas! Holy guacamole! I just discovered an empire: clean eating. There are chicks with over 100k followers posting recipes, workouts, fitness tips, inspirational quotes, and even pictures of their fabulous workout clothes donated by fitness apparel companies to, I guess, promote the clothes? All right, I’ll admit that’s a little strange but hey, let’s see what this gal has to say…

Wait, what? Her last post urges me to “do it for you—for your health—for your peace of mind—Namaste… #eatclean #trainmean #fitchicks #yogachicks #20morehashtagsrelatingtohealthandfitness,” accompanied by a catalog worthy photo of her in an elaborate yoga pose in a room that looks like it was personally outfitted by pottery barn (there’s definitely a social economic rant I could go on about, too, but I’ll spare you [for now]). I scroll a little more and, whoa there’s your booty…again, and again, and surprise, there is you’re perfectly perky derriere, part 10. Next, there is another extensive collection of the ever important abs. I honestly didn’t know you could get ripped like this. There’s almost, I’d guess, 100 pictures total, out of the over 2,000 posted, with the shirt lifted (if there is one to begin with,) booty popped and a side stance (to also display the ever toned thighs [#hammies?], but that’s only a side thought), and the abs glistening. The caption reads something along the lines of “just finished my fasted cardio and these little babies are just popping through—time for a little (and I quote) “breaky” and then to spinning! Have a great day and be the best you! #obliques? #amillionotherhashtags” Uhm, popping through? Last time I had abs like that, I had the flu and could only down toast, and I was also pretty sure I was going to die within the next 24 hours.


So here is where I think we have more work to do. The original problem was that women felt they needed to be skinny to have worth and to be physically attractive. If it “isn’t about that” anymore than why is every other picture of you half naked, with scummy dudes leaving horrifying comments on it? Or with still insecure ladies saying they wish they had your body, commitment and drive, vowing to “clean up” their act or diet. Why are you posting pictures expressing discontent that your already freakish abs aren’t “coming in” as quickly as you’d like? Something is just a little off.

Now I don’t mean to sound like a #crabbypatty (#imaddicted). Among some of these slightly concerning posts is some really awesome stuff, as I mentioned. There are recipes I’m dying to make, and intend to, even with some of the supposed health benefits motivating me to do so. There are new strength training moves I can challenge my body with as my latest routine has me in a rut. There are inspirational quotes and even write ups from some of these women that truly are uplifting, motivating, and reassuring; but, that being said, I can see it potentially having a toxic effect. I quickly talked myself out of some of what it instructs. I do not need to send away for overly priced nutrition bars because it boasts more protein than sugar, unlike most nutrition bars, nor do I need every muscle poking out of my body to stop me from eating the rest of my peppermint Joe-Joes from Christmas.

Here is what we do need, each and everyone one of us beautiful women: we need to be stronger than anything that is deemed more valuable than basic and true good health. We have to be stronger than letting our physical appearance–skinny, fit, fat or anything in between– be our most motivating reason for pursuing health and fitness in its highest and most important form.

Stay human,


Oh, P.S. Wanna follow me on Instagram? #hehehe

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