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Why I Suck At Being a Young Person

I suck at being a young person.

Today I tried. Here’s what happened.  

This afternoon I went shopping. I needed to buy a lot of really important things with exactly ZERO dollars.  Soooooo I went to the record store. The record store I am referring to is a phenomenally well-priced, well-stocked, used media pawn shop version of heaven where I hope to conceive my future children. Going there is not why I suck at being a young person.

There were a lot of young people there. Mostly boys with checkered shoes and stupid haircuts looking at used cds and video games. But I, the only female that has probably ever been within 100 yards of the building, spent my entire 30 minutes there hunched in the corner of the room next to a 60 year old man with a pony tail and flannel shirt, scouring folk and blues vinyl records no one else will probably buy. This is why I suck at being a young person. It’s just like how every time I attend a concert alone because no one I know listens to the music I like, I end up befriending some elderly person with liver spots, who I have more in common with than 90% of my peers. This is not a real statistic. I made it up. Don’t hate.

This entire concept makes me very uncomfortable

So after spending $56 of the $100 I had actually set aside for clothing, I left and went to the mall where I could simultaneously buy cheap dresses and have my soul physically extracted by means of consumerist-driven centrifugal force. JK, I LOVE SHOPPING!!!!!!!!!!!!

Did I mention that I also suck at being a female? No? Ok.

So here’s another reason I suck at being young and at being female. The shopping itself went fine. Things that made me look fat, I put back. Things that made me look less fat, I bought. I’m not sure why girls need a horde of acquaintances to figure this out. If a dress makes you look like you could prevent a plane from takeoff, you probably shouldn’t buy it. Anyway. After buying some clothing, I went to Sephora determined to buy something that proved my youthful femaleness once and for all. But after twenty minutes of searching and physically rejecting the prices by way of dry heaves, I left, disgusted and happy I spent $56 on records instead of on one bottle of shampoo. This is not an exaggeration. I did not make this up.

I spent the rest of the night in my apartment, cleaning, listening to records, and growing increasingly aware of my lack of friends. It’s not like I’m completely friendless. I’m not Heidi Montag. I just don’t have a great amount of friends in a local proximity who I have much in common with.  So I decided instead of shimmying alone to John Lee Hooker and chatting with distant friends online, I should attempt to go out. This is where I really suck at being a young person.

I have no idea how to “go out.” I’m not even sure what that means. I’m pretty sure it involves bars and shitty music and body shots, but since my only understanding of contemporary social gatherings comes from watching Jersey Shore alone, I’m probably wrong. Nevertheless, the entire concept of going out intimidates me for the following reasons:

  1. I don’t know how to order a drink. I once tried to order a glass of wine at a restaurant and when the waiter asked me what kind I wanted my exact reply was, “like, I don’t know. Red?” Then he proceeded to card me and remind me that 17 year olds aren’t old enough to buy alcohol. So if I were to go out and drink, the only way I would even have a drink in my hand is if someone else ordered it for me. And if someone else ordered it for me, I’d absolutely assume it was roofied.
  2. I don’t know how to dress. I always think I do, but I don’t. Then I start judging everyone else for dressing badly, when really I’m the one who should not be wearing tights in 80 degree weather.
  3. I get neurotically focused on knowing where the bathroom is. Like, I can’t enter an establishment and just start socializing like a normal person. My first thought is that I must find out where the bathroom is, because frankly I’d rather spend the evening completely alone than get lost on my way to the bathroom and end up in the backseat of some guys van.
  4. I know I won’t enjoy myself. I realize this is not the mindset I should have going into going out, but it’s true. Because honestly, even though I am a very open-minded person, my greatest idea of a good time is sitting on my living room floor with a few friends and acquaintances, listening to records, doing absolutely NOTHING illegal, and talking about how it makes us feel. So if I’m with people who would rather be out than doing that, then I’m not going to enjoy myself.

And this, ladies and gentlemen, is why I suck at being a young person.

Love,

The girl who “wants to be bad but doesn’t know how”

My Feminist Breasts: Late Night Bra-Shopping for My Huge Rack

Warning: Male relatives you may read at your own risk. If the idea of a blog post about my boobs makes you uncomfortable I recommend you avoid this blog post entirely. Should you decide to read on, please do not contact me about how uncomfortable I make you. There is a warning. Much like the “hot” label on a McDonald’s coffee cup or a “do not swallow” on a bottle of rat poison. If you choose to swallow, don’t change your mind and spit. Dirty.

I have a huge rack. I can call it that because it’s mine. And also because no one gets offended by the term rack, especially not when the term “fun bags” is an option. Nevertheless, I have gone through life, being reminded of my huge rack by everyone who comes into contact with it and those who want to but never do. Why? Well, we live in a culture that is obsessed with huge racks and the owners of them.  Huge racks are assets to civilization that must be preserved, displayed, and glorified at every opportunity. Or, aren’t they?

Tonight after work, I decided to go bra shopping.  Any woman reading knows that bra shopping is either a wonderful experience, resulting in a euphoric boost of self-esteem, or an agonizing one, with thoughts of suicide and the slightest consideration of taking a cheese slicer to every ounce of unwanted fat, yet to be sexualized by black guys and Hugh Hefner.

Since I get out of work after 11pm, my only option was to go to Wal-Mart. Now, when it comes to bras, Wal-Mart wouldn’t even qualify as the retarded little brother with spina bifida and a lisp, to the famous Agent Provacateur or even a Target. But since my huge rack recently assaulted the (flimsy) underwire of my favorite bra, with a Joan of Arcian level of womanly force, I thought I should give it a go.

After grabbing a pair of $3 sweatpants and browsing the fake Uggs, I ventured to the “intimates,” section. Quickly scanning the aisles, preparing for some intimacy with the Inimates, I came across a corner shelf display of “Buty Pants,” (because sometimes you just need a buty).

Bullshit Booty

Now, I’m not sure if this is the white marketing version of “booty” but I think the label gives you the idea. These are, yes, you read correctly, pads for your butt.

I know.

Pads….for your butt.

Your butt.

Moving on. I was taken aback by this blatant display (literally) of the negative messages women receive about their natural bodies. But before my feminism kicked in, my ever-present frat boy mindset was popping its disenchanted collar. Dude, padded butts? False advertising, bro. Seriously, though, how could a brand that calls itself “Lingerie Solutions” make a product like this? First of all, if a chick is in her lingerie with a guy, nothing is going to shrink a boner more than saying, “Oh wait, let me take my buty pads out” or “you can’t spank me, you’ll damage the fake ass I used to lure you in before revealing I’m needy and have low self-esteem.” Epic fail, my man. Can you dig it? (high five)

Back to female feminist now. Not only was I disgusted by the fact that this product even exists, but I was incredibly frustrated by the difficulty I proceeded to face in my own shopping experience. Since the term  “huge rack” is all relative I should tell you now, I wear a size 40 D/DD. Though this can change based on brand and store this is a pretty consistent range. After several minutes of searching, I started to grow frustrated by the limited availability of huge rack bras. Not only do most bras only run in sizes A-C to begin with, but those with the D or the even rarer DD option, were quite limited. Me and my huge rack were frustrated by this. We shook our heads in disgrace and sadly collected five of the ugly 40 D/DD’s available. For some reason, lingerie designers think big-breasted women like ugly bras and hate the cute ones with cupcake patterns and hot pink zebra stripes. They must work with the same crackpot design team selling plus size t-shirts with pictures of watering cans and kittens playing with yarn, on the front.

As I browsed the last aisle I couldn’t help but think about the mixed messages women get. All we ever hear is, “BOOBS! ASS! CAVEMAN LIKE! MUST BE BIG!”…unless they’re natural. Because let’s face it. Any woman going to Wal-Mart hoping to add fake curves to her butt has an easier time than any woman going to Wal-Mart hoping to find support for her real curves.  With a prominent corner display, every woman passing gets the reminder that her butt may not be curvy enough to work in her lingerie, therefore she needs Lingerie Solutions. And every woman who actually needs to find something deserves a Worth Bingham Prize.

But at this point, my huge rack and I were exhausted, and all we wanted to do was try on the measly options and leave. Of course, as the tier below retarded little brother with spina bifida and a lisp, Wal-Mart does not inform shoppers with any kind of signage that dressing rooms close at a certain hour. Since you can’t buy an ugly bra without knowing how badly it fits, I decided the next best option would be trying them on in the aisle, over my tee shirt.

Now, it is impossible for a man to pass the bra section and not look down every aisle. I’m not saying it’s intentional. I really think it is more like an involuntary physical reaction like blinking or pooping your pants on a long car ride. But as a couple passed, the man glanced at me, in my shameless state, and I nodded “hey,” like a scene straight out of a Diablo Cody movie. It was my “I’m on my hamburger phone” moment, minus the Oscar nomination.

After selecting two mediocre garments, I browsed $5 movies while waiting at the checkout line. Apparently “What Happens in Vegas” holds the same retail value as “Sister Act.” Who knew?  I paid for my bras and left $15 poorer, and pricelessly more aware of our contradictory world.

So for any non-relative men reading, I want to say one last thing. The next time you are with a girl who complains that her boobs are too big, her butt is too small, or that her natural body in general is too inadequate to deserve a spot on the corner display at Wal-Mart, please think of this post. Or at least my huge rack. She doesn’t have to know.

Love,

The girl with the huge rack (as if I left you wondering)