5 Reasons Why People Text Me

There is a sale on tiny skirts at the Arsenal Mall. When I told this to a guy friend, he asked if I subscribed to a slutty skirt newsletter. After I was done being pissed that there ISN'T one (HOW MUCH TIME WOULD THAT SAVE?) I explained how I found out: 6 people texted me about it. Literally. Six. Which brings me to the subject of this blog:

Things people feel the immediate need to inform me about via text message: 

1. Leah, I saw a sale on tiny skirts. 

The way I see it, miniature skirts are the closest you can come to not wearing pants at all in public. I am known for these skirts. I have been known for these skirts since I was 14 years old.

Related Sidenote: Thank you, LHS, for having no dress code. This not only nurtured my love of tiny skirts and spaghetti straps, it taught me how to concentrate with cleavage in my face, which is helpful in my line of work. As a teacher. Of teenagers. Although today I did have to lay down the law. These words were spoken: "Male, female, gay, straight bi, it doesn't matter: No one can think straight when there is that much skin showing."

2. Leah, I found iappropriate photos of Alexander Skarsgard surfaced on the internet. 

Everyone knows of my beyond excessive obsession with True Blood. Everyone knows that between the months of June and... June, I eat, sleep, and breathe True Blood. Just now, I checked 3 spoiler websites for what character Christopher Meloni will be playing in Season 5. Right, now, I'm picturing him as Stabler, trying to investigate murders with Andy Bellfleur. In these investigations, Stabler takes his shirt off, Andy does V, and Jason Stackhouse stares vacantly at the landscape. Everyone knows that the only reason I went as Pam for Halloween last year is because despite my love of theme parties, I make a terrible dude. I figured going as his progeny was the next best thing. Suffice it to say that when there is ASkars news, I am informed multiple times. I'm not going to elaborate on the pictures, because that would rob you of the experience. Google "Alexander Skarsgard hot." You're welcome. Yeah, sorry I killed your productivity for the next 3 hours. And used up all the ink in your printer. Oops.

3. Leah, the Backstreet Boys did.. pretty much anything. 

Ever since my Dear Nick Carter letter was published, the remaining 5 people on the planet that did not know were informed: I still love the Backstreet Boys. And since watching Blue Bloods, I also love New Kids on the Block. I know... I did that in the wrong order... but I'm too young to be an authentic New Kids fan.

When the Backstreet Boys were in town, I knew (and bought tickets). When there was a groupon for their tour/boat/situation, I knew. People who hadn't talked to me in years let me know about that one.

Sidenote: I don't buy Groupons for music. I use them for the following items: pedicures, unnecessary electronic devices, temporary gym memberships, and HOT PANTS. Oh, and that one time I bought those crazy strong magnets. Something in the description called out to me.

4. OMG Leah I met another teacher! 

This one I find hilarious. It's kind of like when I went to UMass for one year. No, I do not know your friend Joe. Even if you knew his last name, I still would not know him. Even if I knew him, I would not remember him, because I was drunk, sleeping, or biking for hours on end. Yes. That was the year I biked a lot. Now my bike lives in my garage. Sometimes I hit it with my car.

Anyway, people tend to think that teachers are some sort of organized crime family in that we're all somehow related. This is not true. Not to mention, do you know where I teach? Why would I know your friend that teaches at a prep school or private university or after school SAT prep program 78 miles away?

At the end of the day, this one doesn't bug me, because I realize that it very easily could be true, like it is for Jews. Jews all know each other somehow. Correction: Jews all know my mother somehow. We could totally play Six Degrees of Jewish Separation sometime, but let's be honest: Apples to Apples Jewish Edition and Taboo Jewish Edition are way more fun. No I'm not kidding. Yes my Grandma DID kick my entire family's butt in Taboo Jew. I suck at Yiddish, unless it's an insult.

5. I just spent way too much money on boots and I need you to help me make the guilt go away. 

This I can do. I can tell you stories of how I stayed up all night to get a pair of boots, or searched nine TJ Maxx stores until I found a pair of cowboy boots I had a dream about (at TJs in CLEVELAND no less). I can tell you about the time in college when I walked home from Allston to Beacon Hill every weekend for a month because I had no money for cab fare, because I spent it on black leather cowboy boots. I can tell you about how every time I go to the mall wearing boots, I hear a woman with an accent of some sort commenting on them from somewhere behind me, and soon after I hear her child say, "Wait, I know those boots... THAT'S MY TEACHER! YO MISS I RECOGNIZED YOUR BOOTS!"

Sidenote: This is why I drive to the Burlington Mall (or further) to buy underwear. Also so I can stop at my parents' house on the way back and HELL YEAH FREE FOOOOOOOOOOOD.

I digress. No matter how reckless your purchase was, I can help. Is someone telling you those boots won't match most of your clothes? I will tell that person to shut up, and then I will help you buy (reasonably priced) clothes that DO match. I can also help you budget so you can buy more boots.

Life is about priorities. And shoes.

Yes you can quote me on that.

Why Irish men are dangerous, and how to approach them with caution.

The topic for today's blog is rather serious. No matter who you are, or where you are, if you are a woman, you have undoubtedly encountered an Irishman.

And Irish men are dangerous. If you aren't careful, you'll end up a drunk, swooning, half-naked mess. Luckily, you have me, and I have provided you with a guide. Here are the three main reasons why Irish men are dangerous, and how to keep your pants on around them. In public.



The Problem: The Accent. Irish accents are sexy. All the time. In every case. There is no exception to this rule. Even the kind of Irish accents that are barely understandable because the vowels are so warped. I met an Irish man last night and the moment he opened his mouth I was a goner. It didn't matter what he said. I thought it was hot. He could have been spewing the most ridiculous crap and I still would have been there smiling. I swear to God if he had at some point listed fruits, I would have found it both fascinating and sexy. This is one reason why Irish men are dangerous. Their accents make everything sound hot. Apple. Banana. Cherry. Date. Me. Or. Just. Take. Me. To. Bed. Just keep saying words that involve many vowels.

The Approach: When interacting with an Irishman, it is completely unacceptable to say anything about the accent being sexy. They're used to it, especially Irish men in Boston, because Boston, as we all know, is populated with dumb girls who say things like, "OMG your accent is so sexy!" and American men who live in Southie and think it makes them Irish by association. The most effective thing to do is nothing at all. Do not mention the accent. Do not ask him to say words that highlight the sexiness of said accent. Do not ever tell him that his accent is awesome. The words will threaten to escape your mouth time and time again, but you've got to lock that shit up and throw the key in the river. You also must avoid, at all costs, staring at him in wonder with your head cocked to one side only half-listening to the words he's saying because you're so enthralled by his accent. Act normal. Pretend he's a grimy frat boy from Jersey. Think about unsexy things, like sewer rats, garbage trucks, and those obese people who walk around naked in the gym locker room for extended periods of time. Sidenote: Do they ever work out? When I arrive, they're naked. When I leave, they're naked. Yesterday I saw a woman shaving her armpits at the sink and I almost threw up. There's an unsexy thought for you. 



The Problem: The Calories. Irish men drink, and they drink well. There is no "light" beer. There is no "diet" soda. They drink all kinds of beer with all kinds of carbs and calories, and they don't understand that most women can't drink a lot of beer like that without turning into cellulicious tubs of lard. This is a huge issue. On the one hand, we have to look good naked. On the other hand, we can't order some light diet soda-water-related beverage around them, because then they are unimpressed, and the goal is to impress.

The Approach: There are several ways to approach this, and I suggest you do all of them, every time.

First, go to the gym and build lean muscle so your basic metabolic rate will be faster. The more muscle you have on your body, the more calories your body burns at rest. Don't worry about getting jacked. It's borderline impossible if you're a woman, unless you drastically change your lifestyle as part of a fitness competition.

Second, do cardio every day if possible. That way, you are at a caloric deficit when you arrive at the bar, and you can afford the calories.

Third, drink scotch and make it last. Whiskey works as well. If possible, drink it on the rocks. If you can't do it, grow a pair.

Fourth, drink beer. I know this seems counterintuitive, but one or two won't kill you. Just order a real beer. Better yet, let the Irishman pick.



The problem: Everything they do is adorable and sexy, because they are Irish, and consequently makes us want to take our pants off as soon as possible. I wouldn't know what this is like because I avoid pants at all costs, but you get the picture. It is a scientific fact that normal, everyday tasks are hotter and more adorable when performed by men from Ireland. They are even cute when parallel parking and doing laundry. Think of the most menial, monotonous tasks, like checking email and putting on shoes. When Irishmen do these things, it is hot. Think of the things you hate doing, like cleaning, and getting parking tickets. When Irishmen do these things, it is hot. I don't know this from personal experience, but I'd be willing to bet that Irish men are even cute when serving jury duty. Do they have jury duty in Ireland? Food for thought.

The approach: Well, there's nothing you can do about this one. You just have to keep it to yourself. When he takes out his passport in lieu of ID to get into a bar, you can't coo. You have to pretend it's normal. When he opens a door, you can't go all googly-eyed. OMG, he stood up, how hot. OMG he waved the bartender over, how adorable. You can think it, but you can't let on that you're thinking it. The following phrase will never leave your lips: "OMG I LOVE IT!" Never. Lock it down. When all else fails, picture James Earl Jones doing the same thing. Everything Irish men do is sexy and adorable; everything James Earl Jones does is serious, honorable, and regal. If James Earl Jones took out his passport in lieu of ID to get into a bar, you wouldn't find it adorable, you would wish you had thought to bring your passport because the world is a serious place full of serious people and serious people use passports for ID instead of driver's licenses. Which Irish men don't have. Because in Ireland, people drive on the left side of the road. Which is adorable and hot. BUT NOT WHEN JAMES EARL JONES DOES IT. James Earl Jones drives on the left side of the road because he is serious, regal, and honorable. Whenever you find yourself on the verge of cooing, just think this word over and over:

MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA MUFASA

See? That wasn't so hard, was it?

Gym Rat Acceptance Speech

I think I have a problem. I'm addicted to working out.

Looking back, I'm not exactly sure when it began. I remember my first road race quite clearly. It was a 5k. I was 6. I kept the shirt until ninth grade, when it actually disintegrated in the washing machine. Mom was not pleased. Then again, I always had a tumultuous relationship with washing machines. Or, one might say, a healthy appreciation for cerulean blue crayons and a tendency to not empty the pocket of my polo t-shirt dress before putting it in the hamper.

I remember the feeling with odd clarity. The word I used at the time was jello.

"Mama, my legs feel like jello." 
"Leah, that's great! That means you worked hard! You should always push until you feel like jello." 
Can you tell a competitive distance runner gave birth to me?

My knees wobbled, and I imagined myself as some human/Gumby hybrid. Even at age 6, I don't remember this being negative. I remember thinking it was awesome.

Fast forward 20 years... 

20 years, dozens of track/xc seasons, half marathon, Boston Marathon, boxing, swimming, aqua jogging, stress fracture #1, stress fracture #2, anorexia, bulimia, diet #1-17, freshman 15... 20... 40... oh shit, I'm no longer a freshman, but I'm still fat, weight watchers, boxing, yay I look better in a bathing suit than I did when I was 16!

Despite all that, I've never been a gym rat. Until now.

Now that I think about it, it's Emma's fault. Three or four weeks ago, she suggested that I go to spinning and pilates on Tuesday night with her. When I did this, she went on to suggest that we do three classes in a row the following Wednesday: pilates, boxing, and yoga.

I should mention that we are damned good at pilates. I can say this because for 4 years I thought pilates was boring and easy because I was doing it wrong. So for those of you that are thinking, "Yeah, whatever, I could do three classes in a row if two of them were pilates and yoga," guess what? No you can't. The fact that you are thinking that is proof that you wouldn't last. Pilates, when done well, can burn 700 calories in an hour. Long story short: pilates, boxing, yoga = hella workout

That day I had an epiphany. Well, actually, I didn't have the epiphany until later, and when I explain you'll get why. I'm not sure what happened during those three hours. It's like I blacked out, except there was no whiskey involved. My memory of that night is a large, empty, cavernous space.

It was wonderful. Bliss. Glee. Joy. My mind was blank. NOTHING was in there. No lesson plans. No lists of parents to call. No frustrations. No feelings of inadequacy. No emotions. Nothing.

There was also very little brain activity. I could make my body follow instructions, but that was it. If you had walked up to me and told me it was 1975, I would have believed you without question. If you had told me that my whole life, what I thought of as purple was actually red and vice versa, I would have believed you without question.

This actually happened after yoga:

Someone: Hey, what's your last name? I want to friend you on facebook.
Me:
Someone: Leah?
Me:
Someone: Leah? You there?
Me: ...wait, what?

Ever since then, I can't stop. If my day's been fine, I just relax. If my day's been terrible, I work out until I can't think thoughts or feel feelings anymore.

It's wonderful. And it works better than whiskey.

Maybe I'm looking at this all wrong. Maybe it's not a bad thing. Maybe it's a good thing. Maybe instead of calling it a problem, I should be treating it like an award.

And awards call for acceptance speeches.

Here goes:

I couldn't have become a gym rat workoutaholic alone. I had a lot of help. I would like to thank:

• My mom, for giving birth to me, because distance running is in my blood; for teaching me at a very young age the importance of jello in all forms; for providing expensive athletic footwear whenever I requested it, from toe shoes to racing flats. 
• My dad, for passing along his genes, as well as his posture. As a kyphotic superstar, I spent most of my life with hot legs and a big belly. Even when I was anorexic, I still had lovehandles. Without this natural propensity towards stomach flab, I would never have discovered the love of my life: pilates
• Michelle, my pilates/fitness instructor/guru, who is an incredible athlete as well as teacher
• Britney Spears, for going off the fat-bald-crazytown deep end and still ending up with a six-pack.
• My baby ipod, for being the perfect size to clip into my right pigtail during long runs. 
• Hilary, for inspiring me to at least attempt to qualify for Boston
• Asics, for creating such an orgasmic running shoe. The fact that I could probably ramble on for another 1000 words about the intricacies of my Kayanos is proof of my supreme reign over all things nerdy runner. 
• My heart rate monitor, for teaching me a valuable lesson: If you burn 1900 calories running, you have to immediately inhale at least half of those calories as soon as you stop running, or else you'll dry heave, go to bed, wake up at 4 a.m. starving, and eat everything that isn't nailed down. 
• Cindy, for supporting my hatred of pants. This is tied to working out because if I didn't have muscles, I would not go sans pants nearly as often. I haven't seen Cindy in years, but when some guy pointed at me and said, "Is that girl not wearing pants?" Cindy casually responded with, "Nope. She's awesome." Thank you. All APCs (Anti-Pants Coalitionists) should have such a broad support system. XOXO
• My college XC / Boston Marathon coach John, for teaching me how to eat while running and not hurl. It is a valuable skill to have when you're a workoutaholic like I am. Related sidenote: No matter how good you are at this, do not, I repeat, DO NOT try to do this while running up Heartbreak Hill. You will puke. 
• CSC, for not only supporting, but expecting people to do multiple classes in a row. 
• My roommate, Danielle, for introducing me to bodybuilding.com
• Jen, Jarrett, Marcin and Sophie, for being just as into all of this as I am. There is something so wonderful about going out on  Friday night with a group of people who take out their phones to log calories as often as I do. I feel normal around you. This is a rare occurrence. It's also a compliment, in case you didn't know. :) 

Butt: I have one.