The Pudding Situation

There is a situation, and it involves pudding.

I should begin by explaining that I'm an accomplished procrastinator. Trust me you've never seen anything like it. Before you go so far as to THINK you're in my league, I'll remind you that I pulled my first all-nighter at age 12 because on the night before a history essay was due, I needed to spend 5 hours in the kitchen mixing ingredients until I found the perfect combination to dye my white-lined paper to look like it had been around since the historical time period I was writing it about. If you point out that the previous sentence is a horrific run-on, I will deploy my loyal army of 12-year-old girls who will scream Justin Bieber songs outside your house in lieu of an attack. So don't.

Part of being an incredible procrastinator is being flexible and able to think outside of the box. Which is where the pudding comes into play.

I love pudding. I always have. I even love tapioca pudding, despite the fact that as far as I know, scientists have yet to find conclusive evidence proving what's in it, and thus it might be made of miniature eyeballs. I don't care. I guess I like eyeballs in my pudding. I just love pudding that much.

Obviously, I have Jello instant pudding in my house. Obviously, I do not have milk. So after I sulked for twenty minutes, I decided to take the next logical step: Start texting people with "I LOVE PUDDING."

I'm not really sure what happened next. It's all a blur. It's like I blacked out and when I woke up, I was having detailed text conversations with twenty five people about pudding. I just learned how to copy/paste on my phone (don't say it, because I already agree with you: It shouldn't be called a smart phone if the person using it is an idiot and can't use it) and this only fueled the fire. Every time I thought of something awesome to say, I texted it to EVERYONE. Which led to 25 people receiving the following texts:

BYOP

Bring Your Own Pudding

What would you do if I had a party and put that on the invitation? 

My friends and family members... God love them, they all rolled with it.

Amanda, innocent autocorrect victim (Join us on the droid side)

AMANDA: I love pudding.
LEAH: I know.
AMANDA: Pussy is awesome.
AMANDA: PUDDING PUDDING PUDDING

Leah's Bro

LEAH: BYOP. Bring Your Own Pudding. What would you do if I had a party and put that on the invitation?
LEAH'SBRO: I would say that I'd be there.

SPANDEX/CHRIS, epitome of all things awesome and future cofounder of Anti-Pants Coalition

LEAH: BYOP. Bring Your Own Pudding. What would you do if I had a party and put that on the invitation? Besides show up in spandex, as is your custom.
SPANDEX: Rice, or tapioca? Don't you DARE say butterscotch.
SPANDEX: Yeah... to answer your question I'd probably write something inappropriate on the event page.
LEAH: Pudding is excellent.
SPANDEX: That's a fact. Tell me something I don't know.

Emma, my soul sister, my wife in polygamous marriage to our boxing coach Big Tom and Joseph Pilates and Alexander Skarsgard and a variety of other men we've never met most of whom are actually alive though really. 

LEAH: BYOP. Bring Your Own Pudding. What would you do if I had a party and put that on the invitation?
EMMA/SOULSISTER: Come to the party and think you are the best. And make you awesome hippie pudding.

I LOVE YOU EMMA. I want hippie muffins too. DUCK YEAH.

Ali, who will always be more of a badass than me, BUT I'M TRYING :) 

LEAH: BYOP. Bring Your Own Pudding. What would you do if I had a party and put that on the invitation?
ALI: I would bring chocolate with a vanilla swirl.

Meet my consultant father, who's quick to call in the experts:

LEAH: BYOP. Bring Your Own Pudding. What would you do if I had a party and put that on the invitation?
LEAH'SDAD: Call a doctor.
LEAH: No seriously.
LEAH'SDAD: Chocolate or call mom.

Meet my mom, who was clearly too busy to accomodate my pudding whims

LEAH: BYOP. Bring Your Own Pudding. What would you do if I had a party and put that on the invitation?
LEAH'SMOM: 7tytk.a
(She is still working on her texting skills). 

This conversation takes the pudding. Let's give it up for bodybuilder Danielle! 

LEAH: BYOP. Bring Your Own Pudding. What would you do if I had a party and put that on the invitation?
DANIELLE: I'd bring protein pudding, my new fav snack, and make pudding shots. One extreme to the next lol.
LEAH: I love you.
DANIELLE: When's the party?
At this point, it becomes real... 
LEAH: Late September.
DANIELLE: Gotcha. I'm pumped for pudding. Every time I eat it I wonder what it is...?
LEAH: OMG, this is my favorite convo ever.
DANIELLE: Like, how do you make it from scratch without Jello mix?
LEAH: I have no idea. Maybe it's like the sun. Another state of matter entirely. Not a solid or liquid or gas. PLASMA!
DANIELLE: What is it? Milk sugar eggs flour vanilla cocoa heat it on stove or something.
LEAH: Plus magic. And sorcery.
DANIELLE: Absolutely because those ingredients also make cookies and this isn't a cookie.



As a result of all of this nonsense, I have
a) spent 2 hours not doing work
b) laughed so hard that my abs are in serious pain
c) jumped on my bed in glee
d) tentatively scheduled a pudding party for late September

I call that a win.

XO-LKW

PS: I WANT TO GO TO STORYVILLE SATURDAY NIGHT. SOMEONE MAKE THIS HAPPEN.

Last Friday Night

Three books in one weekend? Why yes, I'd love to. #booklove #challengeaccepted #booksaremorereliablethanmen @bennettmendez @writer -- Leah (@McCrae)

digestive epiphany / mama wyner rules

After 36 hours of vomiting, I have found the answer.

No more weight loss programs. No more vitamins. No more carbs, or no carbs, or high protein, or low protein, or massive amounts of whatever vegetable I fancy. It's much simpler than that.

As it so happens, the only thing fierce enough to shock my digestive system back into functioning is my mother.

If you've met my mother, you understand. She's a force of nature. You don't cross her. Two years ago she came to watch a 7th grade poetry event. One student that I sent out every day for three months for cussing me out started to be rude. I say "started to be rude" because she didn't get to finish. Once my mother caught wind of the tone of voice this student was using, she raised her eyebrows, said, "Excuse me?" and this girl cowered in fear. COWERED IN FEAR. I mean she shrunk back, wide-eyed, and ran out of the room. If you work with me, and you want to know which student this was, just ask. She just graduated 8th grade. Unless she was held back, I don't know.

Back to my intestines. I've had a fucked up digestive system for most of my life. There's no rhyme or reason to it. As a child, doctors tried to figure it out. I don't really think they did. They made me drink this stuff that tasted like chalk so my stomach glowed. Well... that might not be what happened. I am remembering this through my seven year old eyes. In any event, throughout my life, on multiple occasions, my insides stop working. Food comes out incorrectly through either or both ends. It's awful.

The epiphany began at around noon today. I was lying on the floor of my bathroom, head propped up on a pillow, playing words with friends. By this point, I figured I'd shorten the commute to the toilet. Something odd occured to me... The only thing I hadn't puked up in the last day or so was a pupusa. If you don't know, a pupusa is probably the most fattening food ever. It's a Salvadorian GODSEND. Picture a homemade corn tortilla, except as you're making the tortilla, you built in all the things you would normally wrap inside the tortilla. And it's fried. VERY FRIED. There is no reason my body should have processed this food... except that my body knows quality.

The is a list of my thoughts in order: 
Moms know quality.
Moms know quality food.
The pupusa in question was hand made my the mom of a former student.
The pupusa was quality.
I did not puke up the pupusa.
My mom knows quality.
My mom's food must be the cure to my mysterious illness.

My next thought was SHIT. My mom's in Lexington, and there's no gas in my car, and last time I checked, there's no reliable way to vomit while driving without crashing.

Then I remembered the contents of my freezer, carefully wrapped for a time when I wasn't so strictly dieting: EEVB (Existential Experience Veggie Burger) and OCC (Orgasmic Cheese Cake).

I then did what any normal person who's spend the last day vomiting would do: I stuffed myself with my mom's home cooked veggie burgers and cheesecake.

I AM PROUD TO SAY THAT I HAVE SPENT THE LAST 8 HOURS VOMIT FREE.

Fuck diets. Fuck weight loss. Fuck low carb bullshit that prevents me from running. Fuck all of that. I'm going to eat food again.

I just called my mother to tell her this, and her response was hilarious, in that she didn't really respond at all. There was no attempt to explain this phenomenon using science. There was no laughter, no acknowledging the transformative nature of her cooking. She simply said, "We're grilling for Father's Day, what time will you be here?"

LOVE YOU MAMA.

PS: I called her again, read her the blog, and she laughed hysterically at the last part.

Gym Pet Peeves: Judgemental Ladies on Zero Resistance

Judgmental ladies on zero resistance piss me off. You know what I mean. I didn’t specify what area of the gym because you find these ladies everywhere, but there is an epidemic of them in the cardio room, so that’s the example I’ll use.

Picture this: You’re on the treadmill, stationary bike or elliptical, they are right next to you. You’re hauling ass on some insanely high level of resistance, and to the outside world, you appear to be trudging through a mixture of mud, quicksand and molasses. Sometimes it looks like you’re barely moving. Sweat pours down your face. You look like you’ve had the shit kicked out of you. The lady next to you is going buck wild, flying along at a dizzying pace on level .0001. There is nothing wrong with this. To each her own.

But then she leans over and looks at you in her judgy-faced glory, eyes narrowed, lip curled, eyebrows raised, thought bubble above her head containing the words, “Wow, I’m going soooo much faster than you.” You had to go there, didn’t you? Now that you have my attention, I can look at the numbers on your machine and see that I’m working 79,000 times harder than you because I’m 79,000 times stronger, yet you judge me? You somehow think you’re better? Guess what? You’re not pushing yourself. Know how I can tell? You have NO resistance on the machine, and you have enough mental and physical energy to give me the stink-eye. Crank it up a notch and mind your own business.

The worst thing is, it is impossible to ignore these ladies. I’m not talking about the ones who glance over at your machine occasionally. I’m talking about the obnoxious ones who lean over too far and won’t give it up. You can look at my machine all you want if it makes you happy. The issue is that they don’t give it up. If you ignore them, they get bolder. They lean closer towards your machine. I make a big show of looking at the TV in the opposite direction, checking my watch, drinking my water, yet they won’t let up until I make eye contact just to get them out of my personal space.

I have experienced some success with the following reaction. Be warned, this is not for the faint of heart. This is for dealing with a first class obnoxious bitch who really won’t leave you alone. Allow her to give you the condescending eye. Wait 10 seconds. Then look at the numbers on her machine. Don’t glance. Turn your entire face, partially turn your shoulders, and stare at the digital display on her machine for at least 6 seconds. Then, do the same thing with your own machine. Look at her legs, pretending to gauge the pace. Look down at your own legs. Look at some spot in between both sets of legs, so you appear to be comparing the respective paces. Look back at her numbers. Look at your own. Raise your eyebrows, curl your lips into a hint of a smile, and nod slightly.

If you follow my instructions perfectly, the following thought bubble will appear over your head:

“Hmm… No wonder your legs are moving so much faster than mine… You have your machine set at the easiest level. Well, good for you, joining a gym for the first time. We all had to start somewhere.”  

Why I'm PUMPED for Les Mis

I have so much to do I can barely function. Instead of doing any of it, I'm going to write this.

1. Russell Crowe as evil inspector Javert? PERFECT. He is just so perfectly mean smarmy gross dirty calculating evil. He even LOOKS icky. 
2. Anne Hathaway as Fantine = perfect. She can do anything in my eyes. Plus, she has this very earnest, honest face, all smooth lines and pale. She looks as I'd imagine Fantine to look. 
3. Amanda Seyfried as grown Cossette. YES. When I saw she was in it, I was terrified that she was playing Eponine, which would be awful, because Amanda Seyfried is too sweet. She has those big, open eyes that even made her idiotic character in Mean Girls seem endearing. She's lovely. She can sing. She can hold her own next to Channing Tatum. That is unrelated, but oh well. Cossette is a character that's complicated. You have to simultaneously want to be her, save her, and pity her. Seyfried can pull it off. 
4. Hugh Jackman is hot, and not pretty boy hot. Perfect. 
5. Sacha Baron Cohen as Thenardier? Win. He'll be creepy perfect evil. Hopefully, he'll actually disappear into the role, which would be just as cool. 
6. Helena Bonham Carter as Th's wife. She has proven time and time again that she can do evil wench. I rest my case. 
7. Anne Hathaway's voice doesn't have too much vibrato, which is actually a nice change. I wish more people sounded like Norah Jones. The British broadway revival from a while back was so full of vibrato I was bored. 
8. There is never enough Les Mis. Make it. Remake it. Wait five years. Do it again. 

I can't wait. I was raised on Les Mis. My mother played the soundtrack during my entire childhood. When my father and I saw it in London it was an existential experience. I await the day when I can add a new version of the soundtrack to my already excessive collection. 

NOTE: For those of you who are new to Les Mis, googled it, and are reading the synopsis skeptically, allow me to reassure you of one thing. Within the context of the story, it totally makes sense that Valjean goes to jail for 6 years for stealing bread. Yes, it's f-ing ridiculous, but once you're into the story, you can suspend disbelief. It won't seem at all odd. 

Dear Selena Gomez

Dear Selena Gomez,

Your 50 Shades of Grey parody is hilarious. I knew it would be. For a rich, annoying little Disney star who says things like, "I don't work out, I'm just genetically blessed," you have decent comedic timing.

Sidenote: Never, ever say that again. First of all, your time will come. It happens to all the girls who could eat like horses without consequences. Second of all, you're dating the Biebs. Don't you have enough haters? Think about your safety, little one. 

Seriously though, what the hell were you thinking? Did you forget that your fan base consists largely of adolescents? Did it not occur to you that YOU making a parody would instantly bring this book series onto their mascara-smudged radar?

Until now, our students have remained ignorant to the smoldering ways of Christian Grey, and their ignorance has been our bliss. You see, Selena, few things are sacred in this media saturated society. Our kids can find anything on the internet. They are also often unsupervised, because their parents are working multiple jobs. Who can blame them? If it comes down to feeding your children and making sure they aren't traumatized by that scene from season two of True Blood where all the citizens of Bon Temp go apeshit and sodomize each other with various root vegetables, well... You have to feed your kid, as terrifying as that sounds.

Truthfully, it sucks. Nothing is off-limits. They read Perez Hilton. They watch dozens of R movies. Today, one of my seventh grade boys was wearing a shirt that said, "Fangtasia," and I didn't even have to play it cool because we've already had the conversation. You know the one: Yes, I'm a grown up. Yes, I have a life outside of school that involves shorts that are shorter than bermudas, and sometimes I watch TV shows and movies that I wouldn't use as reference points in class discussions. No, I will not comment on most areas of this life, because even though I teach you to write narrative, there are boundaries. Because the world sucks, this conversation was over and done with in October. I wish I'd never had to have it. Do you see why this is frustrating? I can't even have my way past creepy giant hot blonde Swede fictional vampire obsession to myself.

But Christian Grey? He fell in their blind spot. No one knew about his twitchy palm. And now they do.  Or they will. And that's your fault.

Maybe you can help me out. How do I answer their questions? Here is a list of things they might ask. If you would, please type out a grammatically flawless response, organized in paragraphs by main idea.

1. What is a twitchy palm?
2. Do my parents have a sex contract?
3. Is this at all related to the Rihanna song S&M?
4. What is a butt plug?
5. How do vibrators work?
6. What's an hard limit?
7. You can get a shot instead of taking a pill for birth control? What other kinds of birth control are there?
8. What are cable ties?

Please respond as soon as possible. I anticipate backlash from your impulsive decision will be immediate, widespread, and awkward.

Love,
Pissed Off Teacher

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.

soooo tiredddddd

IF I make it through this year i am going to throw myself a partyyy

I found the meaning of life! It involves running and sex. I'll bet no one is surprised.

Over February vacation, I found the meaning of life. It began with pilates. 

I fucking love pilates. There's no other way to express it. I love it. The way people love their husbands and babies? That's how I feel about pilates. Two weeks ago, a skeezy guy hit on me at a bar and I told him I was engaged to a pilates reformer machine. He stared at me for 30 seconds, then laughed hysterically, then told me he wished all rejections were that creative. I LOVE PILATES. 

The other day, I was running 11 miles, and well.. Okay, I should clarify. I left my house with the intention of running 7 miles. I hadn't run in almost 2 months, because I was still in the honeymoon phase of my relationship with pilates... you know the one, where you forget all your other friends and only hang out with your new love.  I left my house, ran to Comm, turned onto the carriage lane and TOOK OFF. I mean, almost full 5k race pace. I ran. Cars drove across Harvard. I sprinted through traffic. People yelled FUCK YOU out car windows and honked. I waited to slow down into my usual distance pace but it didn't happen. 

By the time I hit Packard's Corner, I realized that I was running way more than 7 miles, so I ran into the gym and chugged a liter of water. I kept running, stomach sloshing, heart racing, stupid-looking "I just got laid" grin across my face (sidenote: I had NOT just gotten laid). 

You know how after a heavy night of drinking at a couple of different bars, someone says something and you think, "Wait, what? We went where? I just remember we ended up at Grendel's Den." That's how this next part goes. I know I ran over the BU Bridge and up Memorial, but it's blurry. I remember bits and pieces in flashes. Girl wearing same spandex as me / overweight Tom Brady lookalike smoking weed under bridge / MIT / little arcs of light from street lamps on the river. I kept waiting to slow down, but it didn't happen, and then I was hauling ass across the Longfellow into Beacon Hill and HOLY SHIT I FELT AWESOME. At around four miles, I looked down at my watch and realized I was running 7:45 pace. Conor, Hil, and the few other people who know my running history will understand why I was terrified. I was always a distance runner, but I was never that great. I ran the first 4 of 11 miles at almost my high school 5k race pace. I STILL HAD 7 MILES TO GO. 

I had forgotten what runner's high felt like. Nothing compares. Granted, I've never done any hard drugs, but I once had 5 different forms of weed and a shitload of absinthe in my system at once and became completely convinced that I could freeze time, still nothing compares to the feeling of runner's high. It was like fucking flying. It was like sex, on those occasions when you can just keep going and going and going and then take a 5 minute break to eat ice cream and then keep going again. The coolest part of runner's high is that it enables you to defy the laws of physics. When you're really high, and I mean floating over pavement so fast and in the zone you can't read street signs, elevation doesn't matter. You run up a hill, down a hill, on flat ground, over little hills, and it all feels the same: like you're flying. It's supernatural. 

If you're a runner, you know what comes next. You know that, despite spending 12 hours a week at the gym for the two months prior, my legs were not ready for all that impact at once. You know that I broke golden law of running by disregarding the 10% rule (only increase mileage by 10% each week), and you know that what was coming to me. What goes up must come down, and I crashed. 

First the knees turned to jelly. Triceps went next, and suddenly I couldn't propel myself nearly as fast. What felt like flying five minutes prior now felt like doing jumping jacks with lead weights glued to my hands and feet. By the time I got to the Storrow side of the BU bridge, I was incapable of coherent thoughts. Every footfall sent shocks through me. I felt the impact in every bone, every time. 

This was not the first time I have run 11 miles out of nowhere, so I was accustomed to this to a certain degree. However, this was the first time I ran 11 miles out of nowhere and ran the first four at 5k race pace. That added a new dimension to the pain. 

There is a tiny hill as you approach the Harvard footbridge on the esplanade that kills me every time. It's like the tiny hill right before you hit Kenmore Square in the Boston Marathon. It's so insignificant you wouldn't notice it in 4-inch stilettos, but after running Heartbreak Hill, it feels like someone's smashing your quads with a hammer. This tiny Harvard footbridge lead-up hill was terrifying. If you've experienced it, you're laughing at me, but wincing on the inside, because you know how ridiculous it is yet how right I am. It can't be more than 20 feet long, and the rise is probably 5 feet total. But it ended me. I reached the top, wobbled, and debated asking a stranger to carry me to Cambridge street and call a cab for me. 

At this point, something amazing happened. I started this rant talking about pilates, and this is why: in this moment, PILATES SAVED MY INEXISTENT ASS. The only comparison I can think of is when you slide over ice and you feel the antilock brakes kick in, you literally feel them grind, shift, and lock into place. I felt the pilates kick in. My shoulders dropped down and back. My ribs laced together and locked into place with a clank I imagined because by this point, in my mind, I was picturing myself as Bumblebee in Transformers. It was incredible. My legs couldn't lift themselves, but my abs could lift them. My core shifted into gear. It was like before, all my muscles were working independently of each other, and then they were working together. It wasn't runner's high. It was pilates high. 

YES. I WENT THERE. 

Sidenote: Michelle, I understand if you need to take a break to wipe the tears of pride from your eyes. 

The rest of the run was about 9:30 pace. I got home, drank a gallon of water, and proceeded to chug chocolate sauce straight from the bottle. I am in no way ashamed of this. 

The moral of the story: I found the meaning of life: Running, pilates, dessert, and sex. 

February Vacation Reflections

Prepare for some deep thoughts.

1. Every runner is a nerd. Every runner with a heart rate monitor is a nerd on steroids. This has got me thinking... How many calories does sex burn? Would it be appropriate to wear my heart rate monitor while having sex? I think for most people it would be, but then again, anyone sleeping with me is clearly okay with a whole lot of weird awesomeness...

2. Sparkles rock.

3. After 7 weeks without beer or distance running, I invited both back into my life. I didn't miss beer, or drinking, but OH MY SWEET GOD I've missed you, running shoes! Is there a Kayano fan club I can join? What marathon should I train for next? I saw a 90 dollar pair of subzero spandex in a store window today and I swear to God, I got turned on. If I never drink again, then I can spend all my drinking money on SPANDEX. 

4. Soon, there is going to be an Ikea in Somerville. On the weekend it opens, I vote we spend the first part of the day at Ikea, and the second part of the day doing a Somerville Irish pub crawl. We end at the Burren, where 40 year-old people will get inappropriately drunk and grab us as we scream along to the band onstage. Good plan? Yes. 

5. Dirty Disney Part 2 is happening the first weekend in April. Get ready. I may go as Lumier, the candlestick from Beauty and the Beast. I have a metallic gold bikini, and I'm going to go from there. I did not purchase the bikini for this party... I already owned it, obviously. The bottom was a captain's gift for cross-country senior year of HS. I'm pretty sure Hilary spearheaded that effort. I mean, you tell me Hil, was it your idea? I can't imagine anyone else calling J. Crew and requesting to have "Capt. Leah" embroidered on the crotch of a gold bikini bottom. 

6. I am a terrible human being who never visits people ever. It's awful. It began in college, because I stayed in Massachusetts the whole time. For 4 years, everyone visited me, especially because for the last 3, I had an apartment in downtown Boston, which is extremely handy when you're back from college and you need to get away from your parents. Then, I moved to... Brookline. Then... Boston (Brighton). Essentially, the last 12 years have consisted of everyone I love coming straight to me, and me never reciprocating. Well GET READY PEOPLE. I'm coming. Starting with you, Hilary. And if you have to study, I'll just go on a 15-mile run around Albany. I've never been to New York, aside from New York City. Gotta start somewhere. 

7. I have been known to buy shirts and wear them as dresses. It's part of the package when the package (me) has no torso. For once, I bought a dress, not a shirt, and 7 people asked me if I was wearing a shirt as a dress. After careful thought and consideration, I've decided to stop buying dresses at all, and wear only shirts-as-dresses from now on. I hope my father does not read this blog. Shit. Now that I typed that, he will. Bring on the witty one-liners about my clothing being too revealing. Sigh. Nostalgia. 

8. How I Met Your Mother is awesome.

9. The Hong Kong is awesome. I am speaking about the one in Faneuil specifically, but this applies to the one in Harvard Square as well, although not as much. If you've been there, I'm sure you've at some point made a comment like, "It's fun, but...." I know I have. But at the end of the night, when you're with good people, in a fun place full of scorpion bowls and people selling meat on a stick, you realize how amazing this place truly is. I haven't been there since my fake birthday in July after being motorboated by about 12 drag queens, and you know what? HONG KONG ROCKS. End of story. No buts.

10. In related news, Bell in Hand is going on my list of bars I only go to on nights before major Christian holidays. 

Quote Art Inspired by Pinterest

This is by no means monumental, as I have known how to do this for ages. In fact, I've probably been able to do this since the era of the illegally-obtained copy of Adobe Photoshop 7.0 borrowed from Rose and loaded on my Dell (THROWBACK).

However, I was inspired by this post on Pinterest. I figured, why not see if I still love Photoshop? The answer is Yes. I do.

Me? Behave? (Stolen from my Students)

7 Reasons to Check Out Michelle's Pilates Blog

Spandex or Not

1. Pilates is amazing. 
2. The more you know, the better you are, the harder it gets, the stronger you get. 
3. Pilates both prevents and treats imbalances. 
4. Pilates made me a better runner... in a big way. 
5. If you're a dude, pilates will make your obliques tasty, which will make me want to tear my clothes off and have my way with you. 
6. Michelle is amazing in every way. 
7. JEWS RULE. 

PS: SCROLL down the right side and vote for her next blog topic. Do it. 

wise words

Word Vomit 1/29

ONE: Saw the biggest boobs ever at the gym. Like, HUGE. She was prancing around. I was uncomfortable.

TWO: I joined a 45 day fitness challenge. Essentially, next week I meet with a trainer, get my shit measured, make a schedule, and make my ass stick to that schedule. There are prizes... which sucks, because I won't win them, because there's no way I'll win the most body fat lost, or most inches, because I'm already pretty small... But I guess that's a good problem to have. I'm just looking for a team, you know? A group of people working towards a common goal. I miss having a team.

THREE: I am obsessed with the Vampire Diaries. I don't care what you say. I LOVE IT. OMG no they can't kill that person. NO. This person is one of my favorite characters, one of the characters that had the most significant, interesting character development... NOOO!

FOUR: Every year I get so much better at teaching. Every year I am overwhelmed by all that I didn't do right at the beginning of the year, and how much shit I'm going through daily as a result of it.

FIVE: Out of curiosity/boredom/purposeful procrastination, I weighed myself ten times from 3:30 p.m. and now (9 p.m.). My weight changes a LOT each time.


SIX: 

Miss, I'm going to call you Miss G, because you're such a G. I love you. You're so chill. Even when you give me detentions, you're chill. 

SEVEN: I overheard a colleague today say, "You know, it's not cold at all, it's just normal January weather. We're just not used to it. We're spoiled. It's too bad we had all those warm days." I realize that all of he factual statements in this dialogue are grue, but I take issue with the last sentence. On December 3rd, I ran in a tank top and shorts. I wouldn't trade that for anything. Plus, who the F cares enough to psychoanalyze? IT'S COLD. IT SUCKS. WE COMPLAIN. This is not rocket science.

EIGHT:  

I hope I have the energy to go to yoga tomorrow. I adored it last time. 90 minutes of a super flexible middle-aged man pressing my legs into positions I never thought they could achieve. Seriously. That is not sarcasm. I loved it. 

NINE: 
It is now three days later. I did not go to yoga. I could go in an hour, but I just got out of bed for the first time today (at 3 p.m.), and I'm not sure I'm emotionally prepared to leave the house in 30 minutes. 

TEN: I need to write a blog about the Burren. It is always an experience. 

ELEVEN: 
I'm sick and tired of people bitching at me when I say I like a TV show, musician, activity, or anything else that they don't like. What's your problem? Why do you have to be such a hater? I don't bitch about your likes and dislikes unless you go on the offensive. For instance, if you say, "I love the Yankees!" I say, "GO SOX" and that's the end of it. If you say, "I love the Yankees, SOX SUCK, so do you, grow a pair and get some goddamned common sense when it comes to baseball," then I'm going to yell at you because you're a dick. 

To be fair, I am 100% weirdo. If you've met my mother, you understand completely. Not only did I inherit most of her eccentric obsessions, I also inherited her confidence. I'm not saying I run around screaming that I speak fluent sci-fi geek, but when it comes up in conversation, I wear my crown with pride. There are no "closet obsessions" or "guilty pleasures" in my life. Everything is out in the open. I have on occasion been referred to as Leah "TMI" [not putting my last name so my students stay ignorant of this blog]. Whether you like it or it makes you want to punch me in the fact, it's not changing. Though I do wonder: If you want to punch me in the face, why are you reading this blog? Oh. It's because you're avoiding productivity like I am. I can respect that. Carry on. 

I don't yell at you when you go on and on about Harry Potter. If you ask me, I respectfully explain my position, highlighting all the reasons why I dislike the series. However, I will also tell you all the reasons I think the series is good (most of which revolve around my students, and how reluctant readers  often find a literary love in the books). 

I don't judge you for watching Jersey Shore. Dancer Stef is one of my best friends, and she is OBSESSED. I mean, she probably owns all of their memoirs. She even has a calendar. Though truthfully, that makes perfect sense to me. Abs are abs, regardless of the face attached. yes, you can quote me on that. When it comes to Jersey Shore, I won't explain my opinions in great detail because... are you ready for this... I don't know that much about it, so rather than spew ignorance syphoned from partially or fully-illiterate gossip websites, I just say, "Not my thing." I will tell you three things: ONE-- I tried to watch the first episode, but I couldn't make it to the part where Snookie gets punched. It was too boring. TWO-- I appreciate Jersey Shore as a sociological, cultural, historical reference point. Yes, I am my father's daughter. THREE-- I have trouble watching reality TV in general. I struggle with the structure.

So make your opinion known in a calm way, and move on. Really. 

TWELVE: 
I found a doctorate program I'd love to get into. I'm going to make it happen. Any GRE advice? I haven't taken any standardized tests since the MTELs, which are not exactly on the same level, from what I can gather. Anyone have textbooks they want to donate / let me borrow for an extended period of time?

Thirteen:
I hate that facebook groups related posts together and says, "18 of your friends posted about _____." In no way do I need to know how many people are posting about Tom Brady, or Kim K, or Christmas. I have even LESS of a need to know the exact number of people.

FOURTEEN:
Walked into work at 6:57 today. WIN. Let's make it a habit. 

2012: No Bullshit / GTFO of my life

2012: The year of No Bullshit. It's been a long time coming. I guess I've just realized that I have so little time and energy that I can't afford any bullshit.

I've changed a lot. Being a teacher makes you value your free time more than ever before. Especially teaching in my district, with 7 classes and almost no prep time. There is no "leaving my work at work" for me. Instead, there are 3-4 hours of work at home in addition to the actual teaching.

I don't take shit from anyone. I used to be nice. I used to be the kind of person who calmly explained that I wasn't interested to the guy with his hands on me at the bar. I used to be the kind of person who made appropriate small talk if the person next to me on the train started a conversation. I used to be the kind of person who did all those things and more, because I was calm, nice, mellow, and understanding.

No more. On many days, I am treated terribly by adolescents and adults alike. I love my job, I do, but when your days are like mine, you have no patience for bullshit.

This is a quote from a dear friend:

2012 all unnecessary people will no longer be allowed to participate in my life. So if you find yourself not hearing from me or I stop responding then most likely I have identified you as as one of these people and your services are no longer required.

So here's the deal:

1. If I call/text/email/whatever on a couple of occasions, in an attempt to hang out with you, and you don't respond, you won't be hearing from me anymore.
2. If you are upset with me for some reason, and choose to be passive aggressive and ignore me rather than explaining how you feel, we're done. If you don't have the maturity to be honest and open, I want nothing to do with you.
3. If you stop being the kind of person I want in my life, you won't be a part of it. You're someone else's problem now.

Your number will be deleted from my phone, and you will be deleted from my life. I won't make a big deal out of it. In fact, I won't say anything about it at all, because guess what? You've wasted too much of my time already.

Good riddance. I'm cleaning house.

One more thing: If you are reading this, and you are worried, don't be. If I am seriously worried about our friendship, I will tell you. The people I am referring to above... I'm talking about a repeated, blatant, careless lack of respect. You do not fall into this category.

Word Vomit part 3

Random Thoughts in No Particular Order

IDEA: Why don't we forget this "Make resolutions once a year" bullshit? Two days ago, my grandma called me to wish me a shana tova. This means Happy New Year in Hebrew, and is typically what we say on Rosh Hashanah, which is in Tishrei, typically September on our calendar. That got me thinking... Does it really matter when we make goals, as long as we make them? And more importantly, does it really matter when we make goals, as long as we actually try to accomplish them?

GOAL: I'm taking my life back. No more working 20+ hours a week outside of school. None of it. I need a life.

GOAL: I just watched the trailer for the Vow, and now I must watch every movie Channing Tatum has ever been in. I don't care if you judge me. I will be the first person to admit that Nicholas Sparks is a mediocre writer. But let's face it: Mediocre novels often turn into wonderful movies starring Channing Tatum, Ryan Gosling, etc.

PREMONITION: ME, CUT. I don't mean "oh, a slight shadow of a line down her abs" or "Nice legs" or "Looks great when Dancer Stephanie spends 10 minutes posing me in a bikini and adjusting the lighting" I mean CUT. I want to be strong. I want to be able to run Heartbreak and be only minimally sore. I want to use more than the "girly" weight in body pump class. I'm going to do it. You know why? First, Dad bought me a pilates reformer package for Hanukkah (HELL YES). Second, Michelle has a fantastic blog about working out, so even when I'm lazy I can learn. Third, I'm making this decision on January 2nd, as opposed to my usual panicked decision time which is... When do I usually panic? Oh! Right after the carbohydrate festival that is Passover! We were doing shots on a Kibbutz when I asked the Israelis how they stay so fit and you know what their response was? "We never eat Matzah Ball soup or latkes. Shit's fucking toxic." Anyway, get ready. I am proud of my body right now, and I already prance around looking like a complete harlot as a result of this pride. When I LOVE my body... It's going to be bikini-time 24/7 this summer.

SIDENOTE: Has anyone else noticed that once you lose a significant amount of weight, sometimes you DON'T want to wear so little? My whole life I've loved my legs and hated the rest of myself, so I became very good at dressing accordingly. Now, though... I'm just happy with myself, so I... cover up? The other da I went to a bar in jeans and a long-sleeved sweater. This became a problem when the night turned into a 2-hour dance party. This problem was exacerbated by the music choice: exclusively songs I loved in middle school and high school. Read: I know all the dance moves by heart.

GOAL: I want to do things on the weekend. I mean real things. Not just occasionally going out to bars or running. I mean GOING PLACES. Maybe I'll climb mountains. Or start volunteering with Hadassah. Does anyone know anything about Hadassah? Apparently my great-grandma all but created it, yet I have no clue what it is other than the fact that they spam me with emails constantly.