In Defense of Being Basic | What’s the Crime in Liking Pretty?
I like things that are pretty and pleasant. So what’s wrong… and why is that “basic?” I don’t get this obsession with women tearing down other women just for the sake of “being basic.” What does that even mean, anyway? Since when did liking “pretty” things become an acceptable social pillory?
I discover new music through sites such as Pandora and Spotify. I’m generally going to have to Google an acronym or meme, after which I’ll probably adopt it for a wee spell. I stalk Anthropologie’s tag sales and have my eBay search filters to isolate the Anthro brands I love… and I go into bid frenzy when the $298 dress is listed for $80. Sometimes, in moments of weakness, I purchase full price, then admonish myself for the splurge.
I snap with filters; I even Snap filter my poor dog. #OhEdie. Yep, I made a hashtag for my dog. #Dogmom

I go on Tinder and Coffee Meets Bagel dates, and swipe right far too happily on the former app after three glasses of wine. Colors as follows: red in the winter, rose in the spring, and alternating that pink and whites when it’s stupidly sweaty hot in the summer. 

I dance and twirl in my living room listening to found-on-Spotify songs and while drinking that wine (pre, during, or post swipes) while Edie alternately watches in horror or goes to hide under the bed. My hair is ridiculously long; I like Essie’s nude/pink nail laquers; I live and die by my Urban Decay under eye concealer.  Dreams are filled with visions of DryBar blowouts that make my hair so big, curly, and bouncy. And, I rejoiced when my Yelp profile was upgraded to “elite.”

Fact is, I can go on and on about so many insignificant things about me that someone can choose to cut down for my lack of ambition to be cutting edge and bold. Oh… I didn’t even go to what would be considered impressive schools. But, these are my happiness and bank withdrawals, so where’s the harm and foul? I’m not smug, and I’m not intentionally tangential.

I say bring it on, and while I’m allowing myself the carbs, how about I have some white bread on the side, too? You got me, there, I ALWAYS let myself have carbs (cellulite is out of control)! On that note, I need to go back to grading some papers. Oh, my MacBook is probably an indictment, too, but I’ll put on record I’ve been an Apple gal since my folks bought me a IIC in 1985/6 so I think I have a pass to have my Apple obsession without a side of snark. :o)

Seriously, let’s all just lay down some of the snark – my Lord knows I am guilty, there, too. We have so much rage, sadness, fear, and chaotic confusion happening right now, adopting a PSL philosophy to life might not be a bad thing (but I do draw the line at actually ordering PSLs – I think it’s entirely a thing to do with it still being over a 100F when PSL season comes about and I cannot reconcile the two).

So, what is so wrong with being basic?




My Rebuttal to Aging Gracefully
My rebuttal to my sweet friends who attempted to convince me that being denied purchase to a cheap $9 red blend from Trader Joe’s is because I look so youthful. <<Psssh.>> My rebuttal to the guy who was in line behind me was lobbying to the associate who thought it a good idea to card me that I apparently looked well over the age of legal consumption (thanks, Captain Frigging Obvious)… was probably just trying to flirt with me last night. <<Grrr!>>
But, seriously, even my mom agreed, there comes a time when carding someone is no longer a compliment. It’s a demonstration of complete absence of any critical thinking, and is just frigging ridiculous, and not even laughable.
Yes, at my age, I should have my driver’s license in my wallet. But, last night, I did not. It was an on-sale, $9 bottle blend. It was California, 2008, and a combo of syrah, zinfandel, and cabernet grapes. It was not going to be excellent… it was $9. BUT, I wanted it. Because I had a busy, crappy day. I had rice crackers, a bag of organic lettuce, wedge of blue cheese, a bunch of irises, and pre-made pizza dough in the basket. I wasn’t trying to buy schlitz or goldschlagger. Clearly, I did not look like I was trying to throw a party… at least nothing other than a pity party… actually, not even that. Just a come-down-get-through-hump-day personal party. My rebuttal to the immediately remorseful cashier who requested identification proof of my age… <<I’m fine being denied sale, I understand. *Sigh*>>
My rebuttal to the friend who expressed that good music is timeless and to not be freaked out that I heard NIN on “The Mix” radio station on Monday; the same radio station that also plays Kelly Clarkson. <<eye roll>>

 My rebuttal to aging. No!
My rebuttal to my friend who attempted to explain to me that my super sore knee following my hike of the Superstitions on Saturday (as my dad would say, that gave me a “whupin'” — and that particular hike is supposed to give everyone a beating) is a result of a grueling workout, because “muscles are supposed to be sore.” <<None – I was too whupped.>> Well, yes, muscles should be sore after an ass beating, but the cartilage in knees isn’t soft tissue, so I can’t really take, although I appreciate, the rationalization. I will be walking Pat’s Run this year….

An Introduction to Pure Barre and Futility of Fitness Rage

Breaking up is hard to do. Two years after I fell in love with At One Yoga, the location near my condo closed, and I found myself paying close to $200 a month to only go one or two times per month. All without the benefit of a private class. A hard decision had to be made.

 In anticipation of the breakup I scooped up new member deals on studios around Central Phoenix. I intended to “date” other studios in effort to find one I love as much as I loved At One. With curiosity, I picked up a two week membership to Pure Barre, a Bar Method-type workout studio that I had been curious about checking out for a while now.


The class was only one hour long. But! I’m pretty confident I lost my right muffin top in just the one session, but at a cost, mind you. This workout is consistent isometric exercises for an hour. An hour that can break me.

That red ball!

You see, there was this little, red ball.

We were instructed to hold it in between our upper thighs for most of the workout, which meant I was always squeezing. And tucking my hips, and lifting my knees or my feet, or crunching, or planking, or, or, or…. I grimaced. I sweated.

I shook and twitched and spasmed throughout the entire workout.

And the way-too-adorable-instructor, Melanie, kept telling me that was a good thing! And kept telling me that I was doing great, which was horrible, because the more that little thing praised me, the more I wanted to do to get more praise and kudos, ugh!

Delightful, tiny, instrument of squishy torture. Pure Barre, Pure Fitness Rage.

I was squeezing, and tucking, and lifting, and crunching, and planking.

And between all the squeezing, and tucking, and lifting, and crunching, and PULSING, and planking, I wanted to grab the little, red, ball from between my inner thighs and throw it at her cute, younger-than-me-maybe 26(?)-year-old-face to make her stop talking and telling me to squeeze, or tuck, or lift, or crunch, or PULSE, or plank.

But, not only were my legs quivering but my arms, too, because those were the first victims of the lifting and pulsing workout. My arms were so jello-y that I probably would have missed with my aim. And, I also decided that I was just too tired to resist, that resistance was actually futile. I squoze, and tucked, and lifted, and crunched, and planked… and remembered that I not only signed myself up for this, I paid for it.

I know now how the Nazis occupied Europe and the Romans ruled such a vast empire. They had the red ball and a ballet bar and just exhausted everyone into submission. Heck, it worked for me.

I was sucker punched.
I had NO IDEA what the hell I was signing up for, and I actually called sweet, cute, fellow Lululemon-loving Melanie-my-instructor a She Devil last night.
To her face.
And then she asked me, way perky-like, if I would be back.
And I said, absa-freaking-lutely. Besides, I need to whittle off my left muffin top, now, to balance my skinnier, right, side.

That blasted ball is a torture device!!! When I regain any sensation in my arms, I’ll return to the studio for more, and more, and more, and more. Mooooooooooore!!!!

Oh my goodness, can you even?!

XO, Jennifer

fitness rage my own true north