What Makes a Woman Nasty

At sixteen years old, at my very first job, a co-worker three times my age groped me because we were alone together and he had gotten away with it before so he thought he could do it again.

When I was seventeen years old, my biology teacher in my Baptist private school verbally sexually harassed me. The pastor of the church and dean of the school called me a liar and a few months later I was kicked out in the middle of my junior year.

At my first job out of college, at a very prominent global law firm, I was continually told I needed to smile more, that I needed to "look pleasant."

The next year at a different law firm, I was repeatedly sexually harassed by a lawyer I worked with. I finally got the courage to tell him to stop when he asked what color panties I was wearing. 

Last year I was raped by a man who is currently "serving our country" as a soldier and secret service agent on the Secretary of Defense's detail.

At the age of twenty-seven, when I asked for a well-deserved raise and title change, my male boss told me that I was "very bold" and that I wouldn't be getting the promotion.

Throughout my career I have been called "sweetie" and "honey" by men who didn't see me as anything more than a pair of tits and a skirt and certainly not anyone with a brain.

Almost every day I'm whistled at while walking to work by men who think I'm there for their viewing pleasure, by men who think I should be grateful that they find me attractive.

You tell me not to take this election personally. You tell me to sit down, shut up, and get over it. I've been doing that for twenty-seven years and I'm fucking done.

You tell me that it wasn't about gender; gender had nothing to do with it. Gender had everything to do with it. Hillary Rodham Clinton was the most experienced and qualified presidential candidate we have ever had and she lost the job to an inexperienced white man who wouldn't have even passed an HR screening for a job as White House janitor.

I'm taking this personally because I have a niece for whom I would gladly give my life if it meant she would never be touched by a man who thought he was entitled to her body. I'm taking this personally because Hillary represented me and every other woman who has had to listen to men say "the boys will take it from here."  I'm taking this personally because having a Madam President would have propelled us light-years into the future, past oppression and into an era of acceptance and equality for women.

You think you've silenced us. You're wrong. You've united us. You've strengthened us. And you've made us even nastier.

16 Feet and 220 Miles

Let me just preface this post with I don't own a car and I haven't since 2012. I've probably driven three times in the last year. My driving ability can be best described by the below:

So when I went to go pick up my moving truck from the rental company and they told me that they didn't have any 12 footer trucks available, only 16's,  I thought to myself - this is it. This is how it ends. I'm going to die on the New Jersey Turnpike and I won't even be able to will any of my clothes to my sister because they are going to go up in flames along with my body.

So on Monday, October 3rd at 5:15AM I put that sucker in D and slowly merged onto 95N. You guys, I made it. Obviously. And I only hit two things - one parked vehicle (no damage) and some road barricades (they were plastic). Nobody died.

I am never moving ever again. My body is still covered in bruises and I'm pretty sure my entire back is just one big knot. Somebody get this girl a massage.

For those of you thinking about moving, don't. Also, if you think you don't have that much stuff think again because shit will just start coming out of cupboards and closets like it's Narnia.

The next time I have to do this I will have to be heavily medicated or drunk or both because this sucked. But then again it might have all been worth it because check out this view. You guys, NYC has already stolen my heart.

On to the Next

I'm sitting on an air mattress in a completely empty apartment right now - it's my last night here. There are scuffs on the floors and countless nail holes on almost every wall. This place has been lived in well. This place has been a home.

I moved to the DC Metro area almost exactly five years ago. The 10 hour drive from my tiny hometown to here was full of Coldplay songs and ugly cries.  I hated leaving a home where my initials were written in cement in my backyard. Where my best friend lived just down the dirt road. And where you waved at strangers passing on the street. Most of all, I hated leaving behind the comfort of everything familiar and safe.

Living in a place like Washington, DC has taught me more things than even I probably realize right now. But the most important lesson this city has taught me is that I am fiercely independent. In the last five years here I've severed ties with relationships that I had outgrown and I've seen myself heal in places I thought would always be hurting. I've never before felt so wonderfully whole and content. I've never before felt so....me.

And now I'm changing things up again - this time, just for the hell of it.

This place will always have a piece of my heart. Yes, I grew up in Holly, Michigan. But I also did quite a lot of growing up here too. And for that I will always be thankful.

NYC - I'm coming for ya.

What Do You Do?

The running joke in DC. Except it's not a joke. Meet anyone for the first time here and I'd bet you the HH bill that that's the first thing they'll ask you.

So what do I do?

I work in legal marketing. And most of the time, it's not as boring as it sounds. But I'll be the first to admit that this isn't my passion.

I remember growing up and just knowing I wanted to write. All of my friends wanted to be firefighters or teachers or veterinarians but I knew I was going to be a writer. Fast forward to my second semester of my senior year of college (not so quick on the uptake, this one) and I finally came to terms with the fact that I probably wasn't going to be on the NYT's Bestseller List anytime soon. And I was crushed. I hadn't even started anything yet and I felt like I had failed.

So here I am, 27 years old, and I just now figured out that I don't need to have "writer" as my profession on LinkedIn to be a writer. I can use my writing skills at my day job. I can journal. I can write a novel in my spare time (yeah, I'm actually doing that - we'll come back to that). Or I can continue to blog about shit no one cares about (shout out to my three loyal readers, lookin' at you fam).

So maybe life isn't turning out the way you expected. Maybe you feel like you're behind everyone else and you worry if you'll ever catch up. Or maybe you feel like you're too far ahead and you're nervous that someone else hasn't blazed the trail before you. Did you ever stop to think that maybe you were holding yourself back? Or that you are more than capable to blaze that fucking trail yourself?

If you want something bad enough, you'll figure out a way to make it happen. So make it happen. 

Part of my 30 Before 30 Series. You can read Part I here. 

My Body, Your Body

If you didn't instantly start singing Pretty Ricky's 2005 legendary hit upon reading that title, you are lying.

It's ironic that I'm writing about body image because as I type this I'm drinking kombucha and munching on celery sticks. Which in and of itself isn't all that bad except that this is all I've eaten so far today (2:10 PM over here). So it turns out this is still something I'm working on. How timely.

I've struggled with body image for a very long time. I can't tell you how many diets I've been on and exercise programs I've started and only a couple times completed (you can read about one of them here and here). My weight has yo-yo'd all of my life, from 115 (at a time when I was struggling the most with depression and anxiety) all the way to 145 (when I had a constant inner monologue of treat yo self).

It's a work in progress, hence why it's one of my 30 Before 30 goals.

There are parts of my body that I hate (my arms) but also parts that I love (my butt) and even parts that I'm like yeah, okay whatever (hooray for small boobs!). Let's be real, I'm probably never ever going to love my big arms. But I have started to appreciate them. They help me do countless Chaturangas during an hour of yoga in a 90 degree room. I love that I'm one of the few females in my pilates and yoga classes to choose full plank push-ups. So although my arms are not as petite as I'd like them to be, they do a hella good job of getting me through a 6am yoga sesh.

Challenge: pick something you dislike (or even hate) about your body and instead of trying to to use the Snapchat beauty filter or just ignore its existence altogether, find a way to appreciate that part of you.

And if you can't do this for you, do it for the little girls who call you mommy, gramma, or auntie. We learn to hate our bodies from society so let's try to change the conversation.