Leandra Medine's Blog, page 355

I’ve Never Told Anyone About My Eating Disorder

Trigger warning: This article contains information about disordered eating which may be triggering.

Today was a typical food day: an egg sandwich for breakfast (560 calories), two iced coffees (80 calories), a mid-day smoothie and energy bar combo (520 calories) and grilled chicken with vegetables for dinner (600 calories).

It doesn’t surprise me that I’m able to document that without conducting any research. The library of nutrition labels in my head is just one of the many lingering effects from my high-school experience. I once rolled an apricot between my palms for three hours straight, thinking only of how 17 measly calories would haunt my stomach.

I am poised to graduate college in one week and I have used the words “eating disorder” exactly one time in reference to myself: in an email to my editor. By pitching the idea for this story, Haley knows more about it than my best friends.

I know that sounds odd. Suffering from an eating disorder — or any mental illness, for that matter — is often exhausting and conscious-altering. It has the ability to define major aspects of a person’s life. And yet, I have used the following sentence to describe myself exactly zero times: I was bulimic for three years and also experienced bouts of highly restrictive eating. It was exhausting and conscious-altering. It did define an entire era of my life.

When I was 15 years old, I spent all my time learning how to sharpen my hipbones and treat my bathroom floor like a church pew. I wasted hours worrying about my teeth yellowing from stomach acid and then wasted more by googling the number of calories in Crest Whitestrips. Everything was meticulously counted, scrupulously controlled. My disorder was an unquenchable thirst that masqueraded as a choice. It reinterpreted each time I said, “No thank you, I’m not hungry,” as a perverse declaration of power.

I was never confronted by a wake-up call or an intervention. I’m not sure exactly how I managed to unlearn these habits without ever seeking outside help. It certainly wasn’t easy. All I know is that I’ve fought every day to define my eating disorder as a thing of the past. I close my eyes when the doctor weighs me at my yearly check-ups; I block the “thinspo” accounts that pop up on my Instagram explore page; I see the tiny scars on my knuckles and smile because they’re white, not red.

I attribute a huge part of this success to the friends I’ve made at school. In college, I found people who were my people. I felt like I belonged in our safe little circle of closeness and late-night Doritos feasts. They have, through their support and unconditional love, inadvertently allowed me to become the cliche of “comfortable in my own skin.”

Put most simply, we are there for each other. So it shouldn’t scare me to open up to them about something that feels like it belongs so thoroughly to the past: Hey guys, I restricted my food and threw it back up for the majority of high school. It sucked, but I feel good about where I am now. Just so you know. The moment should have come easily. It never did.

Even though I am lucky and I managed to pull myself out — even though I have dubbed myself Recovered instead of In Recovery — I remember when my palms smelled like apricots. I remember my friend’s dad complimenting my weight loss. I keep the small dresses I once fit into like participation trophies. I am sometimes still overcome with memories of my body like a wasteland and it feels nostalgic, not dangerous.

The grimiest parts of me miss being cold in a warm room. When I am in this mindset, secrecy is huge. It is everything. Because it allows me to dictate my own narrative — to decide when I want to eat (or not) without someone intervening. Never talking about my disorder makes it feel mine. Like it’s interesting and complex in a brooding Breakfast Club-character way. Even without restricting or purging or calorie counting, it allows me to maintain a feeling of control.

And so I dropped weight in silence, I have relapsed in silence and I have recovered in silence.

In trying to convince myself that my eating disorder is completely behind me, I’ve unconsciously nurtured its most sinister symptom. A desire for control can become an excess of restraint. It can become isolation. It has kept my heart hostage. I don’t know if it’s possible to ever be fully recovered, but stepping out of my self-imposed quarantine feels like a step in the right direction.

Living and growing alongside such a strong support system has helped me realize that true love, platonic or otherwise, is all about telling secrets. It’s about trust and hard truths and confessions over wine. It’s exchanging keys to the rooms inside your heads. A fear of vulnerability keeps those doors locked.

Even writing this now, my hands are shaking. Being honest is terrifying. Being honest on the Internet, even more so.

But this is too important not to talk about. Not because I’m afraid that I’ll fall back down the rabbit hole, but because I am still climbing out of it. Because if I stay quiet, I will continue to hold fruit in my hands without ever taking a bite. I will continue to succumb to the illusion that a silent struggle is a noble one. I shouldn’t embarrassed to say that I’m proud when I look at an apricot and see only an apricot.

Collage by Emily Zirimis.

The post I’ve Never Told Anyone About My Eating Disorder appeared first on Man Repeller.

In Defense of Overpacking

It’s all fun and games until someone realizes she forgot to pack underwear. It was very nearly the end of my seven-year-old world the first time it happened to me. I am a strict rule-follower with impeccable hygiene, so despite my careless oversight, “Don’t wear any,” or, “Flip the ones you wore yesterday inside-out,” were not viable solutions. I was the one who had packed this bag; I was the one who had forfeited adult assistance. I was bare-bottomed and stranded — emotionally, sartorially and metaphorically, too hubris-filled to ask the family friends with whom I was staying to make a pit stop at Target. I do not remember the weekend’s outcome, but I’ve packed three pairs for every one overnight since (a five day trip means fifteen pairs, minimum). That is not an exaggeration.

You say over-packer; I call myself a responsible inclusionist. Overweight luggage penalty fees at airlines are baked into my travel budget. My carry-ons are so loaded up that to distribute the excess fat would require a mule. Yet I am never the one who doesn’t have a top that goes with her outfit. I’m never the one who’s cold on a beach vacation when the weather has turned. If one swimsuit’s wet and still drying, I’ve got four more. You forgot one? Here, I lied: I have five. It’s not so much doomsday prepping as it is an “Always Be Prepared” mentality. I pack with all possible outcomes in mind: rainy days, unexpected heat, surprise black-tie occasions and accidental twinning (I hate travel-companion matching). Every outfit also means accompanying shoes, accessories and required underpinnings.

My pajamas are packed just as thoughtfully. What if it’s chilly in the room? What if it’s a thousand degrees? Will there be a documented stay-in night with a heavy Instagram element? 

Then, of course, there are toiletries, and though I’m savvy about how I pack these them (I put foundation, serums, lotions, etc. into old screw-top contact cases), I arrive equipped with a full-size set of my preferred shampoo, conditioner, perfume and shaving cream. I would always rather bear the brunt of my own crap than use the hotel’s life-sucking, rationed-for-a-bald-insect’s excuse for shampoo or worse, that 2-in-1 B.S.

I have heard the well-meaning expression, “stuff ruins trips.” Before it crossed my eardrums, I had a moment of weakness where I might have nearly agreed as I lugged a 65-pound suitcase up five stories in Italy. I had another flash of insanity as I bounced down a series of stone steps on my butt — world’s worst accidental sledding experience — with my suitcase crashing into my back. So much fun. And I know the drill: that when you pack the whole closet, inevitably you’ll end up wearing the same pair of shorts for ten days straight. But these tiny spells are short and fleeting. Schlep misery ends once you’re in the door. Vacations begin, for me, the moment I unzip my duffel and place, one by by one, about twenty pairs of underwear in a new adventure’s drawer.

Illustration by Juliana Vido; follow her on Instagram @julianavido.

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A 20-Year-Old With Endlessly Creative Style

Reese Blutstein is 20 years old; a community-college student in Atlanta, Georgia; and the cool-as-fuq human behind Instagram account @double3xposure. “To me, having style has nothing to do with the amount of money you have,” she writes on her blog. “I believe style has to do with the creativity you put into the outfits you wear with the things you already have.”

It’s hard to think of a better word to describe Reese than cool, but I’ll try: approachable, adorable, genius? She’s the kind of chilled-out style icon you want to both pin to your vision board and be best friends with. Her outfits aren’t stuffy; they’re easy, but without being simple. To Reese, “pants and a tee” are not just pants and a tee.

In her week of outfits, she gets multiple uses out of a memorable pair of wide-leg pants, a graphic tee and a pair of quirky cat-eyes. She doesn’t give a shit about repeating pieces; she’s truly dressing for herself. It’s an enviable, dare I say lovable, approach. Click through above to feel your heart swell, and then maybe follow her on Instagram. I’ll meet you there.

Check out Double3xposure and follow Reese on Instagram @double3xposure.

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Welcome to Man Repeller’s Brand-Spanking-New Site

Hey! If you’re new here, it’s cool that you chose today to visit; we quietly relaunched our site this morning, so you are enjoying a new user experience. Pls do stick around; we have tacos and scrunchies for everyone.

In the event that you are here deliberately as both a frequenter of this site and lover of leopard-print tan lines, you have probably noticed that it looks very different. (The site, not the tan lines.) We’ve spent the past few months working on this redesign alongside the brilliant weirdos at Hard Candy Shell. Maybe you are delighted by some of the changes. For instance, the carousel is gone, and three stories greet you at the top of the page instead.

There is color everywhere. Does it hurt your eyes? We have a grid now instead of an endless scroll of stories. Did you notice the frame around the post pages? How about the little illustrated icons? Too much? Too little? No such thing? There is a new lookbook that allows you to navigate the website by photo, not words, if you prefer seeing to reading. If you’re a reader, though, thank God because we have so many words.

But look, change is hard. I have been so anxious about today that I think I ruined the lining in four different jackets over the last two weeks because the smell of stress sweat never comes out of nylon or silk and that’s a fact. When familiar things start to look different, it’s weird and sticky and very annoying. Banking on what you know is so much easier and more comforting than diving into the cleavage of what you don’t. The first time I realized this was when I got married. I was so sad to leave my parents and their home behind. It took a minute, quite frankly, to adjust. But after I did, I was like, what the fuck was I so scared of? This is awesome. So maybe you feel like an alien now in a place that used to be like home. That could very well enchant you, or maybe you don’t like it at all. It’s okay if you don’t, I understand. Change takes time and it never gets easier, but I assure you that through hell or high-waist pants, Man Repeller is still Man Repeller.

So whatever brought you here before is going to keep bringing you here and with this new layout, the hope is that you’ll stay around longer. Discover stuff you didn’t even know we had. Make new friends. Talk shit about me. Whatever! Because in setting out to redesign our site, the goal was pretty singular: to make it more fun and dynamic and interactive to hang out here. We’ll keep serving up stories and friendships that run a judgment-free gamut from the very personal to the intellectual to the unapologetically shallow. All you have to do in return is you.

(And give us feedback!)

Welcome to the new old Man Repeller.

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Rachel Lindsay’s the First Black Bachelorette. About Time or Way Too Late?

The Bachelorette, ABC’s indefatigable reality staple, returns tomorrow night, bringing with it all your faves: the dramatic rose ceremonies, the “Look at me, I’m Sandra Dee” winking attitude towards sex, the parade of kooky contestants (more people in dolphin costumes, please!).

The show, and its brother program The Bachelor, have successfully melded unscripted schadenfreude and fairy tale romance for over a decade. If the promise of The Bachelorette Season 13 was more of the same, few would be disappointed. But in addition to the dudes in tuxes, the glamorous destination dates and the GIF-worthy reaction shots, the show is teasing something even bigger: a conversation on race.

Famously, neither iteration of the show has had black person as its lead. (Venezuelan Juan Pablo had the distinction of being the first non-Caucasian lead in 2013.) Over 32 seasons of The Bachelorette and The Bachelor, only a handful of black contestants even got to vie for a rose. The last such hopeful, lawyer Rachel Lindsay, is now the first black Bachelorette. Is it about time or way too late?

Last season, when Rachel was a contestant vying for the affection of perpetual runner-up Nick Viall, the show took its first, tentative steps toward a deeper, much needed exploration of an unspoken barrier. Rachel was the first black contestant to receive the first-impression rose. In 13 years, not one black woman had left a mark? Suspicious. The Bachelor/ette franchise is built on a huge suspension of disbelief, but the idea that fairy tales don’t include diverse couplings was growing harder and harder to swallow.

The minds behind the Bachelorette clearly saw the writing on the wall, positioning Rachel from the get-go as a barrier breaker. In anticipation of the first-impression rose, producer Mike Fleiss tweeted, “This history-making, historic announcement could be the most-historic in the history of #thebachelor !!!” It was very subtle. As far as hyperbole goes, one would think Rachel had made first contact with (eligible, hairless, buff) alien life.

Then again, maybe first contact isn’t that farfetched a description of what happened. After all, the idea that a television juggernaut not run by Shonda Rhimes would center a black woman’s experience is still, sadly, revolutionary.

One of the things that makes the Bachelor/ette franchise so bewitching is that it reflects so many truths about our world, particularly the world of dating, that it’s almost cathartic to see them played out for ratings. While a weeknight Tinder date likely does not involve putting on a prom dress and being forcibly kept awake by a producer while plied with booze, modern dating can still feel just as daunting a gauntlet. The show indulges our desire for easy romance (within a rigid, patriarchal, heteronormative system, but still) and corroborates our suspicion that it really shouldn’t be this hard or this absurd.

All of the familiar tropes were brought to the surface in the Lifetime series UnReal, which satirized the dating show concept excellently in its first season. UnReal, like The Bachelorette itself, was a confirmation of what we’d all suspected: that dating is not for the meek and that reality television isn’t actually reality at all. The second season of UnReal focused on a black Bachelor, but something was missing. All of the punch and shock that made the first season so juicy had ebbed out. Perhaps, just as our political situation has taken the teeth out of watching House of Cards, the realities of the gender and racial conversations being had in the world make a satire about a dating show’s diversity moment almost regressive. And so, this is the perfect time for The Bachelorette.

In this post-satirical moment, what unexpected reveals does The Bachelorette have up its sleeve? For her part, Rachel has tread a careful line, promising in interviews to address race head-on while also saying that this is, “my journey in finding love. And whether that person is black, white, red, whatever — it’s my journey. I’m not choosing a man for America, I’m choosing a man for me.” It’s a bit disheartening, but not at all unsurprising, to see the burden for diversity fall to the lone person of color, despite the fact that she is but a cog in a larger system. No one asked JoJo about the race of her suitors. But the conversation is being had, at least, and with the show’s participation, which is a step forward.

In her hometown date with Nick, Rachel and her family questioned whether he actually understood the dynamics of an interracial relationship. True to the form, Nick gave agreeable, plain platitudes about looking past Rachel’s race. Rachel’s family, which includes another interracial relationship, was quick to press him for a deeper, more nuanced answer. Rachel’s mother, in her one-on-one with Nick, told him, with regard to race, “It’s about you two. But society will see it.”

That quote may as well be the tagline of this “historic, history-making” season of The Bachelorette. We want Rachel to fall in love, we want her to find happiness, we want some dudes to get too drunk and embarrass themselves, but we also want to see a reflection of the conflict and conversations we have in our own lives. And we want The Bachelorette to show that it’s had some of those conversations, too. This is, after all, the show that paired Nick with black contestant Jasmine, in whom he was clearly not interested, and then left her to stew in rejection — not cutting her loose, but not giving her any attention. It’s no surprise, then, that Jasmine called Nick out — a move some called “aggressive,” a lighting-rod term for many people of color. The show got its clip, including a meme-worthy moment of Jasmine “choking” Nick. Jasmine got nothing.

In a show built on strategic edits that underscore preconceived notions, quick takes and suspicions, perhaps the best hope for this lucky thirteenth season is that it forgoes any sort of Jasmine edit. Perhaps this season can be a testament to the fact that anyone can find corporately sponsored, fairy-tale love. After all, it’s about the two of them, but society will see it.

Collage by Maria Jia Ling Pitt; photo via Disney ABC Press.

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Don’t Buy a Swimsuit Before Reading This

Is it just me, or did the weather suddenly turn from a confused toddler navigating the terrain of a seasonal change to a sassy teen rebelling against the concept of “transitioning” courtesy of a full-blown, 93-degree, armpit of a heat wave?

I’m actually one of those people who prefers being “too hot” over “too cold,” so my dubious reaction to this impromptu sauna is probably the result of spending two hours literally running — or rather, sprinting (my teammates were very competitive) — around New York City for Man Repeller’s first annual summer kick-off scavenger hunt, which was SO, SO FUN but also so, so sweaty. We wrapped up the hunt at Mr. Purple on the Lower East Side, which happens to have a glistening, perfectly aquamarine pool on its roof deck. I caught myself looking at the pool like a scurvy-riddled sailor might look at half a grapefruit. I would have given my left arm for a swimsuit. Okay, that’s dramatic. Maybe just a fingernail.

Anywho, the first thing I did when I got home was open my laptop and start looking at swimsuits online and adding them to my fantasy shopping cart. During my perusal, I discovered something rather tantalizing, which is that a bunch of perfectly wonderful suits from last season are currently on sale. On SALE! During peak swimwear shopping season! Forget rainbow toast; these are the real unicorns. I broke them down by category for your shopping pleasure, because it’s Mom Month and I’m a fun mom:

Regular bikinis

High-waist bikinis

One-pieces

Don’t forget to put sunblock behind your ears.

Collage by Maria Jia Ling Pitt.

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Tested: Sandals You Can Actually Walk in All Summer

It takes walking approximately 202 steps, or the equivalent of two city blocks, to determine how comfortable your shoes are. I know this to be true because I spent the greater portion of last week walking up and down the streets around my office building wearing several varieties of flat sandals in earnest and with gusto, like the hard-hitting investigative journalist I am, in order to determine the most comfortable styles. Because when the weather is nice and you live in a walking city, your shoes are essentially your car. They need to strike an even balance of comfort and good looks. When you’re dealing in flat sandals, not all shoes are created equal. So I conducted a walking test, pinpointing five different shoe styles. Each would be judged based on comfort and, depending on that, whether they were worth the wear (this worked in both directions; some were extremely comfortable but not particularly exciting to wear, while others were not comfortable at all but maintain the good looks of Jonathan Taylor Thomas).

It is curiously overwhelming to categorize different forms of summer sandals (there are so many: Are slides different from mules? Are cross straps different from a single bar that fastens across the foot?), so I demarcated by theme. The five themes were: doctor-recommended sandals (see: Dr. Scholl’s, but clogs could be included here, too), prototypically practical sandals (such as thongs or Tevas; I tried both), lace-up sandals (the ones I used are K. Jacques, with a very flat leather sole), slippers and novelty pairs (these are kind of a wild card; ones you get for the simple reason that you love them). Below are the scintillating results.

The doctor-recommended sandals:

Dr. Scholl’s slides, $54.99

I bought my first pair of Dr. Scholl’s last summer and was floored when I discovered, on the two-block walk from my apartment to a coffee shop, that a blister was developing on the outer corner of my left foot, about two inches south of my pinky toe. I also earned a small red bruise on the middle bone of both middle toes. It was tough to wear closed-toe shoes that weren’t soft (suede, satin) for about three days afterward. For this experiment, I tried a brand-new pair of red Scholl’s that I have every intention to ultimately break in. I did not develop a blister in the 202 steps I walked, which is perhaps a function of the weather (it wasn’t hot enough for my feet to swell). Either way, they passed the comfort test and were worth the wear.

The prototypically practical sandals:

Tkees flip flops, $50

The first thong-wearing of the season is just about as uncomfortable as a colonoscopy. You feel slightly violated and perhaps like you are being asked to ice skate on the sun. I developed slight bruising between my big and middle toes, but not enough to feel like I could not keep walking past the 202-step threshold. Did they pass the comfort test? Not exactly. Flip flops should make their wearer feel like she is rolling on marshmallows. Were they worth the wear? I get that flip flops are coming back in fashion (see: Dior’s most recent runway show, The Row’s current footwear offering), but I’m not exactly there yet. I’m holding on to them anyway. You know, just in case.

Prada Tevas, $495

Well, these were a doozy. And comfortable-as-fuq. Practically like wearing running sneakers with the added benefit of a platform. Did I feel like a dad on a guided tour of desert terrain in Israel? You betcha! Would I wear them again? Probably not. My feet are a little too pudgy for such a clunky, utilitarian shoe. For that reason, these earn the comfort badge but didn’t quite make the worth-it cut.

The lace ups:

K. Jacques lace ups, $268 (on sale for $93.80)

Speaking of pudgy feet — these ones make my toes look like pigs in a blanket. That doesn’t bother me as much as it should, because lace ups are dynamic enough to make a boring outfit (see: shorts and a T-shirt, a simple dress) feel much cooler. They do a really fun thing where if you wear them for long enough, they start to make your heels feel like they are actual hot coals. That said, the laces stay up if you are willing to suffocate your ankles and, as aforementioned, they add a good dose of jazZzZzZzZz~*~ to otherwise quotidian outfits. For that reason, they don’t necessarily win the comfort game, but are completely and utterly worth the blanket pigs.

And pro tip! They are fun to style with a bathing suit and absolutely nothing else.

Marcela B. lace ups, $530

I found these on Moda Operandi and was sure they would be extremely comfortable: The top is mesh, there is a teeny-tiny wedge and the lace ups are made from very thin, very soft satin. But the stretch, woven canvas at the back of the shoe (where the laces hook in to wrap up your leg) generated two generously sized blisters at the backs of my ankles. Neither of which has forbidden me from wearing closed-back shoes, which is a plus, but as far as comfort goes, they’re on the fence. Absolutely worth it given THE PUKA SHELLS stitched into the mesh across the front, but to be fair, they did also fuck up my pedicure (the leather lining on the mesh hits directly at the midpoint of my big toe). Overall score: uncomfortable, not worth it.

The slippers:

The Row sandals, $795 (on sale for $397)

I don’t know if you’ve ever had little steak knives cut into the corners of your feet, but that’s a lot like what breaking in The Row’s satin slippers can feel like because of the narrow straps across the sides of the shoe (great theoretically because they keep your foot from falling out of the slipper; rough in practice). It took like, 50 steps for these to reveal themselves as profoundly uncomfortable, but exactly five dedicated wears of powering through the pain to break in. There is not a single version of reality where I don’t deem them worth it. (If you, like me, want to feel like an extravagant woman on the French Riviera, wearing satin shoes around her yacht because she is so laissez-faire that she doesn’t acknowledge that she is surrounded by water in satin footwear, these are absolutely the shoes that can do that for you). So you’re in terrible pain for a couple of weeks. Whatever.

Alumnae sandals, $425

I really like these ones. I do worry about whether the green suede is going to stain my foot on particularly hot days, but it’s a trade well worth it when considering how supple the fabric is — it makes the shoes so damn comfortable. Added bonus: because you can walk in them, they’re perfect to wear with your fitness lewk (not to be confused with workout clothes), but are great with a silk caftan, too (I’m speculating). Overall, these probably win most comfortable and worth it. 

But we still have…

The novelty pair:

Miu Miu slippers, $950 (on sale for $665)

As far as I am concerned, these define what escapist shoes are all about. Having a shitty day? LOOK DOWN. Feel boring from the ankle up? LOOK DOWN. Want an iced coffee but shit, you’re overcaffeinated…

LOOK

DOWN.

The thing is, it’s tough to comment on the comfort level because you cannot walk a further distance than, say, from the bathroom in your 500-square-foot apartment to the kitchen. They are like fashion Prozac, though, and for that I think they’re worth it. But actually, I’m conflicted on that clause, too. When you are lucky enough to have legs that work and want to use them because the weather is nice, is it ever worth sacrificing mobility for shoes? I don’t know. Maybe these win the prize for most creative and simultaneously attractive bookends.

Photos by Leandra Medine; feature image by Edith Young.

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A Letter to My Working Mom

The other day, my mom forwarded me an amusing essay from one woman recounting the foibles of being a working mother. I laughed as I read it, thinking back on my perfectly imperfect childhood and realized I’ve never said thank you for everything she gave me.

Dear Mom,

I don’t think I’ve ever thanked you for being a working mother. I know I didn’t really have a choice in the matter, but I want you to know that I wouldn’t have had it any other way.

I’m living in an era where your generation is churning out humorous and reflective essays on the difficulties of striving to “have it all,” and I want you to know that in my eyes, you did. We did.

Each time you brought me to work — between Styrofoam cups of Swiss Miss and trips to the supply closet — I watched you. I watched you be a leader and be part of a team. I watched how you spoke to others, how you made those around you feel and how you held your own.

I watched you listen and compromise. I watched you weigh hard choices, and learned that when I make a decision, I have to stand behind it.

You taught me that it’s about doing the work and not about the praise. That confidence is built from within. And as you juggled your work and all that came with raising my brother and me, you taught me that if I’m willing to be flexible and a little bit creative, I can solve almost anything.

I learned that life is far from perfect and that things won’t always go my way, no matter how well I plan. But when I’m faced with disappointment, you taught me that it’s just a moment and to take what I can from it and move forward.

I don’t remember the missed soccer games. I remember that you always came when you said you would and in doing so, I learned that no matter how much is going on in my life, to always show up for people who are counting on me.

Mom, you told me I could do anything I set my mind to and I believed you because I watched you do the same.

If I become a mother one day, I’ll be a working mother. I know it will be hard and I know I’ll have my own moments of guilt and heartache and wonder if I’m doing it right, but no part of me doubts if I’ll succeed because I watched you.

Photo by Edith Young.

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Astrology 101: How to Read Your Birth Chart

I love astrology. I couldn’t care less if it’s “accurate.” It’s fun and harmless. And, as an ever-prideful Leo, there are few things I enjoy more than reading about myself on the internet. In fact, I spent the better part of my spring 2015 college lectures educating myself on astrology’s origins and nuances because I couldn’t get enough.

When my interest blossomed into a blog, Bossy Planets (where I eventually garnered hundreds of questions a day), I was surprised to learn that many of my fellow horoscope enthusiasts knew little of their astrological cocktails. You know, like the planets and houses and asteroids that bubble beneath the surface of the basic zodiac wheel. That’s probably because you can’t determine your full natal chart with your birth date alone. There are many websites (like this one) that will calculate it for you — but you need your exact time and city of birth. It’s worth the extra effort though, trust me. Natal charts delve far deeper into your psyche than your average weekly horoscope, dissecting various celestial placements at the time of your birth to give you a fuller idea of how they may affect your personality. Once I studied mine, I was hooked.

I’m not sure where you fall on the astrology spectrum. Maybe you think it’s dumb, maybe you read it every week just in case, maybe you consult the stars on what to eat for breakfast. Regardless of your level of interest, a full natal chart reading is an interesting canvas on which to explore your personality. If you’re one of those people who never felt understood by your sun sign, who knows? Maybe you’ll find you relate more to other aspects of your zodiac. Below, I’ve broken down the guiding principles of astrology to help you read your full chart. It’s a starter kit, if you will, complete with all the vagaries and self-indulgent details that make astrology so appealing to begin with.

The Sun Sign

The 12 zodiac constellations — observed and used in Ancient Rome, though their origins can be traced even earlier — are positioned along the “path” of the sun as seen from Earth. Your sun sign is determined by which zodiac constellation is behind the sun on the date of your birth. This is the one you no doubt already know; the most commonly known and important aspect of your birth chart. Essentially, your sun sign speaks to your most basic identity. It represents your ego, your daily actions, the dynamic expression of your will.

As a Leo, I would describe myself as outspoken, creative and affectionate. Although my sister would say I’m basically an “emo lion” and an anonymous user on Tumblr once used the phrases “obsessed with yourself,” “curious bugger” and “somewhat of an outcast.” Take that as you will.

The Elements

There are four elements in the zodiac, between which the 12 zodiac signs are split evenly (so, three each). These three are believed to be most compatible with each other due to their commonalities and shared values.

Fire Signs (Aries, Leo and Sagittarius) are known for their passion, confidence and strong gut instincts. Water Signs (Cancer, Scorpio and Pisces) are the most sensitive, idealistic and kind. Air Signs (Gemini, Aquarius and Libra) are typically the most communicative, social and open-minded. Earth Signs (Taurus, Capricorn and Virgo) are renowned for their practicality, stability, realism and persistence.

Elements tend to paint the signs with broad strokes, but they’re fun to think about when analyzing your friend, family and romantic relationship dynamics. (As a fire sign, I find I gravitate more towards air signs.)

The Moon Sign

Arguably, your moon sign is just as important as your sun sign. It’s determined by which zodiac constellation the moon was in at your exact time of birth. Your moon sign speaks to your emotional nature and inner self. It tends to reflect your personality when you’re alone — or deep within your comfort zone. It’s considered more feminine and reflects your relationships with important women in your life. So next time you’re eating chips in bed, spiraling down a conspiracy theory YouTube rabbit hole and crying on the phone with your mom, maybe blame your moon sign.

Also, some believe your moon sign is more accurate in predicting the root of your subconscious thoughts than your sun sign. My Gemini moon has given me comfort whenever I’ve felt misunderstood, because this placement is often characterized as having complex and valuable inner monologues.

The Houses

Okay. Houses. Have you ever heard someone say something like, “Mars is in your third house”? They’re referring to which slice of the sky Mars was in at the time of your birth. The house system divides the sky into 12 sections and, depending on which planets and constellations fall into which sections when you were born, provide insight into specific areas of your life. Your first house is determined by which zodiac constellation was rising on the eastern horizon at the exact moment you were born, which is why both time and location of your birth are needed to determine it. The rest of your houses count up sequentially from there. Sites like this one can provide these visuals for your chart!

Here’s what each of the houses might tell you about your personality and life:

1. The First House represents self-image

2. The Second House represents money and finances

3. The Third House represents close platonic relationships and our immediate environments

4. The Fourth House represents family and childhood

5. The Fifth House represents self-expression, creativity and entertainment

6. The Sixth House represents work and health

7. The Seventh House represents marriage and long-term partnerships

8. The Eighth House represents both transformation and sexuality

9. The Ninth House represents belief systems and faith

10. The Tenth House represents careers and responsibility

11. The Eleventh House represents aspirations and personal goals

12. The Twelfth House represents privacy, secrets and karma

If your head is spinning right now, just pay attention to your first, fourth, seventh and tenth house. They’re typically given more weight.

The interesting thing about houses is they may reveal or confirm your strengths and weaknesses. When I learned that Aries was in my second house, for example, I wasn’t surprised. Aries is a sign characterized by ambition, passion and volatile emotion, and when it’s in my second house, which represents money and finances, it makes sense that I’m very career-minded and feel that my money needs to be self-made. It also makes sense that I fall victim to impulsive spending (shout-out to my unnecessary — but also necessary — shoe purchase a week ago). Oops.

The Rising Sign

A quick word on your rising sign. Also known as “the ascendant,” your rising sign is the zodiac constellation that falls into your first house. It’s the most fickle and difficult to nail down — you may get different results if you shift your birth time even a few minutes. Many astrologists say this one is your third most important placement, after your sun and moon signs. As mentioned, your ascendant represents your public identity. It can often manifest in your clothing or really any decisions related to your outward-facing identity (such as hair color, piercings or overall style). It also might symbolize how you respond to your immediate surroundings and your attitude towards everyday life.

For me, learning my rising sign made me feel emboldened to get a septum piercing — even though my friends said it’d be too “weird” — because my Aquarius ascendant is defined by individuality and often rebellious style choices.

 The Planets

Some argue that planets are even more important than houses. In the process of their orbits, planets move in and out of the zodiac constellations, lingering in some much longer than others, depending on the speed and size of their orbits. When you’re born, imagine the night sky freezing in place. Which planets are in which constellations? The answer will help you read into your personality even more.

The Inner Planets

Mercury, Venus and Mars are called the inner planets due to their changeability and closeness to Earth. For that reason, precision with your birth place and time is far more important for these. The signs that fall within the inner-planet placements dictate your core personality traits, needs and desires.

Mercury is the planet of communication, so determining where it is when you’re born will tell you something about how you learn and converse. For instance, those with earth signs in Mercury (Taurus, Capricorn, Virgo) will likely be very reasonable, observant people. Those with air signs in Mercury (Gemini, Aquarius, Libra) are most effective communicators when writing and public speaking. Fire signs in Mercury (Aries, Leo, Sagittarius) are passionate and sometimes hot-headed in arguments. Water signs in Mercury are highly emotional and likely to avoid confrontation.

Venus — named for the Roman Greek goddess of love, Aphrodite — rules a person’s love life. It speaks to the ways in which you express affection, what you look for in a partner and generally what you find attractive.

Mars is the planet of conflict, aggression and action. It represents the physical expression of your initiative and drive — often applicable to both your sex life and ambition in business — and speaks to the ways you channel desire and anger, particularly for those with fire signs in Mars. (My Mars placement often reminds me to reflect before I act and channel the balance-seeking energy of the Libra sign.)

Your inner planet placements may appear contradictory, but that’s part of what makes them fun — they delve into our own contradictions, too. For example, being a Leo Venus, I’m a sloppy love puppy who thrives on meaningful conversation and is generally a bit emotional. My Virgo Mercury placement, on the other hand, seems to speak to a detached nature — like my hatred of small talk, maybe.

The Outer Planets

The outer planets — Uranus, Neptune and Pluto (RIP) — have the longest and widest orbits, which makes them generational placements. People born within a few years of you will likely have the same placements for all the outer planets, which makes them less consequential in each individual person’s chart. The longest an outer planet will stay in the same sign is about 15 years.

Uranus rules change, Neptune rules dreams, Pluto rules power. Your placements can suggest what you work towards in these areas throughout your life. For those around my age — 21 and smack-dab in the middle of Generation Y — you’ll find both your Uranus and Neptune placements in Capricorn, indicating a strong inclination towards equality and social justice. Feel free to use that as a counter-argument the next time someone tells you millennials are useless.

The Social Planets

Jupiter and Saturn are sometimes called the social planets because their orbits are wider and longer than those of the inner planets, but smaller and shorter than those of the outer planets. They represent and influence how people relate to society.

Jupiter is the planet of luck, education and growth. The Jupiter placement is also seen as very philosophical and might indicate how you feel about religion.

Saturn is is all about limitations and boundaries. The Saturn placement can help reveal what you need to overcome and the restrictions you might encounter along the way — especially earlier in life.

For me, having Sagittarius in Jupiter, a restless sign, probably means I should travel more (I’m not complaining). An analysis of my Saturn placement, Pisces, known for its isolationist tendencies, might encourage me to take more risks with collaboration.

***

A truly comprehensive and in-depth birth chart interpretation requires research, instinct, time and resources. The details are important — even twins may find that some placements can shift within minutes. That said, you’ll rarely find two astrologists who tell you the exact same thing, because the world and the cosmos and all the people who exist within them are ever-changing and dynamic. It is important to remember, though, that these charts are designed to provide descriptions and possibilities, not absolutes. I’ve found that interpreting my chart has led me to a greater sense of self-understanding. At times, it’s given me confidence in my decisions. I’ve made it my own. Astrology should be used as a tool to enhance our lives, not dictate them.

Feature collage by Emily Zirimis, inserted collages by Maria Jia Ling Pitt. 

The post Astrology 101: How to Read Your Birth Chart appeared first on Man Repeller.

Why Do We Insist on Socializing at Night?

I started pseudo-napping in bars senior year of college. My sudden and apparently permanent disinterest in staying out late hit me like a second wave of puberty. It truly felt like a chemical change had occurred inside me, except this time my haunted house of a body developed tiredness instead of chin acne.

My friends dutifully began documenting these episodes, which is great because I now have an adorable collection of photographs that illustrate my condition. Here is one of them:

Quick disclaimer — because I know what you might be thinking — I was not drunk in this photo. I’d had one drink, maybe two max, when it was taken. If I look a bit bleary (which, let’s face it, I do), it’s not because I was incoherent. It’s because I was resting my eyeballs and an iPhone camera flash was not-so-gently jolting me back to life, which I’ll admit I deserved.

Up until that year, I had no problem staying out late. In fact, I can recall multiple instances throughout college in which I stayed out dancing with my friends right through the next morning. NBD! We would migrate from dance floor to diner booth at sunrise, kicking off our shoes under the table, stretching our tired toes while digging into stacks of pancakes drowning in fake maple syrup, watching the sky turn from white to orange. I definitely felt exhausted after nights like those, but it was the invigorating kind of exhausted you might feel after a 30-minute jog — nothing a cup of coffee or a few hours of rest wouldn’t fix.

I think back on that time with bewilderment. It feels like another me — or, at the very least, another body. Nowadays, when 11:00 p.m. rolls around, all I want is to be tucked under my clean covers with a clean face and clean pajamas watching Master of None.

It’s frustrating that this desire is equated with being antisocial or intensely introverted, because that’s not how I would describe myself. I love my friends (except when they’re shining camera flashes into my reposing angel face!!!), and I enjoy socializing. I just don’t enjoy it in the wee hours of the night, during which my brain is rightfully accustomed to winding down.

I often resist the overwhelming urge to bail from late-night festivities, though, because hobnobbing in the dark seems to be society’s universally accepted mode of weekend fun, and I’m wracked with self-imposed guilt over the prospect of becoming that boring member of the group who can’t hang like a “normal” 25-year-old. It would almost feel like a moral failure. My skeleton is still lousy with youthful marrow. I can’t let that go to waste.

When I’m signing the merchant copy of my receipt at a group dinner on a Saturday night and someone inevitably says, “Where should we go out?,” I brace myself for what’s next: approximately four more hours of Googling directions with cold fingers, expensive cabs, dimly lit subway rides, waiting in lines, cover charges, watery vodka sodas, squatting over urine-sprayed toilets in dirty bathrooms, dancing in cramped semi-circles, trying to talk over 100-decibel music, getting elbowed in the ribs by a drunk stranger who knows all the words to Justin Bieber’s latest single, more watery vodka sodas, sweating into my new going-out top and pretending to be awake even though my cells have started slowly shutting down one by one.

WHY DO WE PRETEND THIS IS FUN? Or maybe it is fun for some people, or even most people, and I’m the only one who turns into a pulpy pumpkin after a certain hour. I’m curious, though, as to who decided our cultural obsession with circadian rhythms, eight-hour sleep cycles, bedtime “routines,” proper nutrition and self-care should go on hiatus from Friday evening through Sunday morning. Why is daylight suddenly uncool just because it’s the weekend?

You know what’s more fun when you’re freshly full of morning caffeine and not debilitated from 100% normal twilight-onset fatigue? Dancing! You know what’s a treat when you can actually hear your own voice? Conversation! You know what’s way easier with the illuminating aid of sunshine? Successfully balancing over a toilet! You know what’s significantly more delicious than a vodka soda? A mimosa!

When you think about it, there’s nothing you can do at night that you can’t do better in the daytime — except, perhaps, a discreet dance-floor make out — but I’m happy to personally shield you and your tongue partner with my very own shadow if it means getting the go-ahead to transfer all nighttime socializing to daytime hours. Deal?

Photos by Edith Young; documentation provided by Harling Ross.

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