Leandra Medine's Blog, page 621

Real Style in 90 Degree Weather

I could tell you to wear this:

I want to tell you to wear this:

But here’s the thing of it: as far as Apple Weather will predict (eight days if I’m being precise-as-fuq), there’s a neat wave of hot weather permeating this side of Poland (what?) and as such, it’s not really about what you wear, it’s about what you don’t. In an ideal world, yes, you’re putting on a jumpsuit. They’re so g-dang trendy. You’re wearing it with a belt and a neck scarf and maybe a pair of boots but probably a pair of sandals. Or maybe not. You could very well have transformed into the coolest human ever overnight and thus when you woke up, you thought to rip slits into your brother’s jeans, wear them with a pair of dainty shoes and his button down x a scarf that will both nurture and hurt you if you don’t treat it properly.

But, again, it’s 91 and sunny (sure beats 22 and snowy) and if you’re thinking about how to look cool while it’s hot, why not look to the de facto women of lower Manhattan. We sent Krista out to capture the real street style permeating the streets of Nolita-and-beyond and the fundamental takeaways are these:

1. Culottes have eclipsed shorts.

2. Lady, you twisted if you’re trying to wear more than two garments.

3. White and black still reign as most reliable colors to conceal and reveal in tandem.

4. If you’re thinking about boots, just wear them with a little dress.

5. Iced coffee and H2O will be your saving grace.

Happy melt day! See you on the other side!

Photographed by Krista Anna Lewis; Photographs via Harpers Bazaar and Maja Wyh

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Learn to Cook. Really, Really Fast.

In partnership with Blue Apron. Click here to get your first two meals free.  

I wouldn’t say that I grew up in the kitchen so much as I grew up being fed the proper amount of meals per day. My mother is “one of those” who made her own baby food. When she grew up and had me, she made mine. Boom! Here all night, folks.

My father, on the other hand, sent me off to school with plastic baggies of sliced pepperoni, dill pickles and Oreos.

As a fake adult it seems I’ve fallen somewhere in the middle: not a total frat boy (at the very least I don’t “forget” when I have a midnight pizza in the oven), but Gordon Ramsay won’t be calling me anytime soon and I’m not trying to work the word “reduction” into my vocabulary. Or “grocery shopping,” for that matter.

Which is where Blue Apron came in.

Blue Apron is, for the unfamiliar, a DIY meal service delivery. It’s a true godsend if you’re so busy that sometimes you forget to shower, find cooking intimidating and cry in supermarkets because you have no clue how to decipher a good chicken breast.

You sign up for the amount of meals you want, and they deliver the goods — fresh and neatly packaged, along with instructions that are very, very hard to F up.

Like, you have to try to mess up — which, on day 1, I succeeded in!

…I didn’t know that fresh fish didn’t have to be frozen. I also didn’t know that you have to then defrost the fish all day once you’ve more or less turned it into an iceberg. But you live and you learn and you call your mom and add a lot of butter. Let’s move on to day 2.

Steak. Steak is advanced, man, or at least I thought, so I called my friend Sage because his name sounded the most like it would appear before an ampersand in a co-authored cooking blog.

My original plan was to sit on a stool and drink wine while reading directions aloud. Curiosity got the best of me, however, and I soon found myself flipping and whisking and saying things like, “Let’s brown this a bit more,” “mashing potatoes is a great arm workout!” and, through mouthfuls of steak: “This is good/that was easy.”

Day 3 was my final test. Chicken meatballs with a Hoisin glaze. As I swiftly navigated my way around the kitchen, I noticed a few things: 1) my anxiety regarding the process of cooking was gone. I was…relaxed? 2) My phone was playing music as opposed to FaceTiming my dad to ask whether or not he thought “this color meat could kill me,” and 3) I was kind of into it. I was cooking! I considered Snapchatting it to brag but was distracted by the mild fire I’d set — although no worries! Just another day in the life of a chef.

A week later Leandra and I cooked three separate Blue Apron meals for The MR team. We served a hodgepodge of gnocchi, tofu with ginger rice, and Brie grilled cheese with a slick of homemade strawberry jam. At the end, the plates were empty, the bellies were full, and I was politely declining a call from Le Cordon Bleu.

They heard a rumor through the grapevine that my fish skills had since greatly improved.

***

Sorry you didn’t have a chance to try my now world famous trout, but the good news is you can make your own. 100 readers will get two free meals on their first Blue Apron order — just click here — and then post your results in the comments. I want to see your plating skills.

 

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Damn, I Wish I Wrote That!

I often find myself asking, uh, myself  (or anyone who will listen, really ) what it is about words. How do they hurt and itch and haunt and beguile in the way that they do? How do they get to the very core of “everything,” and send chills down my spine?

That may sound dramatic. And after several instances wherein I failed to hold back syntax-induced tears on public transportation, I figured maybe I was totally overreacting to the English Language. But then I had lunch recently with a friend. After we finished our meal she pulled out a book of David Foster Wallace short stories and began reading aloud. As she read, her voice sped up and she clenched my arm at sporadic intervals as if to make sure that I, too, was feeling the way she did about the array of words laid out on the page before us.

“Damn,” she said. “I wish I had written this!”

Witnessing her reaction to the string of sentences was a testament to the sanctity of language. What moved her to such a visceral reaction, to such bold proclamations of what I like to call “Fantasy Authorship,” is not necessarily what would move me to do the same.

And that got me thinking: Out of all the articles, essays, poems, fiction books, nonfiction books — and hell, even tweets! — that I’ve read, if I could only put one to my name, which would it be? Which one do I wish I had written?

After some rather painstaking deliberation I decided upon Shel Silverstein’s The Giving Tree. Its language is clear, its message simple, albeit tragic. It’s not my favorite piece of literature, no, but it is consistently the story that moves me to tears upon mere mention of its title. Words, man.

Now I’d like you to join me in this round of Fantasy Authorship. What is the one “thing” you wish you’d written? Was it something about the turns of phrase? The biting humor? The storyline itself? Spare no details! Oh, and accounts of sentence-induced public transportation meltdowns also welcome.

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#Squad: How to Set Goals and Manage Realistic Expectations

Imagine the following scenario:

You post a team photo. You think it’s pretty good — across-the-board flattering with great lighting and a background that makes it obvious you are having fun. You get a lot of likes — well over your average, then Judas goes ahead and deflates your balloon.

She “@’s” you on the above photo with the digital kiss of betrayal: #squadgoals.

Et tu, Brute?

Cue existential panic whereupon you question all that you think you know. What is wrong with you and your crew?

Technically, the answer is nothing. You guys are doing fine. But as we know, social media distorts reality, which means these aspirational #goals we set are merely readying us for disaster.

The best way to avoid disappointment is not by lowering your standards — it’s managing expectations. Begin setting bars now so that you’re not scrambling to befriend Drake and his WOES by the weekend. Get your team together. Sit them down. Order a round of drinks. Then go over your list of realistic objectives.

Goal: Having Fun

Just because you are not a tiny toweled patriot being hugged by Oprah in her chartreuse moment doesn’t mean that you are not having fun. Sometimes it feels that way, I know. But ask yourself: did I laugh? Were my smiles genuine? Did I pee a little?

Vote: Doable

Goal: Royalty

In general, very few people are born to such lives of luxury. It is a sharp chip to swallow. But remind yourself that in every Amanda Bynes/Julia Stiles movie based on Shakespearean lore, the prince wants to be “normal” and the princess wishes she could go outside without the paparazzi taking photos of her in last night’s mascara. Be thankful that you and your crew are you.

Vote: Unrealistic. Throw it out.

Goal: Winning

There are two kinds of referees in this world: coaches who believe that second place is first place loser, and moms who believe that everyone’s a winner. Taking the maternal approach here, assume that anytime you and your friends have done something to merit an Instagram — even if it’s just “take an actual candid,” you have won. It’s very hard to get a group of people to do something if you are not ants. Celebrate as such!

Vote: Doable depending on definition of “win.”

Goal: Being Well-Coordinated

This is merely a matter of cooperation, leadership and planning ahead. Anyone who’s ever successfully pulled off a group Halloween costume as the cast of Salute Your Shorts knows that.

Vote: Doable.

Goal: Being Celebrities

Similar to the same letdown that comes with realizing you will never be Prince George regardless of dedicated naps is the Xanax-required truth that you are not a celebrity supergroup of friends.

Now here’s your Xanax: THAT IS OK.

You do not need to be Rihanna & co. at the pool to enjoy the sun. You do not need to be Beyoncé plus crew at the club to dance. You don’t need to be the Kardashians to have a family, Jennifer Lopez-n-girlz to have a birthday nor Cara Delevingne x Models to make funny faces. Fostering these mentalities turns life into an everlasting game of Keeping Up With the Joneses — a fruitless rush that blurs great days and makes summer feel shorter.

Vote: Unnecessary, exhausting, unrealistic

Now, once the squad has successfully outlined your collective resolutions and their accompanying plans of action, take solace in knowing that you just got 3-plus people to agree to something. Your next task is deciding where you’ll have dinner, but you know — one thing at a time. #Goals.

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That Thing You Didn’t Know You Needed: The Dirndl Top

The concept of The Uniform has always intimidated me. There was a short period some years ago when I forewent my ruffled dresses and took up jeans, button downs, black ballet flats, etc. It looked composed — cool, even — but it wasn’t me.

Fast forward to a few weeks ago when my friend Leyna and I were at a thrift store.

“You know, I’m really a sartorial chameleon, which is why I think I resent the teachings of wardrobe staples so much,” I said with the conviction of a tired philosophy major. “It’s all so boring.”

Leyna looked at me with an expression as if to say, Don’t flatter yourself, chameleon. “Haven’t you purchased that prairie dress you’re holding, like, a million times before? You for sure have wardrobe staples.”

She was right. I’m not anti-basics, but my conception of these omnipotent Wardrobe Staples — a blazer, a “good” pair of jeans, a white tee — followed a formula not intended for me. My staples are no less essential, they just happen to be more Heidi: Child of the Mountains than, say, Emmanuelle Alt.

Case in point: the dirndl top. For the uninitiated, the dirndl is a traditional style of dress found in Bavaria and regions of Austria. Somewhere underneath the bodice, apron and full skirt sits the white, cropped blouse that “sartorial bartending” opportunities are made of.

These billowy-armed tops are deceivingly versatile. Their length  (dancing along the lower part of the rib cage ) proves flattering on a variety of figures and makes for a universal layering device. With a flash of skin, the shirt punctuates an otherwise-tailored pant. And it makes an awkward garment more fluid; a baggy pair of overalls from the depths of my closet have only recently been added to the steady rotation thanks to these Germanic cropped blouses.

More appealing than the styling of the blouse itself, though, is the sentiment of its new role as an unconventional and unassuming mediator between once-dead pieces. Just like witnessing a cool and clever passerby, sometimes all it takes is the isolation of one style to reinvent disregarded attire.

And! You can dance.

You can get dirndl tops aplenty for about a euro at flea markets in most Germanic cities. But, should you be stateside: they seem to pop up at garage sales and thrift stores with surprising frequency. If you have trouble finding one near you, Etsy and eBay are cheaper than a flight to Berlin. Speaking of cheap: try not to pay more than $5 for a dirndl top.

(And for those of you looking for a white layering blouse that isn’t your typical button down…)

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Now post your version of a dirndl below.

Photographed by Krista Anna Lewis

The post That Thing You Didn’t Know You Needed: The Dirndl Top appeared first on Man Repeller.

The Rules of Style by the Gilligan’s Island Castaways

Let’s play a game reminiscent of the SAT Verbal Reasoning section. Each related pair below expresses a relationship that is best described as weird. Select the one that encompasses all the options most thoroughly, and keep in mind that option A is completely irrelevant.

A) Trout crudo, pluot confit and bone marrow dumplings in creepy broth; farm-to-table bistro.

B) Pleats, tropical prints and rainbow stripes; Resort 2016.

C) High jinx, high style and shipwrecks; Gilligan’s Island.

If you chose A, your test taking style is like mine and you forgot to read the directions. If you chose C, you’re correct, but if you think about it, the combo’s not that weird. Of course being stranded on an island results in great fashion — you’re not bogged down with superfluous wardrobe choices. You’re forced to make do and get creative with what you have and as such, strengthen your personal style.

You know, we could learn a lot from the characters of Gilligan’s Island. Cast? Take it away!

Pointers from Gilligan

1) Though bucket hats are questionable, wide brim toppers are necessary.

2) Cropped flares should always be worn with red polos.

3) Sneakers may come in and out of fashion, but white tennis shoes are a mainstay.

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Pointers from Mary Ann

1) Go gingham or go home.

2) Swimsuits are just outerwear without the arm holes.

3) She implied it, and then Weezy rapped about it: keep things as low maintenance as possible because life is beach and you’re just playing in the sand.

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Pointers from Ginger

1) Scrap that: trade in low maintenance for gowns and stilettos because being castaway doesn’t mean you have to start talking to a volleyball. (But if you insist on taking it easy, do it in a swimsuit that dresses up the beach and sunglasses that go “meow.”)

2) Pack a Bumpit, then stick a flower in it.

3) Accessorize, accessorize, accessorize.

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Pointers from The Professor

1) Be resourceful. If he can conduct lab experiments with dirty seashells and tree bark, you can get creative with a pair of khakis.

2) Pre-wreck, the Prof was a botany inclined biology teacher…which can only mean one thing: he lives for florals.

3) Although no one is sure how the professor got so many degrees at such a young age, his reliable button down and navy Keds combo says anything is possible with a little sensibility.

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The best part? You can do all this sans shipwreck or sand.

Want more? Check out our other style muses and their Rules of Style. 

All images are stills from the series.

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Taylor Swift Doesn’t Need to Be Your BFF

Last week, America’s darling, Taylor Swift, fell into unfavorable light during a Twitter spat with Nicki Minaj, setting off an Internet landslide that listed her shortcomings as a friend, feminist and role model.

To catch you up: Minaj, airing her grievances about the predominately white MTV Video Music Awards nominees, tweeted, “If your video celebrates women with very slim bodies, you will be nominated for vid of the year.”

Swift misinterpreted Minaj’s message about the lack of diversity as a direct attack against the nomination her song “Bad Blood” received for Best Video of the Year. “It’s unlike you to pit women against each other,” Swift wrote. “Maybe one of the men took your slot.”

And then, the Internet exploded. Swift apologized for her mistake, of course, but not before multiple trend pieces hit the web criticizing her behavior.

I thought I was being called out. I missed the point, I misunderstood, then misspoke. I’m sorry, Nicki. @NICKIMINAJ

— Taylor Swift (@taylorswift13) July 23, 2015

“When Swift chimed in, it changed the conversation from woman versus institution to woman versus woman,” wrote Spencer Kornhaber for The Atlantic. “This fits with Swift’s recent campaign against the Mean Girls stereotype of women as catty infighters.”

By “campaign,” Kornhaber is referring to the female-centric direction of both Swift’s 1989 tour and her recent public image. Gone are the days of Jake Gyllenhaal and John Mayer — instead, they’ve been replaced with an ever-growing squad of models, actresses and athletes who join Swift both in her downtime and on her stage. While this girl-posse doesn’t seem inherently harmful, it’s been attacked as faux-feminist and evidence of Swift’s capitalist agenda.

In a piece for Gawker titled “Taylor Swift Is Not Your Friend,” Dayna Evans elaborates on this campaign, calling it, “Swift’s current co-opting of capital-f Feminism as a self-promotional tool.” Evans takes a firm stance on Swift, skewering her for tricking audiences into thinking she’s an “underdog” who values female friendships when in reality she’s a “ruthless, publicly capitalist pop star.”

She cites Taylor Swift’s model posse (a publicity accessory), her decision to pull her music from Spotify (not something someone who humbly and truly loved music would do), and of course, the spat with Nicki (an inability to understand the many shapes feminism can take) as examples that Taylor Swift cares way more about “empowering Taylor Swift” than women at large.

There are many holes in Evans’ argument, but mainly it begs the question: who decided it was Taylor Swift’s job to be our role model, BFF, or teach our nation’s teens about feminism?

It is Swift’s job to alter her image as she ages and her fame and fortune grow, changing her identity from Girl Next Door to Girl with Broken Heart to Girl Queen With Squad On Fleek — what pop star that’s come before her hasn’t undergone similar transitions?

Similarly, it is — ironically — sexist to demand Swift appear humble or have her love of music outstrip her desire to make money from her trade. Her capitalist endeavors of fame and fortune don’t preclude her talent nor her claim to being a feminist.

And even if Swift is secretly a greedy, evil monster getting feminism wrong, who cares? She’s a woman in her twenties who should be allowed to mess up being a feminist sometimes. She may carry an undue amount of influence over teenage girls everywhere, but she’s not campaigning for office; she’s a pop star playing a part, and we can’t demand anything from her besides entertainment.

Rather, it is our responsibility to stop holding up celebrities like Swift as role models and visionaries. They’re performers, not presidents. We should focus our efforts less on their missteps and publicity campaigns and more on providing young women with legitimately feminist public figures — Hillary Clinton, Malala Yousafzai, Maya Angelou — whom they can aspire to be.

Photo via Elle.com

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MR’s Guide to the Best Ice Cream in NYC

All this talk about “I can’t believe it’s almost August” has got to stop. It’s still July. We’re still in shorts. And when the clock strikes 3 p.m. — you know what, make that 11 a.m. — it is not just high time to consider where in the world Happy Hour has been in progress beyond its allocated 60 minutes, but it is the national, time-stamped signal that you should get a snack. And not just any snack — the snack! Ice cream!

In the thick of New York’s muggy sun and the thin of elsewhere’s heat, nothing says we’ve still got a whole month and change ahead of us, pal, like a scoop (or eight) of frozen cream making contact with your mouth. As such, here is Man Repeller’s definitive guide to the best ice cream in New York south of 17th Street.

Try them all today. Why not?

L’Arte Del Gelato, Chelsea Market (more locations here), Amelia’s pick

I legally can’t eat ice cream, but for some reason small rations of gelato doesn’t make me sick. Small rations suck, yes, but my favorite flavor is olive oil (just try it) which probably only works in one-scoop quantities, anyway.

Lafayette, 380 Lafayette St, Amelia’s pick

This is a restaurant, but out front by the bakery they sell tutti-frutti sorbet push pops with crushed macarons inside that taste a lot like the Flintstones push pop from childhood. Insane.

Morgenstern’s, 2 Rivington Street, Leandra’s pick

Because this kooky guy works behind the counter and wears one of those neat diner hats and when you walk in he says, “Hi toots! What can I get for ya?”

The selection of ice creams is so artisanal, you’d think they’re hipster-made mustards (Cardamom Lemon Jam, Fernet Black Walnut, Szechuan Peppercorn Chocolate). If you find that overwhelming, know you can’t go wrong with Sesame Caramel. It will make you feel like you are a) providing your body with important nutrients by way of seeds b) eating a Turkish passover treat.

There is also a flavor called Raw Milk, which I won’t try because I’m afraid it might remind me of being breastfed.

Victory Gardens, 31 Carmine Street, Leandra’s pick

All the ice cream is goat milk based which can be digested by those plagued with lactose intolerance. The flavors are niche; they include such titles as Apricot Saffron Yogurt and Thyme for Victory — which is, you guessed it — thyme-flavored ice cream. My favorites are Date Yogurt and Persian Princess. I think they taste like the Middle East on a good day.

Fun fact: I consumed 4 pints in 48 hours after I had my wisdom teeth removed. I have no regrets.

Ample Hills Creamery, 623 Vanderbilt Ave in Prospect Height (more locations here), Krista’s pick

The store brings me back to childhood summers spent in Minnesotan humidity. Their flavors change regularly so be prepared to adventure into unknown territory and come with an empty stomach. These guys know how to make it creamy.

Chinatown Ice Cream Factory, 65 Bayard, Krista’s pick

This is for everyone sick of vanilla and into Chinese desserts. Try the black sesame; it’s a good balance between sweet and cake-y. But the best part is really meandering through Chinatown to get there.

Sundaes and Cones, 95 E 10th St, Hadley’s pick

Be brave and try the taro or corn flavors. They are weird and excellent, perfect if you’re loyal to a specific flavor at a favorite ice cream shop back home but craving freedom.

Chloe’s Fruit Soft Serve, 25 E 17th St, Ella’s pick

Chloe’s is conveniently — scratch that, dangerously — located a few blocks away from the apartment Ella’s living in this summer. Their soft serve is made with only fruit, water and cane sugar so it’s perfect for the dairy-free. The mango is awesome.

Snowdays, 241 East 10th St., Cristina’s pick

The cornbread is Cristina’s favorite, but it’s a secret flavor and not on the menu, so if it’s sold out, she’ll come after you. And, the spoons change color — you’ll feel like a modern day Violet Beauregarde.

​Milk & Cookies, 19 Commerce St., Cristina’s pick

It’s the perfect antidote to the Sunday Scaries because you can build your own ice cream sandwiches.

Go for the Over The Rainbow Ice Cream Sandwich which consists of two M&M sugar cookies with vanilla gelato sandwiched in between. And why not — make it a double.

***BONUS ROUND***

McDonald’s, available on a corner near you, Emma’s pick

McDonald’s soft-serve dollar cone is cheap and predictable and good. It gets the job done, and should you feel like a cone in any part of the city, you’re sure to find one.

Go with classic vanilla, always.

What’d we leave off? We’re on a week-long, square-picture-perfect ice cream tour and refuse to quit until we’ve tried (and documented) them all. Join da fun on Instagram using the hashtag #MRBestLicks.

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Florence & Milan Closets: Isaac Hindin-Miller

Not that a male’s aptitude for dating advice and good style should be directly correlated…but doesn’t it comfort you that the man who has walked us through break ups, hook ups, awkward encounters and mixed signals dresses like Ralph Lauren at his ranch meets fashion editor meets regular guy?

It’s kind of like how you want your therapist to have a beard and a tweed blazer with elbow patches, you know? It adds a bit of credibility, or at the very least, it solidifies what I think we already knew: he gets us. Now let’s raid his closet.

Day 1

Right before I left for Italy, I deejayed the Stetson 150 year anniversary party with my girlfriend Jenny. I channeled my inner Wild Wild West in denim on denim plus an obligatory hat. This is like a cowboy take on a 90s Gap ad…or something?

Stetson hat, Uniqlo denim shirt, Old Soldier NY t-shirt, A.P.C. jeans, Vans shoes.

Day 2

First stop in Italy was Florence — cue tons of gelato and sunsets spent trying to take the perfect photo of Ponte Vecchio at golden hour. I was also shooting a job with Jacey Duprie from Damsel in Dior for LUISAVIAROMA; this was my outfit for the day.

DSquared2 Moto jacket and Pants, Thom Browne t-shirt, Margiela shoes, Lewis Fredericks sunglasses. Jacey is wearing a Valentino dress and Jimmy Choo pumps.

Day 3

For my day off I walked around the city, ate all the pasta, visited the Palazzo Vecchio and got a glimpse of the Medici family’s bedrooms, including their hidden passageways where they’d sneak away if they were invaded in the night! I wore this T-shirt which was given to me the day before I flew out by my great friend Richard Haines — he’s a fashion illustrator based in Brooklyn.

Richard Haines t-shirt, 3X1 jeans, Vans shoes, Lewis Fredericks sunglasses.

Day 4

Another shoot day in Florence. This time we got to shoot on this amazing rooftop terrace overlooking the Duomo. Magic!

DSquared2 suit and shirt, Z Zegna tie. (Photo taken by Hana Journey photography)

Day 5

Straight after Florence it was time for the Milan men’s shows. I’ve stayed at the same little family-run hotel on the far east side of the city every season since I started going in 2009. Only problem is, the first show of the week — Ermenegildo Zegna — is on the far west side of the city. I’m always running late. Streetstyle snapper Melodie Jeng caught me running into the show moments before the first model walked out.

P.S. I’ll admit it, my outfit was inspired by James Dean in Rebel Without A Cause.

Baracuta G9 jacket, AS Colour t-shirt, Maximum Cohen belt,  A.P.C. jeans.

Day 6

The weather cooled down a touch on the second day of shows in Milan, so I dressed up a bit smarter. Tamu McPherson from All The Pretty Birds snapped me and my dear friend (and probably the best dressed male model on the circuit) Richard Biedul coming out of the Salvatore Ferragamo show.

Crane Brothers jacket and tie, Kamakura shirt, Gant Rugger pants, Dr Martens shoes. Richard is wearing a Billy Reid jacket, H&M tank top, Percival pants and Oliver Spencer shoes.

Day 7

For my final day of shows in Milan I thought I’d introduce a tiny bit more color into the mix in the form of this candy-striped 1950s style shirt. It just so happened that the Gucci show was held at this abandoned train station on the outskirts of the city with a ton of yellow everywhere. Jonathan Daniel Pryce shot me looking extremely moody after the show. I was in a good mood, promise!

Gant Rugger pants and shirt, Dr Martens shoes.

Follow Isaac on Instagram here, Twitter here, and check out his website here. If you have a relationship question for our Ask a Guy series, email write@manrepeller.com with ASK ISAAC in the subject line. 

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If Someone Tells You to Lie, It’s Probably Bad Advice

This was a simpler time. A time before all eight-year-olds had cell phones and the young survived on old school gossip. The cool girls ruled the school and walked in a pack with Coach bags on their arms, colored rubber bands on their braces and the highest and tightest ponytails on their heads.

And then there was me — the tall sixth grader with a bad haircut who took Spanish as an elective, who didn’t spend after school hours playing M*A*S*H in hopes of marrying the football star and living in a mansion with our three kids and four toy Yorkies.

Then one day, during a quick trip to my locker before honors math, I found it: a note scribbled in cursive with hearts over the i’s inviting me to answer my home phone at 8 p.m. One look at the bubble letters and I knew who it was from. Intrigued, excited and nervous I stuck the note in my L.L. Bean backpack and went to class.

You know that one kid who was super popular, a P.E. god and smart? She was in my honors math class and somehow word of “the note” had spread to her by the time I reached my seat. She had insider information: she told me the phone call would involve a question, and that it was in my best interest to lie. She wouldn’t tell me what it was. Instead, she promised me a lifelong seat at the cool lunch table if I didn’t eff this up. (And if I styled my hair differently.)

My life was beginning to feel like a mystery novel. I was Nancy Drew, destined to solve the mystery of the Question That Would Force Me to Lie.

The second I got home from school I pulled my hair into the highest and tightest ponytail I could manage and waited patiently by the phone.

5:00 p.m.

6:00 p.m.

7:00 p.m.. 7:05 p.m., 7:29 p.m… 8:00 p.m.!!!

At 8:04 p.m., the phone rang. I lunged for the receiver like a hungry lion. It was her: The Queen of Middle School, ruler of my fate. I remembered what her henchwoman said about lying and tried to remain calm as I answered the phone with a casual, not too eager yet peppy hello. There was no “hi” in return; she didn’t even mention her name. Just, “Do you have a crush on Tim?”

Duh I had a crush on Tim!

“Ew, no, he’s gross. I’d never like him,” I lied.

It was a three way call. He was on the other line.

Photograph via W Magazine

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