Leandra Medine's Blog, page 697

Mindy Fever & The Peter Project

Everyone knows that the The Mindy Project is essentially two shows in one. First you have your modern day Lucy and Ethel in the form of Mindy and Danny.

Ricky Ricardo is Beverly.

Then you have your Brady Bunch cast comprised of Morgan, Peter, Jeremy, Tamra, Betsy (we miss you), Lauren (we don’t), Cliff, the witch doctors, and Ricky Ricardo as Alice.

With two shows comes two stories so let’s break it up as such.

Lucy and Ethel:

– Team Schulman & Associates are late to a meeting being held by the hospital’s new department chief, Dr. Jean Fishman aka Deputy Raineesha Williams of Reno 911.

– Not only are the doctors tardy,* but Mindy’s phone goes off once she’s seated. Her ringer is “Fancy” by Iggy Azalea because that song will never get old.

-*Morgan and Tamra appear to have been there on time.

- Dr. Deputy Raineesha Williams gets pissed at them for being late/loud/rude and gives them the graveyard shift equivalent of hospital hours

– If this is sounding more like the Brady Bunch than I Love Lucy, hang on. I’m not Nick at Nite. I am getting there.

– In order to fix the horrible scheduling situation, Mindy befriends the cop-cum-doctor. They have a Girls’ Night out in Dr. Fishman’s new city (she’s been hanging out by the Statue of Liberty mostly), both doctors have fun, and then they make out.

Whoops!

– Turns out Dr. Fishman is a lesbian and likes Mindy. Mindy is scared to tell Dr. Fishman the truth for fear of ruining the now-rectified schedule and so, like a Shakespearean character or Lucy Ricardo, Mindy keeps up the shenanigans that Danny/Ethel strongly advises against.

– It blows up in her face when she decides to do the “right thing” and tell the truth. It turns out Dr. Fishman has a wife who happened to hear Mindy’s confession so now she knows that Reno Raineesha cheated. Wife is pissed. Reno Raineesha is pissed, and the Shulman & Associates’ schedule gets threatened once again.

– To rectify this situation Mindy calls Doctor Cop and lies about Danny’s mental state, causing Dr. Fishman and her wife to make a house call to Danny’s apartment wherein he pretends to be drunk and obsessed and wild-eyed. Somehow the women are convinced by Danny’s weird act, they sympathize, and all is righted in the couples-only dinner party world.

Meanwhile, on the Brady Bunch:

– Beverly / Ricky Ricardo made one appearance in an orange cardigan. She thought Mindy was a man and admitted to using Jeremy and Peter’s joint office toothbrush.

– Morgan’s ringtone is also “Fancy.”

– Peter needs a new beer pong partner for the Dartmouth Alumni game because his old frat bro’s dad dies and can’t make it. Jeremy gets chosen for his skill of putting little balls in containers with small openings even though Peter still kind of hates him. Meanwhile we learn that Morgan may have never thrown anything before!

– The team to beat is Shonda Rhimes’ (unclear on her partner, she may have been on a solo mission.) You may know Shonda Rhimes from writing such shows as Scandal, How to Get Away with Murder and Grey’s Fricking Anatomy!!! Writing’s how she pays the bills but beer pong is her passion in life. I feel that she and I probably have other stuff in common too.

– At the beer pong tournament, Jeremy, who is faking an American bro-cent with surprising accuracy, and Peter — whose nickname is “Leftie” — are killing it. Just sinking balls like ships left and right.

– Then Shonda who loves drama brings up Lauren “the brain surgeon” and Peter has a breakdown.

– We learn that “Leftie” did not come from his preferred partner in the one-man-hand-dance but rather, because every girl leaves him for one of his friends : – (

– Jeremy gives him a pep talk then burps. Peter walks into the burp solidifying their freshly patched friendship and the two continue their game in glorious slow motion until they win the whole thing.

-Shonda accepts the loss gracefully but it’s a good thing she’s not a writer for this show because in Shonda Land, people die mysteriously.

– Tamra lines: 0, so here’s a gif

– Morgan lines: a depressing total of 3, maybe.

Did anyone see that hot Dartmouth guy who was clearly not supposed to be in the shot post-Peter/Jeremy victory, but was so handsome that someone was like, “Meh, you’re fine just stay there,” who awkwardly arm-pumping while Peter jumped around celebrating his win?

Anyone else want a whole Flashback to Peter at Dartmouth episode?

What about an episode where Dr. Fishman, dressed as Deputy Raineesha Williams, gives Morgan’s house a “Clean House” makeover while Danny and Mindy work in the assembly line at a chocolate factory; hilarity ensues?  

Tell me all your thoughts and favorite lines and possibly also discuss Peter’s new nickname. Last thing: was Bev’s hair on point or what last night?

Dressing Tip: Wear Your Workshirt Off the Shoulder

Button down shirts: never old, never new.

Personally, I like to wear them oversize — boxy and kind of thick (so they don’t stick to my stomach) but casual too because I hate when they retain frustratingly rigid collars. My husband loves these because, and I quote, “they hold my neck up.” And here I thought bodies were supposed to do that!

I roll up the sleeves (often using a hugely handy cuffing trick from the ineffable Jenna Lyons) and like to tuck the shirt into high waist skinny pants. They provide the illusion that my lower stomach is either smaller than it actually is or accentuates the fact that though I look like I could be, I am not pregnant. This disparity tends to depend on what I ate for breakfast that morning.

I let the shirt peek out over my pants which makes me look vaguely disproportionate in a way that I really appreciate and then I live my life.

Or so I think I’m living my life — never have I felt as emasculated by the way in which I thought I had perfected the art of the oversize button down shirt as I did when I came upon this image, from New York Fashion Week, of a girl unbeknownst to me, giving the hot shoulder like no one has ever known warmth or clavicle bones before.

Will I try it? Yes. Probably simply by approximating this method — so that’s: unbutton the first, let’s say three, buttons of the shirt, pull it down from my back, unbutton the bottom three buttons, tie them together and pair with something high waist.

Will you? Here are some fancy shirts for your creative juice. The oldies from J. Crew should work just fine, too, though.

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Male Athletes: Bring Back the Party Shorts

Written by Emily Bracken

A few years ago I was flipping through the channels when I landed on ESPN Classic. Playing out an epic 5-setter were ginger-headed Boris Becker and tow-headed Stefan Edberg on the grass courts of Wimbledon. I was instantly transported to 1988, a time when hair was big, cars were loud and tennis pros played out actual points rather than the slugfests to which we’ve now become accustomed. Watching the legends, I also realized my disappointment with today’s tennis circuit isn’t due to the yawn-inducing corporate professionalism of the players, nor to the gargantuan logos stretching across the chest of every U.S. Open linesmen. The bone I have to pick is actually more like a wedgie — and the distinct lack thereof in men’s tennis and, come to think of it, professional men’s athletics.

Back in the ’70s and ’80s, when pills were for popping and there was no such thing as cabaret laws, wanton abandon not only pervaded nightlife, but also the length of athletic shorts. Sports stars from around the globe — Wilt Chamberlain, Pat Cash, Sugar Ray Leonard, Karch Kiraly — some of the manliest men to ever break a sweat wore shorts roughly the size of two dinner napkins stitched together. The fashion was such that shorts — named eponymously for a reason — gave athletes the cloth space in which to run without any impediments. But these tight blood-cutters weren’t just hemmed for business; with inseams of up to two inches, they were party-length, giving these virile showmen plenty of legroom to play to the crowd. At one time in history, everyone agreed: the shorter the short, the manlier the man.

These days, I don’t think you could call what pro athletes wear shorts. Anything that hovers at or falls below the knee is not a short, it’s a shant: a short pant that shan’t be a short, nor a pant. Pro basketball players have actually taken the shant so far south that it’s merged with the athletic sock mid-calf, covering the leg in its entirety. Rafael Nadal actually chucked the shorts entirely in favor of capris.

Pro athletes are buff and broad, rich and famous, alpha and athletic, but rather than suit up in edgy, form-fitting athletic apparel, they look like they’re wearing culottes. Michael Jordan is credited with lengthening shorts in ’84; the Michigan Fab Five added inches to their uniforms in ’94. It was hip hop style bought to the mainstream, but as more inches were added in the subsequent years, shorts turned into shants and by 2015 there’s a good chance athletes will be playing in trousers.

Men are usually so practical when it comes to clothes. But when an athlete suits up in clothes so large that, if masted, could catch wind and pull a small ship, they’ve taken this style over function thing too far. With all the new fabric technology and the addition of compressions shorts, you’d think these guys would seek out the most aerodynamic apparel available. Less, in this case, is more. All that extra fabric has become like an albatross around the legs, and it’s not helping their game — on or off the court.

Not only that, an athlete’s body is a temple, if not a shrine. The BMI scores of those who play professional sports for a living undoubtedly hover somewhere in the single digits. Why wouldn’t these guys want to show off the Adonis-like physique acquired after years of training? It’s like Led Zeppelin’s Jimmy Page deciding only to strum away at a few chords, or Picasso limiting himself to painting dog portraits. Their finely honed bodies are a very important part of what makes them famous. There is no need to be modest. They’ve earned the right not to be.

Also, despite men’s protestations, women want to see men’s legs. Trust me. They do. They really, really do.  Male athletes, I’m talking to you. Women the world over love watching your thighs thundering down the field and court. Women miss your quads, and I think you might miss them, too.

The long and short of it is that it’s time for pro athletes to take a cue from their rugby-playing brethren who’ve completely bypassed this shant trend altogether. Very proudly rocking 2″ inseams, the dudeliest dudes in sports and their Tom Selleck-sized stubbies are saying what we’re all thinking:

Gentlemen, a little leg, please.

This edited post originally appeared on The Huffington Post in 2011, an amended version of it appeared on Jezebel. Submitted to MR by the author, republished with permission.

Ask a College Freshman

Age is irrelevant when it comes to personality, interesting ideas and style. Who’s to say that a high schooler can’t pen one of your new favorite twitter accounts, that a grandmother can’t inspire the runway (or that the runway can’t inspire a grandmother). Just a few weeks ago a 10-year-old redefined play clothes and in August, an “actual” millennial taught us new words.

Then there is the college freshman, someone whose entire first year is about discovery, independence, education and transition all while learning to balance a rigid class schedule without immediately giving in to the university-branded sweatpants.

Meet Emma Hager, homesick for sundresses. You may recognize her from our robust and growing comments sections.

Name: Emma Hager

Age: 18

School: McGill University

Major: English Literature

1 . On a scale of “What are my parents’ names again?” to “When is the next flight out of here?” — how homesick are you?

Full disclosure: I am not missing my family all that much. Don’t get me wrong, I love them, but SPACE, you know? I am counting down the days until winter break only because I want to sink my teeth into a cheap, greasy Carnitas burrito. And cuddle with my dog.

2. What’s been the hardest adjustment so far?

Time-management. There really is no one chaperoning your study time or critiquing your work ethic, so it’s really easy to get caught up in the moment when exams seem so far on the horizon. Weeks move dangerously quickly, too.

3. How has your approach to getting dressed changed since moving in to college?

The style aspect of college has been one of the toughest for me. I left the majority of my wardrobe at home  —  mainly because most of it is unfit for arctic winters  —  and I am getting really bored of wearing jeans, a tee, and my coat. I miss my funky, printed dresses that the temperate, California climate allowed me to wear year-round.

4. How has it changed your outlook on style?

I am beginning to realize the functionality of style. Previously, my outlook had very little to do with necessity. Now style is a vessel for getting from point A to point B.

5. Not to sound like Cady Heron’s mom but have you made friends? Are people nice?

I’ve met a lot of nice people! I am solidifying friendships slowly but surely. Meeting people is the easy part. The harder part is finding people you want to reach out to that second and third time. Funny how so many people disappear after what I call the First Week Frenzy.

6. What’s one thing you’ve encountered so far that you did not expect?

It sounds silly because I am, after all, attending an institution of higher education, but: the seriousness of the work load. When people say college is a lot of reading, a lot of studying, do not underestimate them.

7. What’s your favorite class/teacher and why?

My favorite class this semester is actually my computer science class. I am working toward a degree in English Literature (I’ve become hardened to jokes about lack of job opportunities, so keep ‘em coming), but I wanted to take a basic computer science course because I feel like it’s a subject matter so fundamental to being a global citizen these days.

8. What are (sorry for this) “all the kids” wearing at your school?

There are some terribly stylish humans at my school. Both male and female. There are many intimidating French girls here, too. They stand outside the library and smoke together, clad in their Nike Air Force 1s, well-fitting jeans, and cocoon-y jackets. Man buns and Stan Smiths are also ubiquitous.

9. Any new trending words that we should start awkwardly jamming into our vocabulary immediately?

Ha, I actually haven’t heard anything! I’ve noticed that people laugh at some of my “slang” terms, though! The other night I was at dinner and said: “That meal was so dank,” and I had to explain that it is a term used by many California teenagers (fine, stoners) to describe good food/things.

10. What’s the most fun thing you’ve done so far at school?

I went on a backpacking trip the first weekend of school and that was so magical. I met a lot of amazing people and we just chilled in the woods, swam in the lake, told stories by the campfire. It was a great way to actually connect with people. I find it hard to connect in a meaningful way at parties.

11. What’s it like living with a roommate?

Living with roommates is a new experience for me, obviously. There’s a lot of estrogen in a confined space, and I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t tension at times. We are all so different — ideologically, socially, etc — but we still get along.

My motto is this: You do you, but always pick up after yourself and be mindful of others’ needs and space.

12. Piece of advice for annoying applying to colleges right now?

Go into the application process with no expectations. I know it’s hard when you’re in the moment and you want nothing more than to attend your dream school. I am at the exact opposite type of institution that I had originally wanted to attend. For the longest time I had this romanticized vision of myself at a small, rural liberal arts college. Then when I was admitted to several and I visited I was like: Oh, shit, not only are these schools really expensive, but they’re REALLY small.

Finances ultimately played a large part in my decision, and I’ve realized it’s all about attitude. You can make your experience what you want, anywhere you go.

Get through the applications process and don’t take things too personally. Often it’s a lottery.

13. What are the most valuable things you’ve learned about a. fashion b. independence c. education since you started school?

A. Wear layers. Functionality of fashion is highly important.

B. Let loose but remain dignified.

C. Treasure the privilege of acquiring esoteric knowledge. That’s only our sole responsibility for such a small fraction of our lives.

Stefon is Back, Plus Some Other Internet Stuff Too

That Thing Where…

Stefon made a guest appearance on Saturday Night Live this weekend, and he has a surprise announcement! [SNL via HULU]

What were you doing at 17? 

You may have heard that on Friday, Malala Yousafzai, age 17, became the youngest person ever to win the Nobel Peace Prize. In addition to feeling great joy over this news and waves of girl power pride, you might have also felt a little unaccomplished. Maybe you didn’t even make your bed. That’s ok, because on Saturday night, NY Mag attended The New Yorker Festival and asked a lot of famous people what they were doing at 17. Mindy Kaling was stressing about college applications, and Jill Abramson was smoking weed, so besides Molly Ringwald, you are probably right on par with them if not lightyears ahead. (MR PSA: DON’T SMOKE WEED, THO.) [NY Mag]

Let’s Play a New Game

It’s called: drunk, or Twitter-optimized headlines?

Tim Carvell started it when he tweeted: “Sometimes the @nytimes newsfeed is indistinguishable from a set of texts from your drunkest friend.”

Case in point:

Speaking of The New York Times, and Drunk People

If you haven’t seen this yet, you probably heard about it all weekend. NY Times treated a bunch of second graders to dinner at the fanciest restaurant in NYC. It is adorable, and you will probably need to watch it 10 times. [New York Times]

Adventures in Acupuncture

Because I think it’s fun to blame the universe for my problems, I decide the fact that I am twelve minutes late to my first acupuncture appointment is proof of my gross misalignment.

“I need this,” I rationalize. “It’s easy for balanced people to be on time.”

I explain this theory to a braless receptionist.

“Fill these out and return them to me,” she says, brandishing papers. I take the forms and realize that I am sweating profusely.

I tell her that I am not the sort of girl who is afraid of needles, which is true. Still, I am not exactly thrilled to be here. I accept that I am a lunatic who has volunteered to pay a stranger to stab her in the back and begin to record my grievances in block print.

I suffer from mild back pain and bad circulation. Sciatica runs in my family. In the winter, it takes several hours for my toes to thaw. Earlier this year, I logged so many successive afternoons in a chair that I pinched my own nerve.

My usual doctor, who manages my mild hypochondria like a champ, has already recommended a handful of boring solutions to these ills.

Sit less. Move more. Buy better gloves.

“Sure, sure,” I say. “But I’d like to try something different.”

To appease me, she proposes acupuncture. She tells me some of her patients swear by it.

It sounds mysterious and improbable. I’m sold. I make an appointment immediately.

At the office, I return the forms and am introduced to the acupuncturist. She, too, has forgone an underwire. I sit on a massage table and let her prod me. When I wince, she says my liver is “in denial.” She prescribes galangal root capsules, which my mother insists I flush down the toilet as soon as I get home.

The acupuncturist says she calls the twenty or so tiny swords she is about to insert into my flesh “fairy feet.” This does not put me at ease.

They don’t hurt, exactly. But they don’t go undetected either.

“It’s working!” I tell myself.

Except it isn’t, really. At the end of the session, I feel exactly as I did before. Only sleepier and more hostile toward Tinker Bell.

“Wow!” I say.

“This isn’t not for everyone,” says the acupuncturist, which I think is generous of her to admit. “But I do have something that might help you.”

I expect that she will prescribe a Chinese supplement or propose that I sleep under a dream catcher. She does neither. Instead, she tells me to put my hands together in front of my heart and breathe deep. I picture an Emoji.

“Now raise them over your head, roll your shoulders back, and slowly drop your arms to your sides as you exhale.”

I gasp. There is nothing barbaric or masochistic about the sequence. As far as instructions go, this one is only slightly better choreographed than the suggestion to “move more” that was offered to me several months ago. But I don’t care. I’m elated. For a moment, I feel perfect.

It has been three months and I have yet to return to the acupuncturist. But I do the exercise she taught me constantly — on the subway and in the morning and in bed. I share it with everyone I love. All of us push ourselves too hard and too fast. We are cavalier with our bodies and minds and with our cashmere sweaters, which need to be cleaned. We try to drink a lot of water and remember to smell the roses at the bodega around the corner. But it’s hard.

This is easy. This feels good.

It feels so good that I linger and stretch and repeat it so many times on Tuesday morning that the next thing I know I am late to meet my friend.

I decide I should meditate. The tranquil are punctual, right?

Images via Madame Figaro and Bob O’Connor

Let’s “Parent Trap” Martha & Gwyn

Martha, darling! Of course you’re appropriately on-time, which is actually ten minutes late to give me, the hostess, a few final minutes of prep. You’re so thoughtful. And did you get a blowout? Let me take your coat. Have a seat, have a drink, the other guests haven’t arrived yet. I’ll be right there — just heard the door bell ring.

**

Gwyneth, what’s up girl! You look so perfectly flushed, like you knew exactly the right weight of jacket and fair-trade scarf to wear without having to text your mom who lives in a different state. Would you like me to take that scarf or is it part of your outfit? Great. Come on upstairs, you’re the first one here.

**

Ok, guys, please don’t be mad at me for tricking you both into being here, but I watched the Mindy Project last week where Morgan Parent-Trapped Jeremy and Peter and I was reminded just how effective an ambushed reunion could be. Yes, Gwyneth. Peter did get fire thrown at him, which is why you’ll notice all artisanal candles in the surrounding area are not lit. Yes they’re made from locally sourced beeswax, Gwyn.

No Martha, I did not breed the bees myself and for that I apologize. This is about you two though. You two, and healing.

Martha, all of this started when you told Gwyneth that she needed to be quiet (in regards to Goop). I believe your direct quote was, “She just needs to be quiet. She’s a movie star. If she were confident in her acting, she wouldn’t be trying to be Martha Stewart.”

Gwyneth, please stop laughing. Martha Stewart is one of three people in this world who are important enough that they have been granted universal and celestial permission to refer to themselves in the third person without sounding like the Pick Up Artist, or a toddler. It’s like being knighted. Actually Martha, you’ve been knighted right?

Anyway, Gwyn. You responded quite elegantly: “No one has ever said anything bad about me before, so I’m shocked and devastated. I’ll try to recover. If I’m really honest, I’m so psyched that she sees us as competition. I really am.” Look at you with the sarcasm and stuff!

Now, Martha. Let’s be real. You run an empire. You have street cred. You wore pearls in jail. You have a billion dogs and yet have mastered the ability to wear black without a single piece of dog hair on it — that’s success. You’re Martha Stewart! Seeing Goop as competition might be a stretch for you, I get that. But you’re a strong female who built something amazing; you have nothing to prove by knocking Gwyn here.

Gwyn, hang on a second. Yes. I did just see that “Conscious Coupling” story in the November Issue of Martha Stewart Living. Martha, that was a little shady. That was actually both hyper-shady and kind of hilarious but Martha, it was too soon. Too soon.

Now Gwyn, as for you and your perfect smattering of freckles (have those been there the whole time??), maybe you could have made a better effort to include Martha in your decision to hire Living’s former CEO. Maybe you could have sent over some freshly baked vegan muffins wrapped with recycled newspapers stamped with Martha’s birthday. Did you send her a card? Gwyneth. You and I both know that Hallmark doesn’t count! That’s even worse than not sending a card. Tsk tsk.

But listen you two. Let’s just put this feud behind us. Think of what a world this could be if you guys joined forces? Maybe, Martha, you could have Gwyneth do a little column in your magazine. A play on words thing. She’s very clever with that. Or what about having Gwyn pair baby names with seasonal fruit?

And Gwyneth, maybe you could let Martha do something for Goop. Maybe an Ask Abby-type feature? For example: Dear Martha, how do I maintain my aristocratic New England accent during my upcoming two-year stint in prison? It’s not the prison I worry about so much as it is that the prison is located in Western New York where their dialect is far different from my own!

Is that a smile I see? The promise of one, at least? Come on you two, if nothing else, do it for the kids.

What to Wear This Week

What says happy Monday, let’s go in easy like a good breton striped shirt paired with utility style green pants? Hint: nothing. Which is precisely why you should start your week wearing a striped long sleeve t-shirt with a pair of green pants. If you don’t have green pants, that’s fine, how about khaki? You might look like a cross between an L.L. Bean catalogue model and for consistency, let’s say Brigitte Bardot, but there is nothing wrong with that except for coming back to terms with the reality that you are neither a Bardot or a model from Maine. Do this Tuesday too. Maybe, though, instead of wearing rubber soles which I’d have recommended for Monday, you up the jazz-hands factor in the foot depot. You know what they say, right? In like a lamb.

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So that by Wednesday, you can get a little freaky. In a good way! Why don’t you try a shirt dress (this could be from anywhere — I bought one from The Gap and cut the collar off of it) to wear over wide leg pants. Top it off with a double-breasted blazer (this one from The Reformation is bomb ass), which, full disclosure, is a styling method culled completely from one Rosie Assoulin. Wear comfortable (ish?) shoes because your pants are long enough to trick people into thinking you are at least four inches taller. Do the salmon salsa because tomorrow is Thursday and you don’t even have to change.

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Now, it’s Friday, so technically speaking, you could make like Rebecca Black and get down. Just don’t squat because you’re going to be wearing a straight mini skirt (not to be confused with its sorority sister of a cousin, the A-line) and a chunky ass knit sweater. Wear a striped shirt under it because you are a styling kween (also because these can be your Sunday pjs!). Tights are optional though not recommended, ankle length socks and brogues or short boots are mandatory. Change into sneakers at 5PM and run a marathon. Saturday be coming.

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As for Sunday? Stay in bed.

Image on the left: Shot by Jannick Boerlum, Center: Vogue Russia, Left: Kenzo SS15 via Style.com

Good Morning! It’s Columbus Day, Here’s What You Should Do

Read: Maria Konnikova’s The Limits of Friendship as published by The New Yorker last Tuesday. It presents a question we’ve been asking since the first Facebook poke was transmitted from one IP address to another from a scientific point of view spearheaded by Robin Dunbar (of The Dunbar Number fame): what happens to our social skills as our digital social networks continue to grow?

If that’s too much for you for 9AM, why don’t you reacquaint yourself with Saturday’s reader submission titled, “Like a Woman.” Brunch chatter doesn’t sound like a bad idea either.

Make: a matcha smoothie because health food is de rigueur — trendier than cats, even. Also, it’s 9AM and technically speaking, you have nowhere to be until tomorrow morning.

Use: one cup of almond milk, two table spoons of matcha, a table spoon of chia, one banana and one date for sweetness. Image care of The Roasted Root

Chase that smoothie with a glass of red wine because, again, technically speaking you have nowhere to be until tomorrow morning. (But also because I recently read that drinking a glass can kick start your metabolism much the same way that working out does. I don’t remember where or whether it’s true but let’s go with it, YOLO.)

Buy: something frivolous because Yoox is currently offering 40% off already reduced merchandise and this particular transparent number by Maison Martin Margiela really wants to get to know you better. Or so it said.

Think about: Brigitte Bardot, in St. Tropez, posing on water, in breton stripes and jeans.

We can be that girl. Let’s be that girl.

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Get: a ten minute back rub. You deserve it.

And, finally, user engagement matters off of social media, too! Answer this –

No, but really.

Like a Woman

Written by Elizabeth Sochko

My most embarrassing memory: telling Cody Gibson and Ian Dunlap, two of my elementary school best friends, that I “knew” boys were better than girls.

Smarter, stronger, faster.

Why I said this still escapes me. So many females don’t have exposure to information about gender equality or womens’ rights until they’re older, or until never. But I come from a badass pack of lady goddesses who showed me how it is to be a woman: awesome. Still, this didn’t change the fact that I found myself in a situation, dismissing my own self and everything I want to stand for.

That’s humiliating, to me, more so than giving myself a pixie cut in my bedroom the night before picture day, or the time I accidentally kicked a screen door on a boat so hard that it fell out of the frame and into the water during a wedding rehearsal — two incidents that I believed would cause me grief forever yet pale in comparison to the playground confession. I think about it often because I think about feminism often. How and when it hits us and makes us understand that we’ve been places in our own female minds that are not okay.

Feminism is #sohotrightnow. The word is buzzing, the subject is everywhere. One of my friend’s recent statuses: “I cannot read one more single article on this subject (supportive or critical or defensive or anything, doesn’t matter) for a while or I will burst into a puddle of root beer tears.” I find this to be both adorable and accurate. Emma Watson’s UN speech, the Chanel faux rally, Amy Poehler’s existence, this week’s New York Times article, “Is This The Golden Age for Women Essayists” — everywhere I look I’m reminded of what feminism means to me.

Whenever I begin to talk about it, I eventually start listing all the women who inspire me and all the things they’ve accomplished despite factors that stand in the way. Factors that go beyond two skinny ten-year-olds asking which gender is superior. It’s everything else that girls are just now starting to recognize, as they start to think, “Hey, maybe that isn’t okay, after all.” What we do to each other, what’s done to us.

In college, I met a slew of girls who I befriended because of their power which was visible and worth gawking at. Girls who are now moving through the spaces they live with even more awareness of the way they treat others, how they deserve to be treated.

There were times when we found ourselves failing to be the women we wanted to be — we were a gang of “bad feminists.” We talked about guys we were sleeping with and how they sometimes-comically but mostly unintentionally abused and disrespected who we were desperately trying to become. How it was unfair. We slid notes under each others’ doors that said, “I’m sorry for calling you a bitch,” and eventually we understood how we, women, had the ability to hurt ourselves and each other — it wasn’t just frat boys or the wrong boy or a disrespectful boss. How nobody was better than the other.

Talking about the new “f” word is either taboo or de rigueur, but it’s complicated, too. And I think once we understand that, instead of dismissing it or adding the word to our Twitter bios, it will do more than just circulate among forums or fashion shows. But if it takes a girl watching the Chanel show to become a girl thinking about the bigger voice, a collective voice, a voice that wants more than it’s been handed, I think that, too, shouldn’t be criticized.

Exposure, at any time, needs a certain level of adjusting.

I don’t want girls holding up signs before webcams saying they’re against a conversation that celebrates how important, how worth, how necessary equality is. But I also don’t want to get fucked when I don’t want to be, nor do I want to be told that I’m not as good at something as someone else because of gender.

I want a lot of things.

What I stand behind most, with binoculars and ribbons and noisemakers, is watching the girls who, unlike myself, were never exposed to this type of thinking at all, taking a critical look at who it is they want to be. Or girls, like me, who were always exposed to the issue, but at times chose the easier ways around it. Once I realized I’d rather be respected than handed a free drink at a bar, I wanted everyone I know to want that.

Somewhere, there’s a girl on her iPhone googling feminism instead of swiping right on Tinder. If it takes Beyoncé instead of a TED talk, or majoring in Women and Gender Studies or reading Sylvia Plath’s collected works to get her to this point, that’s okay. Great, even. At least she’s getting somewhere. We’re getting somewhere. We’re uncovering it.