I thought Easter was today until around dinner time last night. Someone told me it was and I blindly believed them for a week, also repeating this apparent lie to others.

So…whoops. Looks like I’ll have to wait until next week for the traditional Lauren Easter celebration, which is to drink a margarita and sunbathe in a bikini and boxers. #amen

On the one hand, I’m eating healthier, drinking more water, and taking better care of my skin and hair. On the other hand, doing so means spending more time thinking about my appearance than I’m used to doing. For some reason that’s making me a little fragile. Being so tall and having the gift of reasonably decent genetics in the metabolism department has meant I’ve been able to be VERY dismissive of dietary concerns with few visibly damaging consequences. But I have definitely gained a few pounds since college (10. I’ve gained 10 pounds), and I’ve heard metabolism doesn’t exactly get faster as you get older, so I need to reframe how I think about eating and exercising.

It’s really hard. The wedding is such a gift of motivation for so many things I’ve left unchecked too long.

I mean, I’m taking baby steps here. Controlling calorie intake is really hard when all you normally eat are combinations of bread, pasta, cheese, and meat. But it forces me to branch out into more good green stuff and fruit is my new bestie. So yes, some of what I’m eating is the not exactly perfect (ex: frozen stufffor people on diets), but it’s also a lot more snacking on crap that’s super good for me. Like I said, baby steps.

I’m also suddenly extremely aware of my skin and hair. As much as I love the freckles that come out in this gorgeous sunshine, I have to realize that my skin is on the fragile end of the spectrum. It needs to be protected with good oil-free moisturizers and sunscreens. It needs less sugary awful crap coursing through my veins and causing breakouts (note: I have absolutely no concept of how eating greasy, sugary foods gives you pimples, but health class said it does so I have to assume it’s a contributing factor to my 26 year old face still getting spots).

And if I want my long hair, I have to start treating it better or I’m going to look like an actual crazy person all the time. This is the most vain/not specifically rooted in health thing on the list, I know, but my long hair makes me happy and makes me feel pretty (when I do it) and I honestly think that’s positive for me. I’m almost certainly going to shorten it at least a little after the wedding, but having this much hair to work with for a formal occasion is presumably good. I was a child in the late 80s and 90s, and the concept of the long-haired Disney princess bride is an aesthetic ideal I don’t mind having (though the rest of the impossible-to-attain standards are ones I sometimes wish I could let go of more easily, as I’ll never be a 90 pound large breasted flawless-skinned pixie with eyes that take up 70% of my face. Damn you, Ariel!).

So for Brett who feels my posts are in need of it:

Tl;dr: my pursuit of better health is making me feel vain, but I still think it’s worth it in the long-run to change these bad habits.

brightwalldarkroom
brightwalldarkroom:

"I have forgotten all the major stories, and yet I could carve in bone my memory of a dozen tiny, quiet scenes:
Betty, sitting in a late-day Roman glow, her hair whipped and molded into a European chignon. Looking so modern it was as if she alone dragged in the backdrop change, inventing the ’60s. As if she’d finally shed the kids like a dead skin or a fire and emerged, victoriously golden. Reborn. How the Italian men hit on her and insulted Don when he approached, as a stranger. Which was perfect, right? Because how long had it been since they’d known each other at all? I’d etch in how he fell back in love, madly so, with Betty for two days. With this restored, empowered version of her. All cold upper class beauty, all superiority, all linguistic-flexing power. Too good for him, which is the key to everything.
I’d etch the repose of Roger’s tired face when he calls Joan late at night, with Jane, the regrettable wife, passed out beside him.
Peggy’s hand on Don’s after Anna dies. This single brief touch a complete swelling orchestra composed to explain the depth of their bond and its tenuousness. How vital and still wildly vulnerable this tie is in the possession of a man so accustomed to scorching any tenderness entrusted to him.
Everything encompassed in the moments Don calls Betty “birdie.” The whole rattling film projection of their courtship and marriage and children and infidelities and lies and second tries and reheated dinners. And the end that Betty pretends comes with the bang of Dick Whitman’s betrayal, and not years of whimpers. Every aching sweetness remains in “birdie,” somehow fossilized and surviving but useless as a mate-less bull.
The literal restraint of the characters—their buttoned-up loneliness. The moments of elegant non-response and suffocated reaction. The things they do not tell each other, the fights they don’t finish, the slaps that aren’t delivered. The communicative release they never allow themselves (even as it might be their salvation).
Sometimes, I find myself watching  Mad Men through a sort of fantasy lens, as if it were an underwater ballet. A cold, slow-floating drift of Asian dance and sad, silent theater.
It’s hypnotizing.”
—Erica Cantoni, "I Will Not Have My Heart Broken" (Bright Wall/Dark Room magazine, June 2013)

brightwalldarkroom:

"I have forgotten all the major stories, and yet I could carve in bone my memory of a dozen tiny, quiet scenes:

Betty, sitting in a late-day Roman glow, her hair whipped and molded into a European chignon. Looking so modern it was as if she alone dragged in the backdrop change, inventing the ’60s. As if she’d finally shed the kids like a dead skin or a fire and emerged, victoriously golden. Reborn. How the Italian men hit on her and insulted Don when he approached, as a stranger. Which was perfect, right? Because how long had it been since they’d known each other at all? I’d etch in how he fell back in love, madly so, with Betty for two days. With this restored, empowered version of her. All cold upper class beauty, all superiority, all linguistic-flexing power. Too good for him, which is the key to everything.

I’d etch the repose of Roger’s tired face when he calls Joan late at night, with Jane, the regrettable wife, passed out beside him.

Peggy’s hand on Don’s after Anna dies. This single brief touch a complete swelling orchestra composed to explain the depth of their bond and its tenuousness. How vital and still wildly vulnerable this tie is in the possession of a man so accustomed to scorching any tenderness entrusted to him.

Everything encompassed in the moments Don calls Betty “birdie.” The whole rattling film projection of their courtship and marriage and children and infidelities and lies and second tries and reheated dinners. And the end that Betty pretends comes with the bang of Dick Whitman’s betrayal, and not years of whimpers. Every aching sweetness remains in “birdie,” somehow fossilized and surviving but useless as a mate-less bull.

The literal restraint of the characters—their buttoned-up loneliness. The moments of elegant non-response and suffocated reaction. The things they do not tell each other, the fights they don’t finish, the slaps that aren’t delivered. The communicative release they never allow themselves (even as it might be their salvation).

Sometimes, I find myself watching  Mad Men through a sort of fantasy lens, as if it were an underwater ballet. A cold, slow-floating drift of Asian dance and sad, silent theater.

It’s hypnotizing.”


—Erica Cantoni, "I Will Not Have My Heart Broken" (Bright Wall/Dark Room magazine, June 2013)