Archive for March, 2010

The following statement is going to be truly dweeb-tastic: I’m deriving a lot of my self-confidence these days from none other than a site I once found totally pointless. That site is called Twitter.

When Twitter first hit pop culture tidal waves, I did exactly what I did when Facebook made its debut at my educational institution: made a lot of fun of it and vowed never to join. Why anyone entertains any of these rants from me is baffling; if everyone’s doing it, I’m definitely going to eventually self-loathingly hop on board, jump-off-a-bridge style, especially if there’s an element of narcissism involved. Twitter is narcissism encapsulated. It’s a wonder I wasn’t a member of the beta development process.

Much as I want to believe I’m part of counterculture in some way, I’m facing reality these days: I’m a social-networking whore, and Twitter might have me prostituting myself out most of all.

I like to give a lot of fancy reasons for why I spend so much time crafting pithy thoughts to tweet out to the twittersphere (god, that’s fun to say out loud… in a crowded coffee shop… where everyone is pretending to work but really doing the same thing I’m doing… perusing these forums of fun for hours…). Some of these reasons are even kind of true. It’s a good way to direct people to posts like this one, as well as more real things I write, like reviews of local restaurants. It’s also a good way to provide commentary on goings-on about the town without having to craft a 1000 word summary of my thoughts. And, hey, it’s kind of like sending a really clever mass text message, except that I can send it even to people who aren’t in my phone book.

But notice that all of these “reasons” for using Twitter can be boiled down to the general category of “telling everyone all the time about how awesome I am.”

I kind of can’t help myself. Unlike Facebook, where I’m pretty sure my profile is locked down under every privacy setting available (unless something’s screwy with all the changes they’ve made), any old person can follow me on Twitter. This is pretty self-validating when people I don’t know start following me. This is pretty ego-feeding when someone thinks I’m clever enough, in 140 characters or less, to subscribe to my every posted thought. And this is pretty exciting when people I’m fans of become fans of me, especially when they RETWEET my original thoughts.

I’m sorry, I’m sucked in deep, and I can’t stop myself. Brevity is the soul of wit, after all, and I’m doomed to spend hours upon hours upon hours paring down my monologues into a few choice words so as to obtain self-validation from the likes of my 56 followers.

No but seriously, follow me on Twitter.

I will Good Will Hunting myself to Harvard to be a part of this class. I will perform unmentionable acts. I will even bribe a Harvard student to sign up and let me take their place (I will do all the work, too, and I guarantee an A, because I will be too obsessed with the subject matter to fail… interested parties please contact me). And I’m not even a science person.

Quite frankly, it’s with no small amount of jealousy in my heart that I think of those lucky undergraduates, fresh shining faces in their maroon tee shirts, spending a blissful semester in their Cambridge ivory tower being graced academically by the likes of Ferran Adria, Wylie Dufresne, Jose Andreas, and Grant Achatz. IN ONE CLASS.

Seriously? Seriously?

Rumor has it that Adria plans, among other things, to open a culinary academy once El Bulli closes, so it’s no surprise that he might want to perform a practice run in the meantime… but damn, skippy, way to pull out all the stops.

Science of food aside, the chance to geek out with 12 of the world’s most prolific and interesting chefs is an opportunity most members of the INDUSTRY will never get to experience. Leave it to a place like Harvard to trot this epic lineup out to a bunch of burgeoning engineers. I hope they get to eat their lessons, and I hope they enjoy them more than the equations they solve to create the end product.

Hey, Adria, if you’d like a non-science brain to give you an opinion about the effectiveness of your teaching, I’d be happy to provide my services.

Duh.

Ok, admittedly, part of the reason I like this article is because it validates my choices on Saturday night, which included, among other things, a decision to eat 13 different dishes, including 2 desserts, 2 (different) preparations of bone marrow, and at least 2 elements of deep-fried goodness. What’s the opposite of low-fat? Yep, yep, my Saturday night.

Slate’s not exactly breaking news here, what with Michael Pollan, patron saint of all things naturally raised and sustainably grown, having spent the last several years telling the story of villainous processed food in the form of New York Times columns and best-selling books, but they bring up an apt point: there are policy implications of this newfound food fervor.

Low-fat had its day in the sun only to be replaced by sugar-free. Now, there’s no denying that America’s diners are looking less for subtraction of “evil” than asking about the origin of food on their plates. Robert Kenner’s “Food, Inc.” came out this year to critical acclaim and took the next swing at the processed foods empire in the war started and fought by Pollan with the help of people like Eric Schlosser, Morgan Spurlock, Joel Salatin, and Alice Waters, among others.

The repercussions of this trend run deep. Suddenly, “natural” has supplanted “fat-free” in advertising catch-phrase land, and diet literature preaches whole foods instead of low cholesterol.

As for the USDA, the supposed leader of the nutrition pack and the agency responsible for setting the tone of how our country eats will have to choose whether to change its approach or stay the course when they revisit dietary policy recommendations this year. Regardless of what that particular group of people decides, the fact that they’re making a decision over whether or not to toe the low-fat line is a testament to the fact that this bureaucratic organization, like most of government, is painfully behind the times.

Seriously? Low-fat? That was at least two trends ago. On the other hand, aren’t these supposed to be scientists and nutritionists? Are they really only going to change policy because suddenly the public is swinging a different way? I’d rather my government agencies not make their recommendations by the polls, everyone’s-doing-it-so-it-must-be-right style.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m a believer in eating real food, period. Lots of it. Not only because I believe it’s better for me, but also because I’m a sucker for stuff that tastes good, and there’s no denying that a succulent cut of pork belly is 9000 times tastier and more indulgent than even the best crafted Snackwell’s 100-calorie pack of cookies (god forbid I call out Snackwell’s, by the by, did you hear Ruhlman got fired from his Restaurant Industry column for calling out Kraft in his personal blog? I speak the truth).

I’m not advocating that everyone eat like me, and I’m not begging Washington to condone my choices. Truth be told, if I had my way, I’d rather Washington butt out altogether, relying instead on other sources to propagate nutrition information to America’s masses, which is exactly the kind of forum the warriors in the food dialogue are attempting to create. But while I’d rather not listen to the government when deciding what to eat because I’m a foaming-at-the-mouth food fanatic intent on charting my own course, I know not everyone out there feels the same, choosing instead to abide by the questionable food pyramid because the back of the cereal box told them to do so.

Unfortunately, because they’ve clearly not kept up with contemporary food thinking, the USDA is between a rock and a hard place when it comes to preserving its credibility. Staying the course has obvious problems, but so does adapting to the whim of the year. No matter which way the low-fat sugar-free or organic whole grain cookie crumbles, it doesn’t change the fact that making this choice at all demonstrates that a clearly inept organization is telling the American masses how to eat.

That said, there’s still a sizeable sect of society that listens to lawmakers over experts while perusing shelves at a grocery store, something Jamie Oliver’s “Food Revolution” is proving over and over again. Maybe it’s the idealist liberal arts grad talking here, but I’d like to think there’s a way to rescue the USDA from obsolescence while still making a solid positive impact on America’s health.

I’d like to see the agency take a new tack, telling us less about exactly what to eat and more about how to find information when we’re trying to make that choice for ourselves. I recognize the importance of brief messaging, but since when does the government care about being brief? There’s a bevy of information out there, and the food debate is nothing if not an ongoing evolving conversation. If we can harness that, we’ll rescue ourselves from food ignorance and eat much more delicious food as a result.

As self-indulgent posts go, this one might take the cake, so I apologize. Unless you count irony, it’s not even going to be funny. I’m writing it for me, and for anyone who might contract me out as a writer (or, odds against odds, hire me for a full-time position, complete with a benny plan) that doubts my commitment to the field based on my erratic resume and musings about law school on this here blog (yep, that political). I imagine I’m about to lose a lot of you. See you later. If you’re still reading, here goes.

The little note pad on my iPhone never fails to amuse me. This amassed collection of random thoughts is usually simultaneously predictable and cryptic, saying things like “pumpkin acetate” or “parsnip gnocchi with beef cheeks.” Presumably, these were either items on a menu or random snippets of an envisioned meal, flashes of literary or culinary genius long forgotten, never to be enacted or commented upon again.

I happened upon a real gem today, though. I can only guess that it was a sentence I constructed for a pretentious future memoir, a note to a distant self who’d chosen the risky path and written a best seller, forgoing stable and responsible career options for the road less traveled. This was the sentence: “Like any self-respecting lover of the notion of financial security, I naturally dabbled with the idea of law school, but in the end, you know, the writer must write and all that.”

Ew. But apt timing, past Laura. I’m not sure how I feel about the idea of a calling, but I think it’s vaguely on par with the love-at-first-sight concept: maybe possible, but definitely not probable. I’d prefer to think that life is what we make of it. What I do have, however, is a dream job, and it’s been the same since days of childhood when I was scribbling descriptions of fictional characters in wide-ruled notebooks while the rest of my friends were doing normal things like playing house and chasing boys on the playground.

The truth is, if all else were equal, I know exactly what I’d pursue, and, I can tell you, it wouldn’t be law school. Those lucky few who have made it in the writing profession, particularly people like David Sedaris and Jeffrey Steingarten, who are writing on subjects that incite no small amount of enthusiasm within my silly soul, are living my dream life. They’re writing, something I do compulsively and for free, and they’re being paid heftily for it, all because people think they’re worth reading. So dream job I’ve got, success within the field others have proven possible, but do I pursue it? Me?

The logical side of me has a problem with that. After all, this ain’t the final stage of Marxism, it’s the real world, the capitalistic world, and statistics come into play here. And frankly, statistically speaking, I’m not going to get rich by staking my bet on the written word. To that side of me, calling myself “a writer” is absurd. Writers are people with smoking habits and drinking problems. They wear black and make undecipherable philosophical comments, sometimes speaking entirely in metaphor. They have no money. They live in coffee shops. They have livejournals. They own cats. I don’t like those things, except maybe black and maybe coffee shops. Definitely not cats, though.

Reconciling my idea of writing as a viable career is something I’ve never been able to do, choosing instead to toss volumes of my thoughts out to the universe and see what happens as a result (a thing or two, but not the accidental name-in-lights success I secretly hope for every time the clock strikes 11:11). Not surprisingly, conversations with writers who have made it work reveal the truth: there’s something to be said for talent, but just like everything else, the successful writers are those driven people who relentlessly pursue publication.

Terrifying and pompous as it feels, I’ve reached a juncture: I can’t not give it a go, and I don’t mean just one-off freelancing. If I don’t try to make a stable living in this field now, I’ll never do it, and given that I’ve proved time and time again that I’m a subscriber to the philosophy that it’s what we don’t do, rather than what we do, that we later regret (no really, Laura? How many careers have you had at this point?), that’s simply unacceptable.

If I don’t try to walk this path, 20 years from now, even if I’m sitting on a mountain of money in a veritable palace forged by long hours in a law firm and pursuit of a noble higher goal, I’m going to wonder “what if?” By the same standard, if I give it a shot and realize that I simply don’t have what it takes, I can always go to law school later, and the lost year(s) won’t be even a blip on my radar, part, instead, of a distant forgotten past. And if, odds against odds, I do make it work, I doubt I’ll ever look back (at least not until I’m facing foreclosure on my home because print died and no one will buy my work).

So there it is, end of the crisis of faith 2010, end of this self-indulgent rant. Words of wisdom appreciated, especially from other writers. Words of berating appreciated, too, since that’s what I’m expecting from editors.

Hugs and kisses.

It’s officially Spring in Boulder. You know what that means? Barring the occasional irritating March snowstorm, the sun is shining, the streets are filled with happy people and their dogs, and I, of course, have been fully embroiled in an all-encompassing crisis of faith.

This should, by this juncture in my young adulthood, be predictable. I don’t know if it’s a pressure change or a harkening back to school days of yore, but my itchy feet get especially bad in the Fall and Spring, and each season brings a prolonged period of listening to my Pensive mix and telling everyone ever all about every convoluted and conflicting thought passing through my head about some life-path-altering decision. Proof, starting in 2007 (it should be noted that this pattern could be seen as early as 2003 after I broke up with my stable high school boyfriend and, thus, my stable high school perception of who I was):

Crisis of Faith (COF) Fall ‘07: “I should go consult in New York City in January 2008 when no one’s moving there because I hate Denver and I want a great deal on an apartment!” vs. “But wait, I kind of like my job and Denver! I should wait to move until June!”

COF Spring ‘08: “I love burritos! I should totally work on burritos remotely from NYC since my boss will let me! I don’t need financial analysis skills, those are for boring people, and I’m not boring!” vs. “Financial analysis skills are for sexy people, burritos are for silly people. I really want financial analysis skills so I can be sexy! I should totally work in finance-light!”

COF Fall ‘08: “I hate finance-light! Imma work in marketing!” vs. “I really want financial analysis skills! I should definitely tough this out!”

COF Spring ‘09: “Everyone should be required to live in New York for two years! I’m going to do that!” vs. “I’m moving back to Boulder immediately because I hate finance, but I loooove wine! Also mountains!”

COF Fall ‘09: “I’m sick of wine! I miss the office and being able to afford dinner!” vs. “I love wine! I should work in another restaurant and get my sommelier certification!”

That list exhausts me, maybe because of the schizophrenic exclamation points, but not as much as my brain is exhausting me right now. For every side presented on that list, I had a fully crafted poetic argument that I gave to each and every one of my friends and acquaintances who, in turn, wanted to lock me in my room for a week or six until everything blew over.

I blame my generation. A hundred years ago, when I was but a rosy-cheeked youth, I read an article in Time about defining characteristics of my age group. As opposed to our hippy-dippy parents, we want to grow up fast, stepping right into solid careers and adult lives. A lot of my friends have done that. They’re now in year three or four of their stable careers in banking and consulting and publishing and coffee. They own houses and cars and significant others. They know what a 401 (k) is, and they use it. This is fantastic for them. Their parents are very proud and happy that someday their kids will have the means to pay for a nursing home.

And while my friends have been building their solid lives and solid long-term careers, I’ve been trying to decide what my long-term career is going to be while dabbling in every field that exists. Hence the convincing arguments for both sides of the coin: do I cut my losses at this early stage of the game, or do I stick something out for a lifetime? Hey, I fully acknowledge that a lack of patience is my greatest weakness in each and every one of my 20 interviews per year. This is obviously very black and white. There’s clearly absolutely no gray area here.

So guess what’s been happening for the last week or six? Yep. Yep. 2 sides of an argument surrounding what my next (and final this time, no really) life move is.

Here are the details, little people in my laptop who still read my blog. Back in COF Fall ’09, I decided I did, in fact, want to pursue the old childhood ambition of a fulfilling career in law. I did my prep work. I took the LSAT. I spent a million dollars and devoted hundreds of hours to applying to schools. I even got accepted to some of them. And I started making shiny happy plans for a move back to the East Coast.

And then March started. And the first 70 degree day happened. And I met a new friend or two after whining for months about the size of Boulder. And I realized there might be a couple of restaurants in Denver I haven’t experienced. And COF Spring ’10 started in full.

Do I REALLY want to be a lawyer? I mean REALLY? Willing-to-take-out-$180,000-worth-of-student-loans want to be a lawyer? Haven’t I been saying the whole time that I want an unconventional law career? As in not being a lawyer at all at the end of the day? Maybe I should be a writer. Or a non-profiteer. Or an astronaut! That sounds like a fun plan! I haven’t tried space yet on my list of career prospects! I wonder if NASA is hiring people with my qualifications!

But wait. Even though my eventual goal is to do something outside the realm of law, a few years of practice will help immensely. And the legal field does play to my strengths. And my smarts. And my love of sexy suits. And my love of affording sexy meals. And I spent millions of dollars and hundreds of hours on getting accepted. And I already have a delightful roommate lined up for Boston.

Flip. No flop. No flip. Flop.

You know how I know I should be a lawyer in the end? Because I can fully convince everyone, including myself, of either side of my personal fence on any given day, even if I’ve already completely proved, case-closed style, the other position (no, but now I know FOR SURE that the OTHER WAY is the way to go). Gray -> black and white. Hello, law school (no wait!).

I first became aware of the sweatiness of my armpits in 5^th grade during a Saturday afternoon when I was supposed to be napping but was instead lying awake listening to my father converse with his childhood best friend via telephone just outside of my closed bedroom door.

“She’s about to hit puberty,” I heard him say, “She’s started sweating in the armpits of her shirts.”

I was uncomfortable. I’d never really noticed my sweaty armpits, and I found myself dragging a couple curious fingers through that particular spongy region of my body. At that juncture of my life, puberty was some mythical stage of being, something I’d seen on film but with which I’d yet to have firsthand experience. I was vaguely excited about it because it meant I could join the popular girls in showing off the straps of my training bras; I was also vaguely terrified because it might mean I would have to start drawing on the information I’d gained in sexual education about pubic hair and periods. I wasn’t ready for that. I yearned instead for simpler days of Barbies and bloodlessness.

15 years after I started wearing deodorant in response to this physiological change, one might think that I would have worked out the angles. One would assume that I would have accepted the fact that my armpits sweat, and that, therefore, I would have done everything I’d need to do to disguise this unbecoming part of my physical being. One would be wrong.

Here’s the truth: my crevices, particularly my armpits, are sweaty. Like, really sweaty. Like, don’t respond even to the deodorant advertised to be strong enough for a man. Like, could compete with the fat man eating spicy food on a park bench in the middle of July. I know, I’m a really pretty girl. I can’t understand why I don’t have a boyfriend given my immense beauty and charm.

The unfortunate truth of my sweaty armpits sometimes sadly rears its ugly head in social situations, but those little vessels of moisture seem to be particularly on display at my place of work. I think there are approximately 3 reasons for this:

1. I drink a lot of coffee before waiting tables.

2. The owners of my restaurant like to keep the temperature at a balmy 72 degrees even though I’m running laps through hordes of people.

3. My work shirt, of the stock gray button-down variety, doesn’t breathe. At all. At. All.

Given this list of circumstances, I think it’s pretty remarkable that only my pits are disgusting. I consider it a win that I’m not coated in a fine sheen and exhibiting signs of chest and back sweat through the impermeable fabric of my uniform. I’m just saying.

The only thing worse than being sweaty and gross is being called out on being sweaty and gross, so I don’t exactly find it delightful when one of our backwaiters points out the various nastiness of my being that I’d rather pretend no one notices.

“You spilled on yourself,” he’ll say. Really? I hadn’t noticed the onslaught of disgusting dishwater when I aggressively tossed utensils into the bucket of filthy sanitizer. Thank you so much for making me aware of my plight.

Or “Hey, you’re kind of pitting out.” Wonderful. Wonderful. Not only have I failed at correctly wearing deodorant and then strategically hiding the large wet circles under my arms, I’m also going to walk around self-consciously, probably sweating more because of the induced anxiety, thinking about how everyone knows I’m the smelly kid in class. I might need to step out on the back staircase and fan myself or breathe into a bag. My life is over.

On one occasion recently, I was working with said backwaiter and, for no apparent reason, having a particularly sweaty day. My ego was feeling a little fragile, and the thought of having him bruise it further with his apt observations was a little too much. I needed a solution, so I crammed some hand towels into my armpits and walked around for the first five hours of service with weird bulges under my arms until it became dark enough for him not to notice and slow enough for him to be cut.

This didn’t do much for my productivity, however, mostly because I couldn’t raise my arms higher than eye-level for fear of dislodging my “solution.” By extension, this also meant that I couldn’t clear tables, and I couldn’t reach the shelves to put polished glassware back, kind of a problem when I’m the one called in to pinch hit at these tasks for shorter servers because of my superior height. Plus, I found myself with one hand constantly in my shirt readjusting the scratchy little receptors of sweat, and I was caught a couple of times by quizzical coworkers wondering what exactly I was doing (uh, nothing, my shirt’s just really uncomfortable right now, really).

I’m not sure why I seem to be the only one with this problem.  I don’t see other servers fanning out their pit stains.  I watch bartenders moving at lightning speed remain remarkably perspiration-free.  So what does a girl do? Do I start wearing men’s deodorant? Salt crystals? Haynes undershirts? Given the fact that I already have hideous shoes and a lumbering frame, I’m not sure adding another element of androgyny to my work persona is something that’s going to do a lot for my ability to flirt at a table, but at least it will save me from panic attacks over what my co-workers think.  It’s fun being a girl of the Amazon variety.  Everything I do is so cute.

Let’s all take a moment to remember the holiday I hate: Halloween. In case you’ve forgotten, let me summarize. Halloween is a night when girls dress like sluts, a bunch of frat-tastic d-bags put on dumb costumes, and everyone drinks with a vengeance so that they may use the holiday as an excuse to act like bigger morons than they already are. And to top it off, I suck at this holiday since I don’t really know how to dress like a slut (see former costumes: Amelie, gum stuck to the bottom of a shoe, and, most recently, the Reading Rainbow).

The only holiday that rivals Halloween for my personal greatest repulsion is St. Patrick’s Day. Let’s back off for just two seconds and acknowledge the fact that if you’re my age and have been out with me more than, like, once, you know that I like to act like a full-fledged d-bag on occasion, complete with the fist-pump. What I DON’T like to do, however, is fist-pump with a bunch of other fist-pumpers, the majority of whom are red in the face, sweaty, and smell like a combination of beer-infused B.O. and Axe body spray. Enter St. Patrick’s Day, possibly even more frat-tastic and slut-filled than Halloween because no one has to be clever, they just have to don green.

I’m sorry. I mean, I’m Irish. I should be the loudest d-bag of them all, proudly touting my “Kiss Me, I’m Irish” tee shirt, stretched tightly across my meager bosom. I should be showering in green glitter. I should be spilling green beer all over you as I sloppily stumble around Fado, Denver’s choice St. Patty’s Day spot, because I’ve used my heritage as an excuse to drink from sunrise to, well, sunrise. I should be drunkenly making out with some thick red-headed meathead in solidarity and remembrance of our potato-famine roots.

But I’m full-on St. Patrick’s Day Debbie Downer. I won’t be wearing green. I won’t be drinking Guinness. I probably won’t even eat corned beef and cabbage (on second thought, mmm, corned beef). The only thing that redeems St. Patrick’s Day above Halloween is that I don’t have to grudgingly participate; I just have to put up with your impulsive urge to pinch me in ostracism. I’m okay with that. Just don’t make me kiss you, and we’ll be alright.

When I was 10, I insisted on having a Hollywood-themed birthday party because I wanted a cake that said, in giant red letters, “A Party Starring Laura.” Birthdays were magical days for me because they meant, to my twisted little adolescent mind, that everyone had to treat me like I was special.

I wish I could say things have changed, but given my annual propensity to stretch birthday celebrations into multi-day events to make sure each and every one of my social acquaintances has the opportunity to commemorate my birth by purchasing me some sort of dessert or beverage, I think it’s safe to say that being the center of attention is one of my vices.

Acknowledging this makes my stomach turn because it makes me think of the insecure popular girls in high school, demanding that everyone around them listen to the inane drivel dripping from their heavily-glossed lips. I don’t want to be that girl. I want to be the sexy girl in the library who spends Friday night geeking out over an intellectual subject of her choice without a care in the world for what other people think of her or her activities. I want to be the relentless pursuer of passions that doesn’t stop for even a second to listen to the warnings or advice of others. I want to be the star of my own Zach Braff-style romantic comedy, the quirky girl who catches the attention of the quirky guy after years of being passed over for the hot arm candy girl in the sundress.

There are a couple of barriers to this delightful little vision: I’ve never skipped a party for a study session even once in my entire life, and it turns out I’d no sooner allow myself to be underestimated than fit one of my ugly stepsister-sized feet into Cinderella’s dainty glass slipper. This metaphor may be getting convoluted and lost here, but the shoe doesn’t fit, so I best not wear it.

The underestimation thing speaks to what I see as social grace. The most socially adept people that I know can be the center of attention if the situation calls, but are equally comfortable slipping back into one-on-one conversations or even pleasantly content wallflower status if need be. They are constantly attuning their projected personality to those around them. I’m jealous of my brother for this talent. We both grew up in a family of people clamoring to garner an audience, but somehow, while I fought tooth and nail for my own airtime, he learned to step back from the family politics and step up with a well-placed comment when the occasional pause occurred.

Luckily, the only thing that saves me from my inherent selfishness in the attention game is my genuine interest in other people. I’m always a sucker for a good story, so when I can just shut up long enough to let someone tell theirs, I’m usually captivated for hours.

I promise, I have a point, and now I have arrived at the juncture at which to make it: the strange problem with blogging incessantly is that there’s no one to make me shut up when I’m going too far. There’s no balancing story. There’s just me and my selfishness, and we’re holding hands and skipping down the street. Yeah, sure, freedom of unfettered voice, blah blah blah.

I’m sorry I’m a dramatic attention whore, and I’m sorry for my crisis of faith, and I’m sorry for the dramatic-attention-whore-like behavior that resulted from my crisis of faith. I’d like to stop writing for awhile, I really would, but I can’t (I think the recent surge in activity on my Twitter account validates that). So I’m either going to have to start writing on less controversial topics (ie, not my personal life), or I’m going to have to accept that some people are always going to think I need a muzzle. Given the 100+ entries of personality-revealing examples, I think you know which direction I’m going to head.

Special thanks to Kelli for lunch and life lessons.

Each night at my restaurant, after the last guest has finally drunkenly stumbled down the stairs and out the door, the staff stands around, sipping our staff drinks and polishing glassware, and talks about the male attention we’ve received. We regale each other with stories of numbers given, attempted make-outs forced, and possible dates to come. And by “we” I mean everyone but me, because this never happens to me. Ever.

I have thought about this long and hard. I don’t necessarily hurt for male attention in other walks of life. Despite my giantess size, I seem to garner my fair share of compliments and drink invitations. I don’t think I’m necessarily the hideously unattractive member of the front-of-house crew. So I think this can really only boil down to one thing: my Frankenstein shoes.

I’m a tall girl. Ergo I’ve got large feet. Like, really large. Like, shoe size ski. This is normally okay in real life because a lot of fashionable footwear producers make shoes for models and stuff so they sell size ski of their trendy products. But when it comes to restaurant work, trendy shoes don’t really cut it. For better or for worse, big, black comfortable shoes are part of the unbecoming androgynous uniform. And so while my smaller co-workers can still look dainty in their chunky Dansko clogs, I’m doomed to look like Frankenstein, clunking around in a heinously ironic Andy Warhol-esque version of what Dad used to wear to the office.

When those shoes go on my feet, they have an uncomfortable amount of control over my personality. They make me asexual. I become immune to twinkling eyes and sparkling smiles of attractive male patrons. My voice deepens. My hair goes from shiny and flippy to utilitarian and dull. My gait gets much less swishy and much more stompy. And I do not and cannot flirt.

As a result of these unsightly shoes, I lumber over to tables like Quasimodo, one eye smaller than the other, hump on my back and say, in a husky voice, “Hi, I’m Laura. Can I get you a drink?” And then I become invisible to males, a mere beer wench that fades into the background of their dining and drinking experience, unless they’re forced to look at me because my awkward limbs do something like spill a drink on them.

Sometimes I see a cute guy and I feel compelled to explain, to say something like, “Hey, seriously, I’m not Frankenstein, it’s just the shoes. I’ll take them off and blossom into a sassy shiny woman with whom you might have some sort of inclination to flirt. I’ll flip my hair, you’ll buy me a martini in an up glass, it’ll be great, I promise. I’m not a social ruh-tard. Really.”

I don’t really think that would help my cause, though. After all, no one likes palpable insecurity. So I’m just doomed to be androgynous tall awkward girl in ugly shoes, silent and alone at the end of each night, lamenting my inability to get hit on and wondering if I’m the gruesome friend. It’s cool. No big deal.  Someday, my foot-fetishless prince will come and set me free, teaching us all a valuable lesson about shallow beauty.  Until then, look out.  Frankenstein is coming to take your order.

I went for a jog yesterday. And by jog I mean trot. And by trot I mean I spent twenty minutes moving in a strange fashion, kicking my legs out to the side a little bit as necessitated by my thighs, the size of which requires some compensation, a little compromise of movement that makes me look like an awkward duck or strange horseless cowgirl. I’m not a graceful jogger no matter the shape of my body. I lumber down the street at a slow pace, wheezing and getting red in the face. When you add in the fat thigh compensation, though, I’m the person you pass in your car, looking in the rearview mirror and wondering with no small concern whether you should stop and give me a ride to my house or the hospital. Whatever it was, it was my first exercise of the type in about a year, so I spent 20 minutes trotting and the rest of the night nursing severe hip pain most people only experience when they’ve joined the geriatric ward.

I’m subjecting myself to this pain because I feel like a big ball of pizza dough, ready to be squished flat and stuck in the oven. In an apparent attempt to be different from everyone in Boulder for the last year, I’ve taken a long hiatus from exercise and healthy eating. Much to my chagrin, I think my days of pretending like my metabolism can handle this are coming to a close. A couple of days ago, I noticed my belt was chafing my love handles. I just don’t think my self-esteem or pain threshold can handle those little raw red marks. It’s time to pull the inner fat kid back from the brink of becoming a real fat kid before I join the growing obesity epidemic.

I tried to start slow. What I really wanted was to gingerly elliptical my way to Sports Illustrated swimsuit model. Unfortunately, I lost my gym pass somewhere in the last year and a half, very likely when I was still living in New York. This wouldn’t matter in most cases, what with technology allowing the friendly gym staff to merely look up my phone number and cross-check it with my name, but 24-Hour Fitness is a fascist organization that yells at me every time they have to do this and asks if I’d like to BUY a new piece of flimsy plastic with my name on it for $10. This is an outrage to me. That card costs 2 cents to manufacture at most. The fact that my gym wants me to pay $10 for it when I already pay (donate) my gym dues is something I simply refuse to do.

I use avoidance tactics to get around it.

“Do you need to order a new card?” the desk girl asks.

“Erm, no… I think I have mine somewhere. I mean, what does it matter to you? Who are you to tell me I need a new card? Does it really make your day that much harder when I don’t have my card? This is an outrage.”

(Backing away in fear) “Okay, I was just asking.”

Unfortunately, my inability to keep cool under pressure and my memorable features ensure that most of the staff now knows exactly who I am. I know the day is coming soon when they will force me to purchase a new token of membership. So each day I have to weigh the costs and benefits of using the gym yet again card-free. Stressful.

I thought maybe if I was training for something I’d be more motivated to work out. I decided to pretend I was going to train for a triathlon. Two toned beings at my place of work are in the midst of training for an ironman tri and are looking for sponsorship. Naturally, I suggested they write a blog about the trials and tribulations of immense physical challenge and get local businesses to give them things to test/write up (I hear money-savvy bloggers do this kind of thing instead of waxing poetic on the thoughts in their brains all day long). Then I suggested they take on a beginner triathlete (ie me) who would ghost write for them in exchange for daily ass-kickings. All that talk was great until the moment of truth, about 12 hours later, when I realized training for a triathlon would mean having to expose my cottage cheese body at the CU swimming pool as I attempted not to drown. Fun image though that was, I think, realistically, the only triathlon I’m training for is appetizer-entrée-dessert.

None of the exercise woes even come close to the sadness I feel over getting back on the healthy eating wagon. I work in a restaurant. Delicious dessert and garlic fries abound. Bread is available by the fresh-baked loaf. The macaroni and cheese flows like a river of gouda pleasure. This is not fair.

I know what the skinny girls eat. They eat 3 celery sticks, maybe with a little hummus if they’re feeling peckish. They eat salmon and vegetables. They skip breakfast. They drink club soda. I, on the other hand, sometimes have 2 desserts. I drink beer and wine and cocktails full of delightful sugar. My meat of choice is pork fat. My breakfast of choice is the chocolate croissant.

It’s a long painful road ahead, but it’s one I’ve got to walk (or awkwardly trot). The weapons of ass destruction are cunning, but my vanity knows no bounds. Here’s to the upcoming swimsuit season and space between my thighs.