As a woman, body hair can simply be compared to that of a plague of dried wax in your microwave, or a contagion of purple rashes on all four limbs thanks to Nair (I don’t know how you still exist). It’s inconvenient, and no matter what you do it just keeps coming back. But, as a hispanic woman, body hair is something I must accept, as my cold-blooded brown girl genes are ruthless and leave me no choice.
Spring has sprung! I’m not the type to use exclamation points considering I love to dabble in passive-agressive tone, but an amazingly nostalgic feeling struck me yesterday: It was 78 degrees in Manhattan and as I walked around Chelsea, I felt dampness from under my arms. Taking my sweater off to wrap it around my waist I hoped no attractive man would come within a 2 foot radius of me, but I was sweating from the heat (yes, the sun was out) and I raptured in my secreting sweat glands.
Who’s that
Slut. It’s actually a pretty fun word to say. It slips right off the tongue anytime your sister sneaks into your closet to steal your brand new 6-inch Steve Madden heels or when your boyfriend is tagged in a photo with any female but you. Slut Slut Slut. Don’t you feel better about yourself already?
Now, combining the word “slut” and “clothes” gives you “slut clothes.” Society tells us that the slut in all of us comes out when we wear “slut clothes” - when the booty shorts and stilettos are promulgated. Yet, who’s to say that’s really the case?
In retrospect, I’d like to have another jab at my previous thoughts, if you’d let me. As a female who’s currently struggling in achieving rock hard abs in two months (surely for those rooftop BBQ’s) it’s hard to objectify Michelle Obama as the “perfect prize” of sex appeal.
Being a Miami native, that “shock factor” of skimpy outfits simply doesn’t exist. The female body is enamored and often times, glorified. To give it to you straight, I once wore slacks to a dive bar and that was the shock factor.
Suzy Menkes, in her most recent article for T Magazine, A Modest Proposal, declares “slut style” to be officially over. “Is covering up the body the death of sensuality?” She asks. Although her answer was an assertive NO - as a 25 year old sexually active human being (or slut), what is my answer? The tube tops and clear bra straps in my dresser drawer are very angry at me, and I’m sorry okay - but where’s the line? And frankly, who’s job is it to draw it?
I’m sure this line is drawn by the subjective factor of “taste” or “taking-it-with-a-grain-of-salt-and-not-walking-out-with-your-butt-cheeks-hanging-out” but besides my usual days of obsessing over cropped slacks and hiding my arm jiggle in a long sleeve blouse - there are rare days spent committed to eating solely 2% cottage cheese and therefore felt righteous in walking out wearing a crop top and surely, owning the shit out of that crop top. This is otherwise known as, Werk.
Please see below some great examples of females werking:
These female werk-bots are clearly “flashing flesh” as Suzy depicted as being “slut style.”
Maybe Suzy has a point when she states “revealing the body beautiful has become a fashion cliché.” But, are we really going to see jean shorts, plunging necklines and strapless bra’s disappear anytime soon?
I believe Chaka Khan said it best, and I will leave you with her wise words:
When all else fails remember to werk,
Stephanie
Being sexy (or “bootylicious” as I’d prefer it) is something that everyone significantly wants to embellish in one form of character or another. Sex appeal varies by the individual, and re-defines itself throughout our walks of life. In middle school, us girls would sit indian-style, and along with imminent views of the virgin hair on our legs we’d debate and discuss who the cutest boy of the week was. Things were easier back then; judgement was simply based by who’s smile looked the best after braces or who wore the crispiest Tommy Hilfiger polo at adult supervised gatherings among friends (i.e. “gettys”). Let us reflect.
Fast-forward to college and there probably wont be a lot of need for reflecting as those memories are deeply and awkwardly rooted in our memories. The agony of what came post-puberty; a lotta black spandex and a whole lotta black eyeliner. Baby oil was not used for babies, it was used to oil up those freshly shaved legs to closely resemble those of an exotic dancer’s. Sex appeal was different because it was strictly about sex and not much else. Thankfully, the Freshman-15 did wonders for my posterior so ‘All’s well that ends well’* if you catch my drift.
With sex and Tommy Hilfiger polo’s aside, things are a bit more complicated now. I, for one, cannot consider sex appeal without gauging if my significant other will pay for my burritos every other week, or if he thinks it’s attractive when he sees me cry to mom over the phone because paying for stuff is hard. There may or may not be something out there called “lingerie” but frankly, the Hanes in my drawer don’t like the sound of that.
Several images, as of late, have been, in fact, flooding the interwebs as well as my special little brain for the past couple of weeks. I’d like to revisit these and as I’m schmearing cream cheese on my everything-bagel, let’s put priority on white boy abs.
Exhibit A:
The Bachelor, seen above with an acute case of emo, got cozy with fresh ‘n’ fluffy towels just as much as he did with substitute teachers and “personal organizers” (I’d like to inquire about this profession). Multiple camera angles showed drama and angst, as millions of single women watched and felt his struggle of uncertainty towards his quest of “true love.” As I was watching this final episode, I couldn’t help but wonder, don’t white guys love tank tops? Where were they when he really… really needed them? It’s come to my attention that ABC’s target audience specializes in extremely sexually frustrated women. Get some ladies, because there’s a lot more where that came from.
Ok, enough. Moving on… Exhibit B:
A huge buzz during Fashion Week, I’m still scratching my head at this. On top of many things this 18 year old needs, first priority is finding her a t-shirt. Although, not to single her out, as an abundance of Marc’s models weren’t wearing much either. Couldn’t he at least let them borrow one of his many slumber party pj’s? Marc y u so sleepy?
Last but not least, Exhibit C:
This is way bigger than shirts.
WAY bigger.
Amidst the harlot of what we call the “internet,” being an avid lurker becomes difficult when having to traffic through so much of quantity and not much of quality. When I stumbled upon this gem I was vastly relieved (and refreshed!). Effortless and poised, her dress is from her own closet and in her interview she reminds us that the First Lady is as human as anyone else. As a woman (who periodically cries while eating burritos), I consider this a perfect prize of sex appeal.
Forever a tween who luvs Marc,
Stephanie
*Shakespeare (Thanks college)
Reaching my quarter life has allowed me to accept some truths about myself, both good and bad. I may be getting wiser by accepting the fact that no matter how much bronzer I apply or how often I pose with my hand on my hip, I am just your average, borderline chubby, rate myself a 6, kind of gal. But this knowledge does not come with emotional baggage. We’re literally drowning by images of pretty young girls, and it’s okay, I don’t have a hateful relationship with food anymore. I no longer care to walk around in hoochie shorts, no seriously, I don’t. Moreover, I no longer have an interest to get smoked-out by a group of phresh dudes in the ‘kool korners’ of clubs.
On the other hand, hitting the big 2-5 has in no way slowed down my manic lethargia rollercoaster. Where in some cases my age has boosted my confidence, in other cases has magnified my complexes (empirical evidence being this blog – and it’s only getting weirder in here). During interviews when the notorious “Why are you here?” question is raised, I bite my lip to prevent the words “I just want to be accepted” from slipping through my eager mouth.
What do I want to be when I grow up? Moreover, why am I still asking? At 25, I still catch myself shrugging my shoulders. On the New York ‘scene’ when encountering some acquaintances, a “sup” is pretty much free reign for them to give you an update on their professional life and furthermore, how totes exhausted they are. For the record, I’m not your ‘bitch’ so stop asking me to call/text you.
How much whiskey do I have to drink to make people interesting? Not sure, still working out the kinks. New York is actually trying to push me over that thin line of alcoholism. To my dismay, the city I grew up loving from afar and the place where all my goals lie, harbors people who live with their own noses embedded up their anuses (fact).
Since becoming that awkward New York transplant, I can’t help but call to mind Jennifer Hudson (before pocket-dialing Weight Watchers) in Sex and the City (movie) when telling Carrie during their interview that she moved to New York to find love. Was that bitch jacked up on Quizno’s ranch sauce? Even the bums in the Upper East Side think they’re better than you. No person comes here to find love and honey, that’s the truth. Double snap and a what-WHAT
Anyway, besides noticing my deflating ass there are other signs Mother Nature is proving to be a spiteful hoe:
1. Realizing I’m a woman when I’m no longer creeped out – yet slightly attracted? - by a hearty mustache.
2. Realizing I’m a woman when I don’t cry on the first day of my period.
3. Realizing I’m a woman when I don’t flip my hair upon spotting a Zac Efron look-a-like across the bar.
4. Realizing I’m a woman when I express my angst with food, not by wearing black nail polish.
5. Finally, realizing I’m a woman when I start baby-talking my younger sibling. Just looking for someone to take care of, damn!
Although still working out some kinks in my quarter-life, like fatty Jennifer Hudson from Sex and the City, everything is working out in this crazy place and I’ve cut all emotional ties with Quizno’s.
Fuck you Rachel Bilson,
Stephanie
It’s 8 AM, TV shows like Spongebob and The Hills are on, my 24-year-old self sits, watches, sips coffee. I’m too old for this kind of TV but I’m not in the mood to update myself on what’s going on today. My mind drifts.
She taught me things; varying things that only grandmothers can teach: how to cook black beans, how to put curlers in your hair, what kind of heels to buy for a dance party, etc.
Now I just tell myself ‘I’m too busy’ to ease the guilt.
“You should call her, she just woke up from surgery and she’s asking for you.”
“Ok.”
In the event you spend days, weeks, (months) glued to your computer, let me remind you there is a world out there: and it is very, very real. Outside of the Instagram/Facebook façade where everyone’s lives are bedecked with outfits pulled from the sale racks of Intermix while gracefully holding red cups filled with alcohol stolen from your parents liquor cabinets, let us bow our heads to take a moment to realize one thing: No one looks the way they do on the internet.
Case in point: For those inquisitive females out there who’ve dabbled in internet-dating (recreationally of course), I bet you’ve learned to take two notches off that investment banker who plays tennis on his off time. If he looks like an 8, hes probably a 6, and he probably doesn’t even own a tennis racket.
In the real world, wearing a designer caftan wouldn’t look as good as it does without a “Valencia” filter and probably not office appropriate, wearing black boots everyday throughout summer months can get really stinky, and how many of us can really afford wearing 12 different kinds of necklaces’ to achieve that “good clash” approach? It’s cool to be normal, at least that’s what I like to tell myself in the shower every morning.
Being trendy is hard :(
Follow this list:
1. Less is more: Sure, I would love to wear all of my jewelry at once. Instead, I’ll just leave my wrists bare excluding my hair tie. It is 90 degrees outside and my freshly straightened hair will turn into a frizzy mop after 30 minutes of outdoor exposure.
2. Gap Basic tee’s are sexy: There will always be those days where we just don’t have those two hours to put together a perfect outfit with quintessential accessories in tow. You know those mornings when you wake up with your period and swear that each of your arms have gained 5 pounds? Gap basic tee’s also come in long sleeves.
3. Technically, those sneakers from high school are vintage: And good for developing character! You may also own a pair of jesus sandals, which will do fine for those beach days.
4. An eco-friendly tote bag builds good karma: Instead of dropping two paychecks on a bag that will go out of season in a couple of months, give your conscience something to feel good about by wearing a simple tote bag. It’s election year, and looking like a liberal is tres chic.
5. Hold on to the ‘90s with dear life: An ode to the decade I cherish the most. There is a section deep within your closet, behind a few high-waisted numbers and crop tops, that pays homage to 1999 (This was a good year, I mention it here). I’m talking boot cut jeans and a few oversized flannel pieces. Why are you ignoring them? They’ve basically stuck by you since puberty.
To be clear, by following this list you first need to accept the fact that no cute boys will be checking you out, no one is going to ask you where you shop, and your dating life may have to resort to the “philosophy” section of Barnes & Nobles.
Fine by me,
Stephanie
Please excuse my two or three week absence from my “memoirs of a proclaimed pragmatic existence” but I have successfully made the awesomely scary transition to New York. Taking a brief respite from adjusting, I’d like to express a few things about this city that I’ve yet to notice ‘til now. Since arriving, I’ve not only acquired major constipation and gut-churning blistered toes, but I’ve accepted and complied with the imbecilic conduct of getting drunk alone and badgering taxi drivers. Everyone is fucking busy, who’s gonna listen to my bratty grievances once I’m three-Jamie’s* deep? Well, the person who is driving you home. Although sometimes nasty, I commend taxi drivers for their level of patience, and their inventoried rolls of paper towels! I’ve never vomited in a cab, no, really, I swear. This is just one of the many things I’ve observed:
It was 4 AM on a Wednesday morning, I stumbled out of The Standard to find a crew of guys wearing matching fitteds and they let me take a few hits from their joint. Emo had nothing on me, just 30 minutes prior I was in the bathroom of Le Bain watching videos of my dog chewing on her toy on my amazingly comfortable bed (miss you both). Seriously considering buying a flight back home off my Jet Blue app, my newfound stoner friends told me to stop being such a whiny bitch.
-New York will chew you up and spit you out if you let it.
Daily subway rides is one of the many things I’m still adjusting to. Lack of personal space, overwhelming amounts of people cramming themselves into a subway car, and it always smells like a mix of sweat, french fries and cheap cologne. On a lighter note, my curious tendencies have given me the sense of entitlement to perch my eyeballs on what subway riders are reading. So far it’s been a pleasant surprise! I have yet to see a copy of 50 Shades of Grey or any mainstream self-help books, and to that I say, God bless this city. There’s a lot more “do” around here and a lot less “say” or rather, “wallow.”
-New Yorkers don’t waste time on bullshit.
As a 24 year old Cuban-American who was born and raised in Miami, I am absolutely floored to see the amount of thin girls encircling me. Should I have left my rice-maker back home? I’d like to sit some New York dudes down and sincerely ask “When was the last time you’ve seen a good ass?” Seriously though, I can’t turn a corner without overhearing a group of girls talking about their next juice cleanse. Now I realize what size 0’s are for: the skinny girls outside of the 305 area code.
-Not many New York women above 14 St. consume solid foods.
*Jamie – Jameson. As in “I’ll have a Jamie-ginger please,” or “Make mine a Jamie with a splash of water.” (Yes, everyone rolls their eyes.)
Missing my bug-eyed Chihuahua bitch,
Stephanie
Horse Meat Disco’s tribute to Donna Summer. Hosted by James Hillard and Luke Howard
Wonderful mix, thought I’d share with my great Cheaper Than a Vibrator readers. Long live teased hair and bellbottom pants.
Disco Lover,
Stephanie
