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Monday, November 24, 2014

Another Blog Post About Race

As the winds rage outside my windows and the crowds rage in Ferguson, the world waits anxiously for that 9 p.m. announcement.



This may come as a surprise to you, but I've never been black. I've also never been Native American, Asian, Indian, Middle Eastern, Hispanic, or anything else that I had to check a box for. So, as you can imagine, I've never known what it is like to be a minority; to feel like my mere existence was threatening (or threatened).


Although it's been due to somber situations, I appreciate that my timeline has been featuring intelligent articles correlating race and abuse, race and employment, race and police brutality, race and objectification. My friends, the so-called lazy millennials, are having a beautifully free and open dialogue about something our parents often like to pretend doesn't exist.

I've seen some friends comment that they're sick of talking about race. The people who say this usually have good, non-hateful intentions. They believe that the need to ask, 'is it racist?' is indeed racist itself; that if we keep making it about race, then it will always be about race.

Well, yes, in some way it will always be about race. I understand race is a made-up concept (this is a discussion for another day and another blog post), but our physical features are always going to be visible, and our natural psychological reaction is to categorize. We like to note your height, your weight, your demeanor, your smile, your confidence, your hair, your skin color, your nose, your lips, your clothes. We gather all this data, and within seconds we come to a conclusion about you.

I fear that many people inherently absorb racist ideals that are perpetuated by societal views. These are the ignorant racists; the people who experience prejudiced thoughts, and subsequently actions, with no intended or understood harm. Kind of like the people on 'What Not to Wear' who think that vests are cool, or my step-dad who thinks it's appropriate to refer to African Americans as 'colored people': they just need to be schooled. You kind of feel sorry for them, but they mostly just make you angry. Don't lose faith, we can work together to enlighten these folks.

In the U.S., racism isn't alive and well due to people stomping up and down the street, screaming the 'n' word and accusing Middle Eastern people of being terrorists. Yes, these people do exist and they really suck. They're at a hate and fear-induced point of no return. But modern racism lives in our everyday interactions, every time we categorize and box someone up.

When you walk to your car at night, do you hold your keys a little tighter as you pass an African American gentleman?

You see a woman of color at the store, paying for groceries with an EBT card. What remarks do you make to yourself?

When you see an older black man with a younger white girl, what do you assume about their relationship? Does it make you uneasy? Suspicious?

Pay attention next time you're watching a movie or music video; are women of color objectified or fetishized more?

Did Darren Wilson leave his house that morning, hoping to kill a black boy? I highly doubt it. Did he feel threatened because he thought Michael looked like a 'thug'; that he matched the description of someone he should fear, and who is likely to be carrying a weapon? Perhaps. Did he wrongly assess the situation and his level of danger? Maybe.

Unfortunately, we're seeing a new Michael Brown every week, in Cleveland and across the country.



Race, in its improper definition, will always be apparent. So instead of ignoring it and claiming to be 'color blind,' let's learn about one another, engage in difficult discussions, and understand and celebrate our differences. These racist impulses we experience exist at a subconscious level. We can override our mental software by challenging one another to think outside the boxes we create. Maybe we'll even save a few lives.


EDIT: I'm in no way defending terrible, awful, racist people. There are many people out there whose intolerance is evident in recent cases of brutality, in shootings and in the deaths of children. I'm addressing the difficulty of understanding the intentions of someone who was guided less by hate and more by ignorance. I'm hoping to inspire people to look more closely act their beliefs, actions and reactions, and ask 'why?'

Tuesday, November 18, 2014

Fun Fearless Life Lessons: How to Become

About a week ago, I had the pleasure of getting free things and being in NYC. Oh, and I also experienced some major motivation and insight via celebs, gurus, life-changers and status quo questioners.

The event was Cosmo's Fun Fearless Life conference that gathered young women from across the globe for a weekend of nonstop in-your-face inspiration. Many girls were graduating college or looking to make a career change. I didn't know what I was looking for, but I knew I'd find it.

Throughout my next few posts, I'll take you on a guided tour of my takeaways from Bad Bitch Mania Fun Fearless Life 2014. It's seriously way too much 'YAAAASSSS' for one post. Some of the features will include thoughts from TED Talk celeb Amy Cuddy, founder of Nastygal, Sophia Amoroso, PLL's Shay Mitchell, Kelly Osbourne and other beautiful sasstresses.

I knew the event was destined to be a success. The company handling the ticketing somehow royally fucked up managed to upgrade us from peasant seats to 'Diamond' status. And as I'm mingling with my row K neighbors before the event starts, Joanna Coles, Editor in Chief of Cosmopolitan Magazine, walked over to our seats and personally welcomed us. Oh. Kay. #important

Hey. Girl. #HBIC
Along with witnessing some remarkable speakers drop wisdom on career paths, finances and networking, I had a few unintentional revelations of my own. I know I paid a bunch of money to listen to the people on stage, but I often found myself entranced by so many of my fellow attendees' outfits. Yes, they looked put together. Yes, there were some unique ensembles. But damn, these girls were wearing these clothes, taking every step like they were expecting to be approached by a fashion blogger. (Okay, a few probably were.)

In high school, I had a love affair with clothes; dressing myself was my favorite creative outlet. I paired multicolored ripped fishnets with my dingiest converse or an 80's inspired track jacket (or sometimes all of the above). I thrifted till my little punk rock princess heart couldn't thrift anymore. I adored finding the most absurd pieces and creating a look that just screamed "I'm here, the party can start now! Also, I'm a little bit angsty."

Look at how cool this girl is! She loves who she is & gives zero fucks about your opinion.
My obsession with clothes stayed with me as I grew older, but instead of finding new ways to express myself, I was finding new ways to cover up my stomach. And my thighs. And my arms. Soon, I'd hoard everything in my size, everything that fit over my hips and everything that meant one less fitting room breakdown. 

I hate half the things in my closet. This weekend, I scraped each hanger along the janky metal rod and pulled every piece of clothing that didn't make me radiate confidence. I said goodbye to those garments that I made use of for a while, but I know won't propel me to the place I want to be, like saying goodbye to a toxic friend who's only holding you back.

I never realized that I was punishing myself. Here I am, preaching self-acceptance, when I was subconsciously refusing to allow myself to feel beautiful because I felt I didn't deserve to. I used to tell people that I wasn't materialistic, but in my mind I created a final version of myself: negative thirty pounds later with better speaking skills and an understanding of how to do my hair. I was promising the world to this Sam 2.0, including a new wardrobe, after the beta version got her shit together. 

None of this occurred to me until I heard Joanna Coles say in her opening speech, "In our 20's, we are still 'becoming.'" This is especially true as us 20-somethings navigate the dating realm, pinpoint out our hobbies, get bored with both of those topics, buy that plane ticket to Europe and change career paths every four months. But this statement reverberates any time we start a new journey or work toward a goal. 

What are your ugly clothes? What's holding you back? Throw that shit in a trash bag and make room for growth (or a fabulous wardrobe, or both). We don't have to wait until the end product to love ourselves. It's okay to be exactly where you're at, right at this moment. Drink it in and become.

Singly Yours,
Samantha Single In CLE


Monday, November 3, 2014

17 Quotes To Help You Get Shit Done

HAPPY MONDAY! ... Oh, I'm sorry, it appears someone hasn't had their coffee yet. Forget the 200 mg of caffeine, I know just what you need: sassy typography in front of a scenic or otherwise aesthetically-pleasing background.

Here are 17 of my favorite pin-friendly quotes to help inspire and motivate you to get shit done and kick Monday where it counts. You got this.





















 

































Singly yours,
Samantha Single In Cle

Tuesday, October 28, 2014

A Barre Infiltration

I've never been much of a girly-girl: I don't know how to do my hair; my coworkers were baffled to learn that I joined a sorority; and I'd choose tacos over pedicures any day. (Also, I chose tacos over writing this blog post on Monday. #noregrets)

Needless to say, I didn't know what I was getting myself into when I signed up for Pure Barre classes. If you've never heard of a barre workout, it's basically where women gyrate at a ballet bar(re for extra pretentiousness) for an hour. This exercise regiment has completely swept the nation, and by nation, I mean upper-middle class white women with big hair and spidery eyelashes. 
THIGH GAP OR DIE.
At my first class I already felt like an outsider. My instructor looked like Kelly Kapowski and the cubbies were packed with Vera Bradley bags. As my XXL Guinness shirt and unpainted toenails led me into the workout room, lined with strappy crisscrossy tanks and sleek ponytails, I felt like a 90's sitcom supporting character who had a good heart, but grew up on the wrong side of the tracks and wore vests on top of flannel.

Of course I understand that this class is expensive, and therefore is marketed toward the future generation of velour Juicy Couture sweatsuit wearers. But this program has created a whole culture of designer leggings, $12 socks and logo newsboy caps (Westlake moms, where you at??). The younger girls in my classes look like exact replicas of one another with different shades of neon headbands. I'm hoping to get a peak at the entire fall line of Alexander Wang for H&M in the upcoming weeks.
In the distance, I can almost see a time when this hat was cool.
There was a woman in my class a few days ago that was in full makeup, a flowy top alla Body Central, and she was covered in what could only be described as Charming Charlie vomit. I wasn't sure if she was going out or working out. (Or maybe she was on a time crunch to make it to West 6th after some thigh burners.) Now, every woman has the right to feel beautiful.... or masculine, or smart or strong or whatever it is that they want to feel. But, as Beyonce Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie says, "We raise girls to see each other as competitors." This competition is an every day event: with clothes, with our bodies, and with boys. The gym was my one safe place from this ever-apparent rivalry. When I'm next to you, I want to be competing with your squats, not your winged eyeliner game.

Every logical fiber of my being told me to get my untoned butt back to Ballin' On A Budget 24-Hour Fitness where there's a permanent stench of regret and guys dead lift in jeans. My dilemma is that this is the best core workout my sad abs have seen; I can already feel a difference. So, I'll continue being the token sweaty girl (I don't glisten, I sweat profusely), matching my baggy t-shirts with a shitton of confidence and accessorize with this fall's I Don't Give a Fuck.

Singly yours,
Samantha Single In CLE

Monday, October 20, 2014

To the keeper of my heart; the one who makes me laugh and feel whole

I could only express my feelings for you in a haiku. Also, I just watched Rocky Horror Picture Show and I can't manage to write anything because all I can think about is Tim Curry's fierce legs.

So for you, my love:

You lay beside me
On the couch, keeping me warm.
I blush. You're blush. Wine.

#mcm #HappyBelatedSweetestDay


Singly yours,
Samantha Single In CLE

Monday, October 13, 2014

An Open Letter to my Skinny Friends (and basically the general population)

Dear tiny ones,


Please know that I spent much of my adolescent life admiring your lean arms, your stomach that still stays flat when you sit, and of course your ever-revered thigh gap. The ease with which you wear shorts and the minimal jiggling that occurs with each movement have been sources of envy ever since I could define the word.

I've read that women bond by commiserating, which can include indulging in body insecurities. The trade of 'Ugh, I'm so fat," "look how huge my thighs are," "I feel like such a pig after eating that." Sometimes we say these things for reassurance of the opposite; sometimes it's how we truly feel. I recall sitting in silence, staring at my chubby fingers clasped in front of me, absorbing your disgust for your body; the parts and pieces I longed for and would swap in an instant. I tried calculating our ratios, figuring how much more I should hate my body in respect to its size difference.

These words were meant to hurt you, but they hurt me so much more.

Just like the hours lost in the mirror, the pages torn out of Seventeen magazine, or the tears abandoned in the dressing room, you were affirming my desire to not be me- and that's the most dangerous thing a girl can feel. This disdain for her outward identity will force her to miss out on celebrations, dates, heartbreaks, awkward and enriching experiences. She'll become a self-fulfilling prophecy of the girl who never could; she wasn't strong enough, smart enough, pretty enough to succeed.

Luckily, I rewrote my ending and chose to surround myself with feminists, free-thinkers, difference-embracers, change-makers, healthy, whole-hearted people. I no longer avoid reflective surfaces, photographs and the tags of my clothes. But as my skin and the curve of my hips change, grow and shrink, those moments of body shaming stay with me like stretch marks.

The reality is, that slender or thick, we're constantly engaging in a war we can never win. It's time to call a truce. Look in the mirror: proclaim your love for your curves, your bones, your muscles, your A cups, your DD's. Your ability to walk, to talk, to observe, to love. We're pretty damn lucky to have it all. Thank yourself. Forgive yourself. Think of all the people out there looking for love, for a relationship this meaningful, with themselves. Sometimes the positivity of a few kind words spreads like wildfire. It's especially necessary when we're most vulnerable, when magazines and music tell a zit-faced fourteen-year-old to be sexy, slender and scandalous.

I know we all have our own struggles and insecurities. All I ask is that you strive to reinforce the beauty that surrounds you, and remember the influence of your attitude. I always wonder what my teen years (and let's be honest, the early days of my adulthood) would have been like if instead of  "I feel so fat," I was surrounded by, "I feel like I could take on the world."

Maya Angelou once said, "I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel." I hope these words sparked inspiration in you to make people feel beautiful, starting with yourself. 

  Singly, 
Samantha Single In CLE

Monday, October 6, 2014

An Ode to Men of the 90s

Every generation thinks they had it best with their era-specific morals, style, music and t.v. But us 90s kids know the undeniable truth: the 1990s were the most glorious days this country has seen since prohibition ended.
#nofilter - photos were just naturally shitty back then.
My innocent youth was filled with peace frog posters, pogs, Skip-Its, blow up chairs, huffing scented markers and everything that was right with the world. However, no matter how many hours I put into Dream Phone or how much body glitter I purchased from Claire's, I still wasn't quite old enough to date.

I would give anything to go back to a time when I had zero responsibilities and Sketchers were still cool. And the dating scene was like so much better. For example:



Why carry a purse? My 90s man has JNCO jeans to carry all of my Bonne Belle lip glosses, my palm pilot, Space Jam on VHS, and several boxes of Dunkaroos.


 

No JNCO jeans? Well you know my man definitely has a Starter jacket with ample storage for my brick-sized super compact Nokia phone. And my dignity.



Speaking of hand-held assault weapons Nokia phones, you know he's got great hand-eye coordination from playing Snake all day.

 


Us ladies think we're so hot with our hombres, but 90s guys did it first - frosted tips as far as the eye can see.

 


He knows how to communicate.



My 90s man knows how to take care of a woman, just like he takes care of his Tamogotchi.

 

Chilly weather? I'll never be cold in the presence of my 90s boy toy because he's got turtle necks for days.



He has his shit together.



90s men were much more fiscally responsible, and made sound financial investment choices.

 

My 90s guy isn't afraid to take a leap of faith.

 

No need to discuss pay gaps and gender discrimination, men of the 90s are proud feminists.



A 90s boy knows how to let loose and have a good time...



But he understands when to be serious. He's not afraid to look into my eyes and reveal his vulnerable sweater soul.

 

Don't worry about honesty - my 90s beau tells it like it is. Sometimes a little too much.

 

He's handy, or at least his carpenter jeans imply that he is.

   

 A 90s dude isn't afraid to admit his fears...

 

His deepest, darkest fears...



Of course, 90s guys are sexual beings.



But in the end, they know exactly what women want.



 Why do you want to date a 90s guy? Share your favorite characteristics in the comments below.