I have spent 12 years with Slasher. In all of those years we have never started a new year by talking about goals; especially financial ones. Never, nadda, not once. Every time a crisis hit, I would say it’s going to get better and here’s what we should do and when it rained he would sketch loose plans for an umbrella. Mainly the two of us never worked together. Instead I was his competition and he was a pain in my ass. We were so young; learning as we went and doing an absolutely abysmal job. We had very shitty examples of how to navigate parenting, a relationship, finances and being grown ups way before we were, in fact, grown up. That’s not an excuse, it’s just
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I used to do FATshion Fridays every Friday. And then I didn’t. This was mainly because I didn’t have any style to showcase. Or, at the very least, I felt like I didn’t. There were other things to do: jobs to write for, a kid that needed tending to, a relationship to kinda implode. You know, that stuff. FATshion got lost in the shuffle, but what that really means is I got lost. I completely did not realize this until I started shopping last week and I put on my first pair of skinny jeans and tweeted: Skinny jeans on a chubby like me? Oxymoron. — Liz Henry (@sixyearitch) July 26, 2012 I immediately wanted to throw out everything I own. Not because of the
Last week I went back and forth: do I stay or do I go? It’s not the right time, it’s never the right time. If not now, then when? So, I decided to be a bit reckless and drive through the night to The Land of John Edwards: North Carolina. I pretty much never live with reckless abandon. Never fly by the seat of my pants (if I have pants on) or live in the moment. At least I don’t think I do. When I sink into my deep place, I usually feel like I have a whole lot of living to do. Then I become a sad sack and hate that I live so seriously making serious decisions about being serious. It’s fucking exhausting. When
Who Knew? It’s rare that I ask for stuff. I did ask for Facebook likes once because some a-hole unfriended me and I got my panties in a wad about it. Shockingly, you liked me. You really liked me. A few weeks ago, the good people over at Vicks gave me a Starry Night Cool Mist Humidifier (don’t panic, this is not going where you think it is). Tonight I plugged that sucker in for The Kid and I was mesmorized by the lights of starry awesomeness that appeared on her ceiling. In red, blue, yellow and some other color. Dear Best People on the Internet: you are my Vicks Starry Night Humidifier! Yes, I am that much like an infant — and by default so is
Recently I’ve been thinking about luck. What does it mean to be lucky? What does it mean to attain something? Anything? Is it luck? Or, is it something else? A while back, when I was really into Oprah, she said this about luck and her career: Nothing about my life is lucky. Nothing. A lot of grace, a lot of blessings, a lot of divine order, but I don’t believe in luck. For me, luck is preparation meeting the moment of opportunity. There is no luck without you being prepared to handle that moment of opportunity. Every single thing that has ever happened in your life is preparing you for the moment that is to come. I paused for a moment. It was a revelation.
How could anyone be in a bad mood with that dress? Certainly not me, which is exactly why I bought it. This weekend I realized it’s the small things: dinner at Panera Bread on a Saturday night with just The Kid, shopping and buying the purse and dress I really wanted, putting down the laptop for almost an entire weekend, shopping for granola at the crunchy, granola market. The last one was a real shocker. Just kidding. I had loose granola in my house for three years. Amount I ate? None. But I had it. That’s what counts. I HAD IT! It’s about feeling a tinge of hunger –which feels like forever since that happened — and knowing it will be okay. I’ll make a
A fat girl with a food issue. Shit, that’s a real shocker. Not every fat girl has a food problem, but this one does. I am not, however, a representation of all fat people or fat women. My body is not a crisis. I’m pretty sure that I was the crisis. Notice that past-tense. For over a year, I was trying to kill myself. Maybe even two years. Not that it’s all behind me; certainly not. I have an enormous amount of work to do and that work starts with not going to McDonalds anymore. Which is incredibly embarrassing to admit. Yes, I have a fucking problem. And that problem begins with a cheeseburger and the golden arches. I’ve mentioned it here — the cheeseburgers