Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down thy hair

And here you are folks, one of the two photos of me that you’ll ever have the pleasure of viewing (;
But the point of this post isn’t solely to show off my long tresses, it’s to do two things.
a) Apologize for my absence on my blog (and your blogs) for the past two weeks. I’ve been really busy with school and intend to stay busy. I’m hoping to get caught up with everyone in the next month.
b) To talk about long hair.
My hair grew long almost unintentionally. I’ve always had shoulder to mid-back length hair but two years ago, after an incident involving blonde dye and hair loss, I swore off hair dressers and dyed it back to black. It’s been growing ever since and over the past six months, I’ve realized how amazing it is to have long hair. In South Asian culture, long hair is a sign of great beauty. I have a lot of aunts and female cousins who have spent all their free time grooming their hair. I’ve finally become one of them… and now I understand why they do it.
Long hair makes you feel feminine and beautiful… but more importantly, very sexy. There’s something extremely sensual about long locks and it doesn’t even need to have a sexual connotation. Long hair just feels good. Even if the rest of you looks like serious crap, your hair feels great.
Other people can see it too. When I redo my hair during class, I can feel eyes on me when I undo my clips. When I’m dancing in a club, boys (and girls!) watch my hair flip around and back and forth. When I’m posing for a picture, I scrunch up my hair to my face and I can perfect the mock-sexy look. It gives me that extra confidence boost similar to the one I get from a spritz of my favorite perfume except the best thing is… that I can always feel it.  There’s this constant reminder that my hair is long and it’s pretty. Even now, while typing, I can feel it grazing my elbows. I’ll admit, it’s strange to talk about it but try sporting some extensions or a wig for a day and you’ll see what I mean.
And if you haven’t read about it yet, guess what? Men prefer longer hair.

Over the past decade and a half, I’ve dated and fallen in love with a strikingly wide variety of men. I’ve lost my heart to athletes, professors, surfer bio-physicists, the next Bill Clinton, older men, much older men, even an Australian paramilitary officer living in China whose mental faculties, much like his titanium leg, had taken an irreparable hit after “the jump.” All had varied backgrounds and different standards of beauty, yet they all shared a high level of intelligence and an impressive mastery of the English language. (Some women go for the body or sense of humor—I’ve always gone for the hyper- articulate.) But when asked to explain why I shouldn’t cut my hair, even if the suggestion was hypothetical, none of these articulators could present me with a sound, convincing argument. What’s more, not a single one cupped my face in his hands and said, “Go for it. Cut it off. Long hair, short hair— you’re beautiful, no matter what.” Instead, all I got were nervous stammers and “I’m just not into it” vagueness.

This article in Elle gives you a picture of how serious men are about long locks. They’ve even thrown in some credible sources this time (including Jena Pincott, whose book I’ve read cover to cover over and over again) that really point out the advantages of having longer hair.
So here, I’m going to solve all your problems: if you have short hair, grow it out. Whether you’re doing it to raise your own self esteem or to up your value on the ten-point scale, I really think it’s worth some consideration.
If you’re really daring, you can dye it blond too. Or keep it brunette and marry a billionaire.
At the end of the day, I really do think your hair should reflect your personality (I’ve never really had a thing for the mod chops) but it never hurts to go longer (:

The Size Small Dress

A few months ago, I was browsing through online stores and stumbled across a beautiful dress. It was absolutely perfect for my body type. This little black dress was everything I had been waiting for- and it was sold out. I was back on this website two weeks ago and spotted it again. But it was only available in a size small. I determined to either try to find a way to take it out or designate it as my new goal dress.
It came in yesterday. And it fit.
Not only did it fit. It made me feel like I a freakin’ goddess. I’m not sure if most of you know but I’ve been overweight all my life. This year was the first year I hit the “average” BMI range. It’s the first year I didn’t reach for the largest size of pants that the store carries. It’s the first time I felt normal. And this dress made me feel hot.
I’ve been reflecting a lot on what my new body has meant to me. My thoughts on fat acceptance and the glamorization of unrealistic body shapes hasn’t changed but I’ll elaborate on that later. This post is about me.
Because after years of struggles with exercising, dieting, programs and pills… last year, I pulled myself together and started losing weight the hard way- the long way.
And here is where it as gotten me…
- I can stand in front of a mirror and think I look hot (I could do it before too but I sensed that I was faking it)
- I can smile at a guy without any inhibitions (when before I felt like he’d think I was crazy for being so fat and still bothering)
- I can stop feeling like my friends feel sorry for me (like I’m holding them back every time we’re waiting in a line to get into a club)
- I can walk down the street, see a guy looking at me and think he thinks I’m hot (instead of panicking about stains and static hair)
See what the common factor here is? All of these things had nothing to do with how I looked, more so, they were about how I saw myself… which leads me to the last and most important thing of all:
- Confidence
When I was larger, I had none. When I was slightly smaller in high school, I was on the path to higher self esteem but as I started gaining weight, I slowly slipped into a dark cave of self-loathing and embarrassment. I was embarrassed of myself.
It was really sad and I don’t know who to blame for that. Myself? The media? Men? But, like I said, that’s for another day.
Today, I get asked to dance by guys who I think are attractive and it doesn’t seem completely insane or random as hell. Today, I can stop being extremely awkward around men I don’t know fearing that they’re only talking to me because they’re bored/weird/trying to get to my friends. Today, I can talk to a hot guy without being puzzled, suspicious and angry. Today, I can look at my high school crush and decide that he’s a little shit who doesn’t deserve me. Today, guys who never wanted to talk to me before think I’m worth talking to.
Whether it’s confidence or weight loss… I honestly don’t know or care for the time being. What I know is that I feel great. And that’s something I can’t apologize for.

If you’re single and you know it, flash a smile

I’ve started to realize how depressing my blog really is. Instead of talking about things that I’m finding interesting, I’ve just been ranting about how my life sucks.
The buck stops here.
Because I’m really starting to feel as if I’m finally getting to the summit of this mountain of post-teenage angst that I’ve been going through and so… I’m going to start reverting to the reason why I started to write this blog. So I can learn from it and hopefully, other people going through what I’m going through can learn from it as well.
So I’m going to start off with a lesson that everyone knows about already but little virgys like me used to ignore.
You’re not going to get attention at a bar by acting like a cold snot-nosed bitch.
As much as I complained about not getting as much attention as my friends or not the right sort of attention that I wanted, I didn’t do much to change it. Okay, I pretended that I did… but I really didn’t. My fear of rejection expanded to being rejected over a smile.
So here’s a little bit of a background story…
My friend’s boyfriend and his friends went to the same high school as I did. They were the “studs” so I tried avoiding them… even in the past 4 years since high school. Which was a little awkward since my friend and all my other friends were quick to make friends with her boyfriend’s friends. But I was overweight and  insecure so I wouldn’t acknowledge them when we were all hanging out, even when they directly looked at me in order to ask me a question or something. It was easier to refuse to talk to them than to deal with them not wanting to talk to me. I haven’t seen any of these guys in a year except for Band, this one really hot one (who I served at a bar once), and when I later saw him at another bar, he thanked me for the drinks and I responded with a wry smile.
Fast forward to last weekend. These boys were all over at my friend’s house and I was dressed to the nines. It was getting extremely awkward to the point that I knew they all wanted to talk to me. As in, they were referring to things that I was saying and I was just ignoring them (I know, I’m a frustrating person). Finally, after I got a few drinks in me. I turned to friend’s boyfriend’s friends and told them I was heading to the kitchen and if they wanted me to grab anything for them. Band was thrilled, he said he already had a beer but if I’d like to grab him another one, that would be ace. I did it for him and we chatted for a little bit. Then we went to the bar.
And I was in my element.
I was smiling at Band. Smiling at all his friends. Smiling at anyone who came up to the table to talk to them. Which resulted in a lot of free drinks. Actually, I was smiling at just about any attractive boy in the bar… and running away, when they came to approach me (come on, I can’t progress that much in one night).
When I left, Band was severely disappointed and told me so by holding my hands and asking me not to leave. His other friends seemed a little choked up as well.
So here’s the lesson girls, the advice columns are right: if you can find the courage within yourself to do so… smile at men in bars.
I’m not sure why that night was so good for me with Band and his friends. I can’t attribute it all to the weight loss and the fact that I looked great. I think it was a mixture of the fact that I finally started talking to them and that I was smiling a lot- at them and at anyone.
Whether you think I’m moving forward or not is up to you. I can’t promise I can do a repeat next time but I feel as if I’m taking a step in the right direction. And after three years of whining about being frozen in one spot, I think that’s a pretty good sign.
P.S. What is with the snow on my blog and how do I turn it off?
P.P.S. Is this not awesome, or what?

To that one type of girl

Hi you,
You don’t know me but I know you. I see you everywhere.
At the bars, in the mall, on the train. Even when I don’t see you, I hear about you. From everyone. Everywhere. I just can’t escape you.
I think it’s time for me to accept you.
You’re the one crying on sidewalk about your lost cell phone. The one laughing in McDonalds, losing your balance while trying to carry your tray. You’re sitting by the window on the bus. You’re scanning the tv at the electronics store. You’re smiling at the drive through guy. Compared to Cindy Crawford and Jessica Alba, you’re nothing special.
But you are though.
You’re that girl.
You’re the one they talk about. The one they wish they could wake up next to. The one they write songs about. You think you’re nothing special but you are. The most special thing about you is that you’re special to them.
You’re a 7 on the scale if Eva Mendes is a 10. But you’re the one who catches their eye. You’re the one that lights them up when you walk by. You’re the bounce in their steps, you’re the half-smiles on their lips.
You’re nice. You’re friendly. You laugh. You’re flirty but not too flirty. You don’t play games. When you do, they’re innocent… or so they seem. You’re cute. You’re what they know their friends want too.
I don’t know how it happens so I’ve stopped trying to figure it out.
When they mention you’re hot, I used to think… what is so great about you? You’re nothing in Vogue. You’re exactly what Cosmo tells me- you’re average. You’re what men are actually looking for. Am I burning? I don’t know. It makes me feel better that the guys aren’t looking for the perfect 10s but you know what that means? It means that you are what men want. At least before, we were all collectively unattractive (or so we thought). Nope, you’re nothing special. But you’ve got it. You’ve got what makes me wonder. Your thighs aren’t cellulite-free, your teeth aren’t perfectly straight but they want you.
Do you ever realize that?
That perfectly average…. you is what they want most? You are their motivation. Their inspiration. The ones they shave for and spike their hair for and tie their ties for. The one they nudge their friends about and follow with a uniform nod. Oh yeah… her. She’s hot.
And I’m the girl who stands their next to them, watching you. Wondering. Wishing. Wishing I was you. The girl they talk about. The one they offer their jackets to. The one they open doors for. The ones they call back right away. The right one. The catch.
I wish I could be you. Just you. You’re perfect.
You’re not overconfident.
You’re not self concious.
You’re living your life. You’re walking down the stairs. You’re drawing stares. And you don’t care… well if you do, you don’t show it. So next time you’re crying over your ex-boyfriend or your math homework. Take a look at all the guys standing around the room sneaking glances at you.
You’re wanted.
You’re amazing.
You’re effortless.

My body is my biz

The problem

I’ve been wanting to write about this for a while but I didn’t want to make the effort.
Well, the perfect opportunity just threw itself in my face in the form of this…
First of all, I want to make it clear that I think Jessica Simpson is an idiot. Her prancing around in a bikini on daytime television and being unable to figure out that tuna isn’t chicken is not my idea of showing a polished character.
But she is a human being.
She is not fat.
She looks like what an average woman should look like. Sure, it would be really cool if we could all walk around wearing daisy dukes but it is not possible. You heard me, not possible. Biologically, we are not built to look like Jessica Simpson did in those days. Even in a practical manner, it just can’t be done. Most of us would have to quit our jobs to start working out full time at the gym and eating steam for dinner…  we wouldn’t even get close. And we’d be poor (bright side: maybe Shell will hire us at the carwash station so at least we could put on bikinis and slather polish and antifreeze all over our bodies for money).
Jessica is finally looking like a woman instead of a child. Good for her.
I want to make a distinction here. I am not okay with being overweight. In no way am I trying to tell you that being obese is okay because I honestly do believe that it contains risks that are more important than sacrificing your size 2 Prada dress. My dad is diabetic, diabetes runs in my family, and as many other overweight people, I am at risk for other issues as well. I don’t want heart disease and I’m too young to go into cardiac arrest.
But see, this is what I’m trying to say.
Yes, I’m fat. Yes, I know. I know it. So why are you trying to go around rub it in my face?
What makes people so anxious to jump on anyone who gains a little bit of weight? I don’t want this to come off in a self-centered way but it kinda does feel like a personal attack on my weight. These gossip magazines and bloggers are so paranoid about weight. So if Jessica Simpson’s 15 pound weight gain makes her a cow, what am I supposed to be, a blue whale?
Everywhere I go, I am told to be thinner. To look a certain way. To be able to fit into certain things.
Why the hell is this important? Why does my size effect you? Do I go around telling you to ditch that scarf because the colour does nothing for you? No. That is  not classy. And it is my opinion. Opinions are dangerous if you don’t keep a cap on them.
If Sarah makes fun of overweight people, Brad who never really had an opinion on weight starts making fun of overweight people, he passed this on to his girlfriend who ridicules overweight people in front of her kids who grow up thinking being overweight is a fate worse than AIDS.
I am a fat girl. I don’t know why the world likes to make me feel bad about it. It’s not like if they stop telling me that, my weight will spiral out of control. It is already out of control. There is nothing you or anyone else can do about it. All you’re doing is making me feel worse. Which, guess what, making me feel worse isn’t really helping me lose the weight.
If I lost a pound everytime an ad, a movie, a person, any one tried to make me feel bad about my weight, I’d look like Nicole Richie’s popsicle.
It is my weight. My struggle.
Even if you think I look like shat. Come on, there’s this thing called tolerance. It’s kinda nice. It means we can treat people with respect and in return be treated with respect (crazy idea, right?).
I can take a fatty joke once in a while like I can take a sexist joke. It’s only okay when we both know it isn’t true.
Being overweight doesn’t make me a bad person. It may mean I have low will power, it may mean I like chocolate too much, it may mean I’m too lazy to go to the gym…
It may also mean that half my family has a tendency to be obese, it may mean that I have been overweight since I was a baby, it may mean that I have almost killed myself yo-yo dieting, it may mean that I am too intimidated to face the fact that I might never have it in me to become thinner, it may mean that I care more about life than about my daily caloric intake, it may mean that there is more to me than the size of my jeans.

And I wish this was where it ended but…

If you have time, watch this video.
And take some time to listen to these young, absolutely gorgeous women talk about what society expects of them.

Even if you have a few seconds, at least watch the part where the black kids pick the white doll as the “good” doll and the black doll as the “bad” doll.
This takes it to a whole new fucking level.
I am so angry about this. I cannot even explain it to you right now.
I’m brown. I’m not black. When I grew up in the east, everyone was trying to have lighter skin but that was okay (it was kind of like tanning) because everyone was brown. We were all brown together.
Now where the hell do you get off trying to make black kids think they need to be white?
I don’t even think I need to say anything about this. It is explains itself. There are so many things wrong with that.
It makes me sick.
Really really sick.
Because now, it’s not that you’re not good enough because you haven’t changed yourself to fit the barbie ideal. It’s the fact that you’ll never fit into the barbie ideal no matter how hard you try.
I am so terribly depressed for those kids and I know that all we can hope for is a overhaul of the whole social system in North America.
Because what is the alternative? For every self-empowering ad, you have 80 million ads telling you that you suck.
We need change.