Wanna help with something?

Ok, so on the heels of that accidentally serious post, I got some interesting news: I was selected as one of Rent the Runway’s style awards nominees this week!

Wanna help me win? All you have to do is “like” the picture of me on Facebook. Click here to vote.

I’ll let ya know how it goes. And a super big THANKS if you vote!


Party bloggin’ in the house tonight

So I check my blog stats fairly often. Not often enough to be considered obsessed, but often enough that I can probably give you a pretty accurate ball park of where the numbers are at any given time during the day.

On one hand, I just like little charts and graphs and seeing where everyone is coming from. On the other, it’s just nice to know that there are actually people reading this nonsense.

But even though my stat guesses are usually pretty accurate, for a while I was getting pleasantly surprised every morning at how many people had visited the night before. I would go to bed at around 2-something, and wake to well over 300.

What was the source behind this bizarre (yet pleasing) phenomenon? Today at lunch, my husband and I concluded it must be my West Coast readers.

Me: That makes sense.

Him: While we’re sleeping, they’re partying all night.

Me: Oh yeah?

Him: Yeah. Party blogging.

Me: And what exactly does party blogging look like?

And then he demonstrated (I guess pretend he’s looking at a computer screen ha):


God love that man.

So question to all you party bloggin’ West Coasters: When are you reading my blog? Is it after 11 EST?

Check me out!

So remember my promise that I’m going to be in Glamour? It’s on newsstands!

My buddy Jess just sent me a pic of the article. Check it:

Gahhhhh kind of crazy. But it’s me! If you can read the little snippet there, it’s a pretty edited version of the full story I submitted. Which I actually have the complete version of (go figure). Read on for my True Life: I’m Happy With My Weight story:

Up until about a year ago, the last time I could remember being completely happy with my weight I was in the eighth grade. Ah, the blissful life of a perpetually skinny 13-year-old.

I would eat roast beef sandwiches the size of my head and shovel mountains of ice cream into my bowl each night, confident in my genetics and the fact that the scale never budged even a centimeter. Until the day it, well, did.

It wasn’t until the summer before I started college that I first really noticed my body changing in a way that I couldn’t blame on a growth spurt. My cushy job as a nanny left my body, ahem, cushier. And my spotty attendance at the gym didn’t do anything to slow my expanding skin.

No matter what I did (hours on the elliptical, nights of feeling my stomach ache with hunger after a day of starvation, hours of berating myself for not sticking to the extreme diets I continually put myself on), the scale continued to climb. I was averaging ten pounds a year by the time I graduated college, and a last-minute doctor visit before I moved to New York to pursue my dream job left me biting back tears when the scale registered squarely on the highest weight I had ever been.

If I was honest about it (which I never was), I knew why my weight continued to climb. I loved food. And I had convinced myself it loved me back, something I couldn’t say I even did anymore. So when I was sad I didn’t have a boyfriend, I ate. When I was lonely because all my friends went to school hours away from me, I ate. When I was stressed about grades and internships and jobs, I ate. I ate even when I wasn’t hungry, even when it felt gross to shove more food into my mouth. As long as I could point to my weight and say, “There. That is why you’re unhappy,” then at least I didn’t have to look any deeper into my problems.

Whether I ate because I was unhappy or I was unhappy because I ate didn’t really matter. What mattered was, I wasn’t happy. And one day, I decided I wanted to be.

I started on the inside. I created and repeated a series of mantras I would repeat to myself when I was feeling down. (Yup, I’m the crazy girl talking to herself in her car.) “You are a good person. You are a kind person. You are better than this.” And I guess I started to believe it.

Next I moved on to making myself feel physically good. I started taking yoga classes at a gym near my apartment in Brooklyn. I’d picked that gym because I literally couldn’t get home without passing it, so I figured I would be more likely to actually go. Turns out, I was right.

Then I bought a nice pair of running shoes and told myself it would be a waste (especially on my paltry salary) not to use them. The next thing I knew, I was running six to eight miles a week.

And then, miracle of miracles, I even found a boyfriend (now my husband) who without even knowing it, fell for me at my biggest and has continued to love me no matter what size jeans I wear. And then, perhaps even crazier, I learned to stop arguing with him when he told me I was beautiful.

The thing is, after almost six years of being on some kind of diet, I stopped dieting. I trusted myself, listened to my body, and ate whatever I wanted—and then I stopped when I was full. Crazy, right?

One day, one of my new friends in New York told me how thin I was getting. Was I? I felt the same. A few months later, a friend’s mom told me I was her inspiration. Then, a friend who had started incorporating more fitness into her life said she wanted to be “Justine skinny.” She wanted to look like me? When I last went to the doctor, I was 30 pounds lighter than that fateful visit before I moved. Thirty. On accident!

For my wedding last spring, I continued my “plan” of not trying to lose weight. I bought a dress that fit perfectly and kept living a healthy life. Now I’m training for my first half marathon, yet another thing I never imagined I would be capable of. I actually like how I look. I love how I feel. I’m happy.

I think my 13-year-old self would be proud.

I should probably be embarrassed

So yesterday, my work had a product sale for employees to clean out the store room. Meaning kitchenware and dinnerware goods for low, low prices.

And I think I legit pulled a muscle in my arm shopping.

It’s partly my own fault. I’m the one who decided the only things she wanted were the two heaviest things available (silverware service for 12 and a cast iron dutch oven)(dutch oven…teehee).

Getchyo mind outa the gutter.

But the fact remains.

My name is Justine, and I have a shopping-induced injury.

White girl problems.

Well…this is weird.

You know what we haven’t talked about in a while? My hair.

So I’ve noticed lately that it does this kind of weird thing. I got layers cut into it recently. (Oh yeah, I actually got that haircut I hinted at. AND I resisted the urge to tell you about it. That’s growth, people.)(Though not literally. ZING!) Ever since then, something sort of bizarre happens every time I curl it, which is fairly often.

I usually do this sort of wavy curl, but the longer I go without washing my hair afterward (TMI? You know I have no shame.), the more it starts to go from Rapuzel wave to straight-up Goldilocks. As in, it’s gets less wavy and more curly.

Shouldn’t it be the opposite? Shouldn’t my hair want to revert to its naturally straight-ish form? Shouldn’t the greasier it gets, the more it is weighed down and not up? Shouldn’t I be washing my hair more?

Obviously, this is a pressing issue you should all drop what you’re doing and work on for me. I’ll expect a full report at oh-800 hours.

Ex-CUSE me?

Listen. I don’t want to get all finger-wagging-head-gyrating-bad-i-tude on you, but there is really nothing in the world more annoying than having someone tell you that you are wrong when you know that:

a) You are not wrong.
b) They have no idea what they’re talking about.

Oh, wait. There is one thing more annoying. Having them interrupt you mid-sentence to tell you that after you have been nothing but polite even though you have long known that every time they open their mouth they are just guessing or pretending to know what they’re talking about.

It usually makes me do something like this:

funny gifs

Is it lunch time yet?