'Sup, image that creates unattainable standards and turns me into a weepy mess? How you doin'?
Good?
Me, too.

"How incredibly sad that you would call a size '8' a 'zaftig.'"

I don't fool myself into thinking that this blog is viewed by thousands of visitors each day. Well, sometimes I do. Not often, but sometimes. It's more than likely to be on those days where I stand in front of the mirror and practice my Pulitzer Prize acceptance speech. Or Academy Awards. Or both.

I should really learn how to stay on point.

However, I re-read an article today that, in my personal opinion, should be re-blogged.

It can be found here: http://jezebel.com/5346154/why-is-normal-eating-so-hard-to-define

Or, better yet, this section stood out the most,

"Normal eating is going to the table hungry and eating until you are satisfied. It is being able to choose food you like and eat it and truly get enough of it-not just stop eating because you think you should. Normal eating is being able to give some thought to your food selection so you get nutritious food, but not being so wary and restrictive that you miss out on enjoyable food. Normal eating is giving yourself permission to eat sometimes because you are happy, sad or bored, or just because it feels good. Normal eating is mostly three meals a day, or four or five, or it can be choosing to munch along the way. It is leaving some cookies on the plate because you know you can have some again tomorrow, or it is eating more now because they taste so wonderful. Normal eating is overeating at times, feeling stuffed and uncomfortable. And it can be undereating at times and wishing you had more. Normal eating is trusting your body to make up for your mistakes in eating. Normal eating takes up some of your time and attention, but keeps its place as only one important area of your life."


Thanks, pint of Birthday Cake ice cream! You made me really, really happy.

Hey there, Ms. New Booty

To be more involved at Appalachian, and to make the most of my college career, I joined the A.P.P.S. Heritage Council. One small section of the overall A.P.P.S. organization, the Heritage Council is responsible for planning events that celebrate Appalachian culture. We schedule contra dances, story tellers, fiddle conventions, documentaries, and the ilk. It's something in which I have loved being involved, and it's honestly something for which I have a great passion. Southern culture to me is fascinating, and there's this piece of me that wants to gobble up everything possible.

That's not the point.

Tonight I was in charge of hospitality for our second contra dance. It only required making coffee and getting dinner for the band. Nothing difficult. Plus, I got in for free.

I went to one contra dance last year. One. A lady I was partnered with sort of ruined the evening as she was pushing, pulling, shoving, and tossing me across the floor. That might be a tad exaggerated, but it wasn't something I considered "enjoyable." Tonight, however, I was with a group of people that share the same interests as I do (they are all a part of the Heritage Council), and I honestly think the fact that I'm not a freshman was a major factor in the amount of fun I had.

That's not the point, either.

At one point during the night I had to find a new partner. It reminded me of middle school dances and how people wander aimlessly about in hopes of being chosen. That's what I found myself doing until this guy asked me to dance with him. He was good looking. I mean, like, really, really, unbelievably good looking. And he smelled nice. And he had a great smile. And he was taller than I was. And he was surprisingly light on his feet. Overall, if I were to give him a kindergarden grade, it would be S1. Though, in this case, instead of the 'S' standing for "Superb" it meant "Smokin'."

So we danced.

But halfway through the line I took a good, hard look at his face. I had seen him somewhere before, but with all the twirling it was hard to think straight.

So we danced some more.

By the end of the song I was racking my brain thinking of every guy I ran into last year. And then it hit me.

This guy, so wonderfully charming was David.

The snot-nosed, drunk musician who pinned me against the wall at my first party.

Fail.

There are some days where I'm quite productive. I'll finish all of the chapter reading for a class, write a few pages for an essay that's due, climb up the hill that leads to Quinn and ride a few miles on the stationary bike, or seriously consider my design concept for the environmentally friendly Lick 'n Stick band-aids.

Then there are days like today. Which, sadly, are becoming all too common. I'll paint my nails, color pictures of Daniel Boone, watch Planet Earth for hours on end, start friendship bracelets with no intent of finishing, and have an lengthy discussion with my roommate about our potential wedding dress styles.

Or, I'll stare at pictures and dream about decorating my room for next year.