That's A Cute Chub Pusher

This is a really cute bathing suit. And this girl looks awesome in it. But that wasn't the sitch a few weeks ago. 

I remember it like my Spice Girls themed birthday party. The day my eyes laid sight on this brilliantly crafted suit. A friends spring break photo dawned the perfect cream lace bottoms worn high to her waist. 

So as my manly mans family reunion came near there was only one thing I could do to shape up:

"A high waisted will highlight my skinny parts and be modest for the fam."

Sauntering my so eager into American Apparel, the place that held the original high waisted, it seemed my journey was soon to reach a triumphant end.

WRONG! I'm not sure what happened in the mix of Lycra and Nylon, but this suit was made to make you cry, not to hold in your little flabby secrets. 

Those ever annoying love handles had relocated to my waist. The cut was not high enough and not low enough all at the same time. And modest was out the window, unless the parents I had hopes to impress liked ass cheeks all over their white tees...

With grief in my heart, and tears in my eyes, I slowly clipped the garment back on its hanger and sauntered past life sized ad photos of girls who could pull off the tasteful trend. They actually had up a huge poster of models in every color high-waisted bathing suit. In silence I prayed "Let there be Photoshop on these images, let there be so much Photoshop."

My friends, this is a time deemed shambles. 

We don't live to die

There is this guy, Zach Sobiech, and he is amazing. Most of you have probably watched his documentary "My Last Days," and are probably asking why he is being referred to in present tense. Yes, Zach has passed, but what this kid did before his last days seem more fulfilling that most could do over years of time.

And it was in this quote that my so seemingly dull life has been turned upside down. 

"You don't have to find out you're dying to start living."

The truth encompassed with this quote seems more just than a perfect pair of Christian Louboutin's. We as humans spend so much time being everything we think is expected. 

We get a degree and a job. We take in a paycheck and send it out to rent and bills. We Do all these things which seem to be right, but what if we didn't? 

What if you were struck with the fact of death. A doctor told you there were less months to live than to die? Would you still do the same things you were? Still have the same goals? Or would everything change?

What Zach taught me in that 22 minute, tear filled, video was that some times you have to do those thing that seem unrealistic. You have to let go of the fears and take in the bad. That bad might produce the next number one hit on iTunes. Or even more, you might begin to live the life that was meant for you. The one where amazing things unfold. 

Are We All Free Falling?

Who woke up one day and said “Hey, lets not wear a bra!” Better question: Why can’t I partake? 

This has become an exclusive club of easy going, chest bearing babes that I want to be a part of. It seems clear that Emma Watson (my personal idol) hasn't purchased a bra since the first Harry Potter movie was released. 

I see them in the park, and in the dark. I see them in the street, on bike and on feet. I see them in bars, even in cars. Why can’t I be like them Sam I Am, why can’t I be just like them? 

Though in all honesty, aside from the Dr. Seuss remix, why can I not pull off this ever freeing trend? The ladies of Austin have it down to a T. Their shirts are loose and their twins a-blazing. It even seems sticky tape is a thing of the past, as this group has mastered the slip up and blasted it into oblivion. 

Also, what does it mean for those who can? Is this a sign of bummage, or one of pure perfection? have we finally begun to let go of our up tight trends and begun the journey back home to the hippie days? 

Perhaps women are standing up for their beliefs, which consist of not purchasing a $60 breast trap. Either way, I am supporting your decision to not support. And if someone has a clue on how to do it better, throw that info right here to this girl, a young girl full of envy.

What's it all about?

The first time I heard about this new phnom FOMO it was announced by a new companion at a wedding shower lunch-in, “I’ve been diagnosed with the FOMO disease,” she exclaimed lifting the back of her hand to her flush face. 

“Oh dear! Are you dying?” concern filled my mind. 

She was not dying. She was afraid to miss out on a party, or gathering, or any social outing youngsters seem to partake in these days. But wait... this is todays ever plaguing first world problem? Perhaps missing out on a night of mingling with, and being, drunken hooligans? 

If we can self diagnose these tragic symptoms, then I have one of my own. I my friends, am suffering from FOJI. Yes that is right. FOJI! Not to be mistaken with a blue edition Pokemon (cool fact: there are now over 600 characters in the Pokemon world. Hundreds more than I was able to trade as a child). Though back to my problems, this thing is really dangerous. 

FOJI is a fear of joining in. It’s terrible. My palms get sweaty, my heart races. Just the thought of a party, or crowded room of people makes me want to throw up. One time I drove for 45 minutes in traffic just to sob in the parking lot of an art gallery and peace out like those One-Size fits all puff shirts we all wanted for that hot minute. 

Where some would give the world to make it to every gathering ever thought up, I would prefer to spend me entire night giggling at the charismatic and straight edged characters of Duck Dynasty. Never going out again is preferred. And that is my problem. 

It began at the realization of my awkward stance while trying to perform the act most call socializing. See, I’m no talent when it comes to mingling. Gliding around a packed bar usually consist of tripping into a corner seat and resorting to crazy eyes tracking every. Single. Person. Who walks past the man of wrist bands and X’s.

So what will be done to turn my FOJI into FOMO. As an ever rambling blog post ends, this does too: With a large blanket and a DVR full of fictitious reality TV. Lets be honest here, anyone missing out on those new AT&T commercials is missing out on the real meaning of life. 

“But what about the animals... What, what will they be made out of?” If you don’t think that is marketing magic you are only kidding yourself. 

Before I die

If Mr. Palahniuk is correct, and the goal is to find that niche of greatness we each encompass, then how do I find mine? Time after time it seems the perfect idea reveals itself from underneath the ever mounting pile of bad indulgence.

Once upon a time I was the most aspiring broadcast journalist to walk amongst the crowd of other aspiring broadcast journalist. Then one day I woke up. Shocker, the world of TV news was not all it initially seemed cracked up to be.

Then there was the ever thoughtful moment of being a blogger. But frequently refreshing the page to see a now horrifically low number of likes, only to laps and give the talented bloggetts just one more view, is not rewarding as I once thought.

And my book deal, why can't it write and publish itself? Doesn't everyone in the world want to know how tragic my nonchalant world is?

Years ago as my fingers were rubbing raw from filming various class interviews and creating weekend packages for a local news station I would have though to myself in a mocking manor "This is what they don't teach you in school."

But perhaps that is just it. They don't teach you how to stumble into greatness because there is no way to do that. You Don't pass or fail at life. You struggle. You push yourself and you punish yourself until there is nothing left. Then you do it just a little more. You jump into opportunities that might send you up in flames, or they might be the one that changes it all. You cry, a lot. And have moments where nothing sounds better than giving up.

In school they show you how to be persistent with assignments, and then with the professors when you don't complete said assignments. In internships you are taught how to do a lot of work for little recognition, then decide working for yourself is way more rewarding (and accumulates the same amount of pay as said unpaid internships). It is in this combination that you have to find what truly works.

I still haven't found it. I still strive every day to make my mark on this world. With persistence on my mind and a back pocket chock full of bad ideas my search continues. The only thing that seems consistently real is that those who take the risk, and those who don't sacrifice their dreams for the real things like money and security. Those people, they go somewhere. They have too. If we can't believe that greatness grows in the most un expecting places then what can we believe?

Childhood hanging

My wanna-be status has begun to grow, and the door was opened to Austin Fashion Week. As the hard yet stylish black plastic chair supported my eager behind I dreamt of the pieces about to stroll down the white tile runway. Would there be spikes and lace? Simple or extravagant pieces? What if my dysfunctional side peeped through and I hated it all?

Then... jaw drop. Girls!

Girl after girl walked. Little girls. Like, are you out past your bedtime little? Yes, never in a million years would I have expected this as a pre-teen show. Furious check. Was I at the correct place? Media pass said yes.

As the last baby beauty exited stage left, and a just as young designer stepped out for a final wave, it became clear. This was no mistake, this was fashion fabulocity. A 12-year-old has a line of clothing, and though it is deemed for cool pip-squeaks I found myself asking, could I lose enough weight to fit in those velvet pants?

This silly question was quickly dismissed by a more plausible one: Why was I so un cool?

At the age of 12 my biggest battle was trying to hide the Barbie dolls I still felt need to play with. And my dreams consisted of me exclaiming "I must be a singer!" That was it. I simply yelled at my lungs and then continued on with my ever lacking day. 

I can only imagine this little girl was given a sewing machine instead of dolls, and was so awesome that it made sense. Though we can't all be that cool. Not everyone can find their calling before they learn to walk in heels. At least that is what I keep telling myself to make it all seem better...

Oh, by the way, saw in a local interview that she is studying for her Associates Degree. Chew on that for a few days. 

My friend, the up and coming designer

I have been told, there comes a time in everyones life where they begin to mold into a truer self. This weekend I had the opportunity of watching one of my oldest companions do just that. 

As Kaylyn Smith (or KayRay, deemed by bundles of friends)walked behind her senior collection, down an ever reaching runway, my eyes embarked on the fashion worlds newest gift.

Yes, I have no credibility behind my name, and yes, people could very well roll their eyes. And yes, she is my friend. But take a look for yourself and tell me this isn't dynamite:

I've watched a young girl cut up tee shirts, and sew the last stitch on her prom dress. Now she is screaming for success with tank tops and pants, and a jacket that will end up in my closet. Over my dead body will someone else have the honor of saying they purchased the first garment by Kaylyn Smith.  

So as I started this weekend, rehearsing the perfect toast over an hour long car ride, I would like to end this with one:

To a girl who will do great things, and a friend who has stuck by even when there was no reason. You are a gift, not only to me and those you have met, but to this world. A gift of pure talent, with an eye for design. Much like the Garden Party collection, you are different than others, and not afraid to show your individuality within. It will take you far. So never lose hope, and never change your ways. The things you are meant to do will come, and I hope to be by your side for the journey ahead. 

Pack, Pack, Pack it up

I have two true talents in life: My speedy showering skills and the ability to pack like a gypsy.

So as my life starts to get crazy and I begin to jet set to Lubbock, Waco and Houston, usually by car not jet, I get to exercise my favorite of the two. Why pack my mothers recommended seven pairs of underwear when you can pack three, right?

But it is not the lack of under garments that brings me joy in having a small bag. It's the feeling which comes with it. Like I have not a care in the world. All that exist in this world is me, my Long Champ bag, and a destination. For that short period of travel time I can be free, and forget all the baggage or chaotic work I carry around.

Oh, and I love going to airports where you can easily make up a new identity and pretend to be a rocker with a show deadline to meet. Some times dreams do come true... kind of.

The fairest of them all

While having a discussion with my man companion the conversation turned to fashion (as it usually dose) due to my dominating personality and field of interest, or more likely his kind hearted ability to stoop to my level of fashion concern.

On this cold May day we were discussing style and his initial thought that these designers and artist who rule the colorful world must hold a certain depth above all others. Which is where I felt the need to empress my knowledge on his soon to become, or what I can only hope for, fashion craving brain.

For me, top designers like Dior (top left) find their fabulosity in something much more compelling than depth. They take these insane ideas and make them reality. You wouldn't be honest if you said most of the looks you saw trot down the runway were to-die-for wardrobe makers.

Yes, I would die to have an up close peep at these garments, but would I wear them to get groceries? No. Most of them wouldn't fit through the Whole Foods front door. And that my fashion friends is why we love these designers so very much.

They are everything we have ever wanted to be. They are that goofy girl in the back of your class who you wish you had the gust to talk too let alone wear her distractingly awesome clothing. And that guy who drew so well that even the most popular kid couldn't say he wasn't going to become something great. Designers seem to place emphasis on the things we as every day humans are scared too. Like the oddball head dresses or out of this world patterns and hem lines.

A designer paints the pictures we so rarely allow ourselves to believe in. They are the most brilliant weirdos of the world. And I frankly wouldn't have it any other way.