You are Found Guilty of Gaslighting and Sentenced to Embarassment

I penned this post back in January on my phone in Penn Station after a conversation with a boy made me absolutely furious.

At the time, I didn’t have the balls to press post. Now I figure why the fuck not. So here ya’ll go.  


Let me pull a Taylor Swift blog style for a moment.


Ever since the conception of Twenty Something What is my life and the first post I ever penned about “I’m Sorry” gifts, I’ve been on and off reeling from a rather interesting encounter with a supposed textbook Southern charmer from North Carolina. He is the mainly guilty party in my Hall of Lame I’m sorry gifts post.

Let me give you a quick profile. Thirty years old, small southern accent, works in the food industry and I met him in a bar that he managed. Super polite to everyone, but you’d never peg him as a huge ladies man. Initially perceived as a very sweet and nice guy that was raised to be a gentleman.

On top of being a liar, he is also guilty of gaslighting. For those unfamiliar with the term, it refers to an asshole who does something warranting a rather negative reaction. If said reaction makes them unhappy, they feebly attempt to make you feel bad about it. Gaslighting aims to make victims doubt their own perceptions and feel guilt.


For those that need a more substantial example let’s say Mr. Charmer practically BEGS you to be exclusive with him, and as soon as you decide to not use your charm, sass, and boobs to get drinks and flings with other guys, his list of highly questionable actions start piling up. The sequence of events is as follows.

1. Charmer decides to bring me and my girlfriend to a friend’s house after meeting up with several people at a bar. Call it an after-party of sorts where I am meeting his friends for the first time. More people come to the house, including his friend of the female variety who I had met a few weeks previous. I met her, she met me, and we exchanged the usual pleasantries before he privately explained to me that they had never hooked up… ever. She comes in and I smile, and I am met with a look of drunken disdain. Girl was throwing shade like Regina George.


Oh well, hello to you to. Well I brush it off since I’m in a 4loko haze and there’s the sweetest dog at the party that I’d rather hang out with anyways. My next question is why Charmer and this bitch are in the bathroom for an hour? I guess Charmer didn’t let his friends in on his manipulations, because it’s one of them who told me the truth about the two having previously dated.

Charmer spends the next 30 mins wondering why I’m not going anywhere near him and why I’m leaving the party. He insists they were “just talking” and for the next few weeks, continues to tell me nothing happened.

2. Then comes the actual sleeping with this girl, while we’re supposedly exclusive. I find out from her, not him. In fact he goes a few weeks without telling me. She also confirms my suspicions on the bathroom incident and when I bring it up, Charmer claims he really did not think anything happened, and that he didn’t find out the truth until a few days later. Apparently, he was really just THAT drunk.

3. He begs to be let back into my life. He actually wants to be my BOYFRIEND. He decides it’s worth cutting all ties with her even when I refuse to stop seeing other guys.

4. For a few months, he’s attempting to win me back, and in some cases it’s working. I refuse to be completely exclusive, but I rarely have time to spend with anyone else. I don’t think I can handle him talking to her again and he tells me he won’t. He tells me I’m the first girl he loves and that I’m the one. I take it with a grain of salt, even if I secretly wish he was being honest. I make it clear that any evidence that he’s speaking to her and I walk out the door.

5. I find out that he’s been texting her behind my back. BIG SURPRISE. I give him up.

6. He starts sending me I’m sorry gifts when I move to Boston.

7. I blog about it.


It wasn’t until yesterday that he discovered my blog post. The reaction to me calling his gifts pathetic and selfish set the following conversation into motion:

Charmer: I’m not sending you anything in the mail. I’m not trying to make you a true piece of artwork that I try really hard on and have it mocked on your blog. Maybe later when you think I’m no longer sending you “I’m Sorry” presents. Those were things to just make you smile and start your day off with a hit. I said I’m sorry, I don’t need to give you gifts for that.

Me: I dislike getting your gifts because every nice thing you do for me is in some way for you to feel less bad about what you did. Did you ever try to make me smile when it wasn’t after you did something horrible to me? No. The first nice thing you did for me was after the bathroom incident. The second? After you slept with her. Sending me the flowers? After you texted her. While we were together? Nothing.

Charmer: I’m trying to show you that I care.

Me: So you didn’t care for me when everything was fine and I wasn’t halfway walking out on you? You should’ve showed me you cared by NOT lying to me. I guess buying me flowers is a lot easier.

The conversation becomes circular. He keeps claiming he loves me and cares for me, while I start getting furious. I just want him to stop the word vomit! I hate word vomit… especially when it’s of the bullshit variety.

Charmer: I didn’t realize the damage I was causing when I did those things.

Me: Are you stupid?

And the gaslighting begins.

Charmer: Conversation is over if you’re going to start calling me stupid. I wish you could believe me when I tell you that I loved and cared for you but I know everything I did counters that.

Me: You lied to me? That’s stupid. You’re stupid because you did the one thing I said would result in me leaving and then bellyache about losing me. A stupid person counter acts what they want.

Charmer: Have a good night.

BUT ladies and gentlemen, it doesn’t end there. The gaslighting continues.

Charmer: I ask you not to call me stupid in this conversation and you do the opposite. I’ll talk to you all night and day about what happened to us but I’m not going to be talked down in this manner.

Me: If you don’t want to be a liar, don’t lie. If you don’t want to be a cheater, don’t cheat. If you don’t want to be called stupid…. you can get the idea. And I wonder how it feels when someone that supposedly cares for you does the exact opposite of what you ask…. hmm…


GASLIGHTING: Blaming me for calling you stupid… when stupid is as stupid does.




I’ve Made Up My Mind About Making Up My Face

Over the weekend, I found myself thinking about makeup and cosmetics. How did the term “makeup” come about? Is it meant to imply that women are “making up” their sense of self beauty?

And then I started thinking of all the feminist reasonings behind resisting putting on your face and the idea that women should be comfortable just the way they were born: without foundation, bronzer, blush, mascara or lipstick. That not wearing cosmetics was meant to be the true indicator of a girl that is 100% comfortable with herself, and does not need the compliments that stem from a pretty lipstick or glowing complexion. I liked that thought, but I’ll admit that it’s not my primary reason for not wearing makeup.

I’m pro healthy body image, but I’m a practical sort.

So my reasons for not wearing makeup anymore have nothing to do with a feminist agenda, challenging society’s perception of beauty, or trying to be 100% comfortable in my own skin.

First, I honestly have no idea how to apply most cosmetics, including foundation, concealer, highlighter, blush, and eye shadow. I’ve attempted to guess over the years, and that has left me looking like a makeup bag threw up on my face.


I even would stress out about which product I was supposed to use. Is my skin oily? Am I a warm or a beige? Do I want foam, powder, and liquid make up? Revlon, L’Oreal, Cover Girl, or Maybelline? And what the hell is contouring??


So I stuck to what I knew, which was mascara and eyeliner, both products which really didn’t do anything for me. One reason, is because I’ve been cursed with the shortest eyelashes in the history of mankind. Mascara only makes my lashes look normal; not lengthy or voluminous, and they definitely don’t look like stilettos.


I’ve tried numerous expensive brands, and I’ve settled on one that just makes my eyelashes look…. More black?

I perceived eyeliner to be the big game changer in my makeup routine. As long as I had eyeliner on, I felt put together. I didn’t even put it on any other part of my eye besides the waterline, just on top of my lower eyelid. The felt tipped pen never even grazed the surface of my upper lid. All attempts to do a cat-eye or smokey-eye have failed miserably. Clearly, if you didn’t understand before then now you do, my makeup applying skills are few and far between.


So besides the fact that I have no idea what I’m doing when I put on makeup, it seems to disappear a few hours after I put it on, forcing me to perform a quick re-apply in a dimly lit bathroom over a sink covered in puddles, and of course, making it necessary that I am consistently carrying make up everywhere I go. In the summer, make up just seems to melt off my face during the twenty minute walk to my office. The Summer in Boston humidity really hates my face.

So I ask; if it’s just going to disappear later, I only use two to three products, and I can’t even apply the stuff correctly, why do I even need make up?

So I decided I don’t. So to save my budget and time, I’m not going to wear makeup unless I actually WANT to. No more poking myself in the eye, or allotting 30 minutes to put on my face in the morning as if it’s a necessity.

And I’m not writing this post to announce that I am joining a self beauty campaign in an effort to teach girls to appreciate their natural beauty (even though, I believe that). I’m just posting because, like I say in the behind the blog, I just write to write….

So no, there will not be multiple posts a day, breaking down my experience on the makeup free side of life, with quotes about how I’ve loved feeling comfortable in my own natural skin day after day. Just this one.

But in case you’re wondering, Day 1. I went on a date. It went well. No makeup needed.



LDF: Long Distance Flirting is STUPID

I’m going to give myself this. When it comes to relationships I’ve hiked through a lot of bullshit and back, almost to the point that I have sworn off anything serious for quite some time.


But I still trek through, knee deep in horse shit, and experienced a semi-pseudo since sophomore year of college HUNGER GAMES of a relationship, cheating, and guys applauding me when I lost 25 pounds and had some serious self image issues. All of this, wishing blissfully for fucking NORMAL, whatever the hell that is. But I do know it doesn’t include fucking mind games, sexting your ex, or making your other significant other feel like they are a parasite sucking out your lifeblood rather than someone that you appreciate and share a nice co-dependent relationship with where parties put in the same fucking amount of effort holy FUCK I AM FURIOUS.


Most of the above is for another time (sorry guys, but it’s STILL too soon for me tell the story of my experience as the MockingJay in the arena of friends with benefits, shit gets complicated, guys want what they can’t have death trap which I certainly don’t remember volunteering for).

I’m going to go share my experience with Long Distance Flirting and how it is JUST AS STUPID as volunteering oneself into the Hunger Games. It’s been over a year since I landed in Bahston and I never thought the first boy I would meet would be a Canadian that my friends endearingly called Canada Boy.

My first weekend, my roommate and I head out to a bar that would eventually become my stomping ground for the next year because they serve these wicked huge beers in 32oz mugs for $cheap. We are standing, next to a group of four guys and casually we succeed in striking up conversation about how they are all from Ottawa, and have traveled to NYC, Philly, and Boston in a USA tour of some sorts. Fast forward and Canada Boy and I are separated from the group to talk about sports and this kid is making me smile like you wouldn’t believe.

2xfast foward and he spends the night, while my roommate semi-kinda hooks up with his buddy. We talk about experiences and he explains that he had this ex that cheated on him, and a month before meeting me he was considering giving her another chance, when he sees her at the club making out with another guy. I share stories, and we both explain that we’re finished with cheaters.

3xfast foward and after he asks, we’re hanging out on what happens to be the last night he and his friends are spending in the States. How sweet. A follow up date after meeting at a bar? Mind blown.

Then what commences is 7 months of talking EVERYDAY with texts peppered with “you’re not like girls in Canada. You’re amazing and I’ve never met a girl like you. Move here and I’d be the happiest guy on the planet.” And of course his favorite line, “I miss your smile. I can’t wait to see it again.” Well I guess that last line was true because in that time span, he drove 8 hours to see me three times. We would spend our days walking the city, shopping, going to restaurants at the seaport, enjoying the Brazilian steakhouse in Copley, walking by the waterfront, going to Pourhouse to stand where we first met, and enjoying a Patriot or Bruins game. Before he would leave, he always left a sweet note on my desktop, talking about how much fun he had and how he couldn’t wait to see me again. He’d also surprise me with a Thank You gift: an Alex and Ani bracelet that he saw me eyeing, earrings that he noticed I didn’t have, cannolis from the North End, or chocolates and flowers.

So of COURSE I’m left thinking “holy crap, this guy doesn’t even see me and he appreciates me more than anyone I’ve ever met.” I was also left wondering how his She-Devil ex could have treated him the way she did. After 7 months I thought to send him a joint Christmas/early bday present because he needed to feel appreciated too.

Anddd then about a week and a half after sending that, there is a picture of him and her celebrating his bday together in early January.

BOOM! Yup that was the car of inevitable disappointment HITTING ME for ever engaging in LDF.


So I do what I typically do in scenarios like this. I distance emotionally. I may still talk to the guy, but no more telling him I miss him. No more answering his texts when I should be focusing on meeting someone that lives in the same god damn country for Christ’s sake. And let’s get this straight. Distancing myself emotionally isn’t an IRRATIONAL thing. It’s fucking necessary, and if you’re going to look at me and say I over reacted then tell me what’s more irrational. Still pretending there were feelings there or moving on? Yeah so all of you on the girls always act irrational train… GO FACK YAHHSELVES.

My new found indifference is met with “why don’t you talk to me as much anymore? I always smile when I see your texts you but never text me first anymore. I have time off next week, what if I came to visit. I miss your smile. We just ran into each other, if you want me to delete her off of Facebook I will.”

No… I don’t want you to do anything. I’m annoyed because I’m putting emotional coin into this and she’s the fucking one that gets to take you out on your bday. Naturally LDF IS FUCKING POINTLESS.


You may be thinking, “But, LDF is fine as long as there is a mutual understanding that both parties can do whatever they want after they separate. They should just enjoy the time that they have together when they visit each other, and then understand that only disappointment can come from actually caring for them since they will never be a couple.”

Well, I kind of have a secret to let you in on. I didn’t think it was necessary to expose on my blog to people like you because I thought it was obvious. But as time has gone on, I now feel the need to let everyone know in my public forum something about myself.

YASSSSSS I am a human. I smile when I’m happy, and get giggly when I’m drunk, and cry when I’m sad, and dissapointed when my dreams fall apart, and determined when I go to the gym, and stressed when something feels beyond my reach.

So naturally, I smile when I meet a cute guy, and smile even more when said guy starts showing interesting, and I’m happy after our first kiss, and can’t stop laughing when I find him so perfectly funny. I get scared when I realize my feelings are stronger, and disappointed when I realize my effort isn’t being recognized, and feel quite sad when I get rejected that maybe I MAY even fucking shed a tear or two or three or fucking hell, a god damn river.

But the story doesn’t end yet. Canada boy decided to take a week off and come to the States to visit me, and I say sure. He arrives on a Friday and plans to leave the next Saturday morning, his longest visit yet. Well we got to Wednesday night when he receives a text from She-Devil while out of my room and his phone is sitting on my nightstand.

Homeboy doesn’t try to explain shit. I calmly ask, “are you going to look at that?” and he replies “I don’t want to, I know you’re disappointed.”

Yup. Yup. Sounds about right.

Canada boy doesn’t explain himself, and to be honest, he doesn’t need to. Because let’s face it: it’s LDF. Even I can admit I cannot be angry about this and hold it against him.

What I can do is tell him to pack his shit and leave in the morning, and just leave me alone for a bit because I am swearing off LDF. So I did.


And then I blogged about it.


Purposely Missed Connections: Confessions of a TinderElla

Being a twentysomething living in the hustle and bustle of Boston, MA, my Tinder app gets flooded with pictures of hot guys cut from very different cloths. Whether it’s a Burly Bearded from Southie, a Muppie (Millennial Yuppie) from Back Bay, or a Hipster from Cambridge, I probably have swiped right and in the process killed any previous notion that I have a “type”.

With over 200 matches, I’ve only met a handful of real flesh, breathing people and I’d like to keep it that way, and there are multiple reasons why.


1. Tinder is like 2048, lots of swiping in one direction with the soul purpose of entertaining myself. I’m bored, and swiping takes little to no effort. This makes Tinder a great way to pass time before bed or when I’m on the crapper (yup, you may have just matched with a girl that is in the pissah). I already checked my text messages, Facebook notifications, Instagram comments and trending tweets. I’m already rendered cross eyed by endless games of 2048 and I’d rather look at men than multiples of 2.

2. Matches make me smile, because that guy that I think is sexy also thinks I’m sexy and maybe we’re sex-patable. Isn’t that a nice thought? Tinder is an ultimate confidence booster.


3. I’ll swipe left, for multiple reasons including gym selfies, children in your arms, or your dick pic. Or because, I just don’t find you attractive.

4. We matched and I’m on a roll so I’m going to keep swiping for another and then forget to message you.

5. Accidental Swipes can be double sided. We will never meet if you’re a bonafide hottie that I accidentally swiped left to when I was vigorously going through the bow wows and dick pics. We will also never meet if I accidentally swiped you right, as in, I did not mean to ever match with you.


6. The first message was either one of two things. A boring “Hey” which did not tempt a conversation, or a “let’s swap pics”, “Hey there cutie”, or “I’m not a rooster but watch what this cock’ll-do-to-you”. Nope, not answering, but blocking. Also, all I ever did was swipe right. Do I owe you anything? No. So don’t follow up my inactivity with “Hey sexy where you at???” or get butthurt that you either bored me or creeped me out.


7. Like an eager beaver, you want to meet right now. You noticed I was active a mile away, and you’re pretty much telling me to throw my pants back on and come to meet you when I’m curled up in bed next to my dog Moses. Nope, sorry, no.

8. Unless it’s food STAHP SHARING your unattractive stories that would make me run off into the hills with stones stuffed in my ears and forks in my eyes. I don’t want to know about your ex or your kids before I know that you actually exist. Just STAHP.


9. U type lyke dis doughh and it isn’t funny. In the world of a qwerty keyboard, which I know you have since you have the Tinder app, you can afford to type out full words… though.

10. You aren’t 26, and Tinder lied because you’re an undergrad and too young for me Bro.

11. Catfish and the Craigslist Killer have made me second guess stepping out of my apartment for any online rendez-vous. It did however, make me want to be best friends with Nev and Max.



So there you have it. I am not going to put on pants, leave my snuggly dog, and go through any meet-up-with-someone-and-awkwardly-stand-there anxiety for accidental swipes, no swipes, perverts, bores, undergrads, children, adults who type lyke children, or serial killers.




A Suggestion to the NBA: How to Punish Donald Sterling

As if Doc Rivers and the LA Clippers didn’t have enough to worry about besides trying to win an NBA Championship.

And hello to all who have either been anxiously awaiting my next post, my loyal friend followers of about 20 individuals, and perhaps some new readers from my Twittersphere (whooo 83 followers!). I’ve been looking for a reason to resurrect TwentySomethingWIML, and while so much has happened (2014 Winter Olympics, Korean Ferry sinking, the ongoing 2014 Crimean crisis, etc.) I could not ignore the fact that an old, ugly, and decrepit man (who can still manage to have both a wife AND girlfriend) was a top trending topic all week. It helped that I finally found out how to use Twitter, but that’s another story that I could probably blog about later.

PROFILE: Meet Donald Sterling b.1934


Occupation: Owner of the Los Angeles Clippers in the NBA

Imagine seeing this lovely, leathery face on your Tinder prospects. Well his profile might say something along the lines of “I won’t broadcast that I associate with black people, even when African Americans athletes are working their asses off to earn my team and their city a national title. I won’t even broadcast it even though my girlfriend is half African American. Even when Doc Rivers, one of the most recognized and respected coaches in the league works for my franchise.”

My Thoughts: I’m moved to both anger and sadness. Anger for the obvious reasons; I strongly disapprove of bigotry and racism on any level, and sadness for the Clippers who publicly showed at Game 4 Sunday against the Golden State Warriors that they denounce Sterling’s ugly comments. LA, a team of talented players from a variety of backgrounds, is now faced with suspended sponsorships, terminated sponsorships, and a major distraction during the most important time of the season.

With an NBA investigation in place, we can only hope that the NBA and commissioner Adam Silver can find a way to get rid of this racist and ugly bigot.

But, I decided to compile a list of punishments that I would recommend:

1. Cover the floor of Staples Center with the sharpest of Lego pieces. Make him do suicides barefoot.

2. Give him perpetual papercuts in the wrinkly, old webbings between his fingers.

3. Make him take a selfie with every African American NBA player.

4. Force him to only take the coldest of showers for the rest of his life.

5. Make him walk on cobblestone in heels for hours.

6. Hit him in the funny bone, over and over again.

7. Lock him in with the Hippos at the Los Angeles Zoo. I mean he is starting to look like one.


8. While at the Zoo, he can become the Zoo pooper scooper. Make him sleep in it.

9. Twilight movies on repeat.

10. Baseball pitches to the groin, thrown by African American baseball pitchers.

11.  Forced licking of all flag poles in below freezing climates.

12. Continuously blow dust and sand into his eyes over and over again.

13. Forced self-inflicted toe stubbing.

14. Force him to stare into the sun for hours at a time.

15. Make him sit on hot leather car seats without pants. After an hour make him stand up and experience the awful pain of the seat peeling from your bare legs. Repeat.


Feel Free to comment and add to this list. Maybe Adam Silver will get some ideas!




Realizing that a bad hangover has NOTHING on food poisoning

WARNING: the following content may be extremely graphic, especially if you’re one of those guys that don’t believe that humans of the female variety poop. I mean they just don’t. We are perfectly beautiful, gorgeous, and ethereal creatures that don’t even emit stinky vapors let alone excrement. Keep thinking that and stop reading.

For the women, the realists, and the biologists who insist that all living organisms need to emit their waste in order to survive, you can continue to read this post because this weekend I experienced the WORST curse on my digestive system that I have EVER experienced in my twentysomething years.

images (1)

Those familiar with the college life are probably also familiar with the bad hangover. Feeling dehydrated, nauseous, and weak may have been an every Sunday occurrence after a weekend of cheap Barton shots and boxed Franzia. I’ve had my share and boy do I know what a bad hangover feels like. Forgetting to eat dinner and stay hydrated with water on the weekends before downing a few whiskey gingers have become habitual. So has waking up the next morning, refusing to get out of bed, and claiming that “I am NEVER going to drink AGAIN”. I usually feel and look like I’ve been hit by a bus.

However, this weekend, I probably looked like that same bus reversed back over me and hit me again. After a now regretful egg salad sandwich, I experienced food poisoning over which I would take a bad hangover any day of the week. Literally, my bowels are turning just talking about it, but I need to get this in writing so that when I experience my next bad and inevitable hangover, I can read this and thank my lucky stomach that I don’t have food poisoning.

Sweet Jesus it was absolutely God awful.

After eating the egg salad at about 3:30pm on Satuday, I was struck with calm, maybe feeling a bit bloated, but nothing out of the ordinary. Twelve hours later, I was puking on a sidewalk, but I chalked it up to the bumpy Boston cab rides that trigger my motion sickness. Confident that I had absolutely NOTHING in my system, I went to bed just feeling nauseous.

I wake up at 8am with an intense pain that felt like I was being impaled with a red hot poker. My eyes are literally watering from the pain and I run to the bathroom to puke. Realizing I don’t need to puke and probably have a case of the DADS (Day After Drinking Shits) I decide to poop. Talk about opening Pandora’s box. And I thought I had nothing in me.

I try going back to bed, but trips to the bathroom kept me awake until around 11am when I decide to give up. I get dressed, brush my teeth and as soon as the toothpaste hits my tongue I vomit again.


“Must be a hangover” I tell myself, until I’m sitting in the living room waiting to go into work and remembering that my roommate who also ate the egg salad was complaining about a stomach ache. Well I guess I better call in today, because if it’s food poisoning my hour commute might end exorcist style. I have experienced the after morning sickness of a hangover, however, the best part about puking from alcohol is feeling the weight of nausea being lifted after you pull the trigger. With food poisoning, that relief never comes and you’re subject to stomach cramp after stomach cramp that never ends no matter how much you pray and promise that you’ll be a better person if only this nasty experience would just end.

There is nothing more humiliating than having to shit and puke at the same time, and I feel SO MUCH SYMPATHY for those that have ever experienced suck an AWFUL trial.

With my roommates Goggling my symptoms and what I should be eating, it’s decided that I have food poisoning and I should go grab some Gatorade for the electrolytes that my body is so violently getting rid of. I decide to go to the convenient store right across the street for some Powerade Zero and after being gone no longer than 5 mins, I come back out of breath and practically stumbling for my composure. I’m a ridiculous mess. I take a few sips, take a Tums for my stomach acid, and immediately puke it up. Great.

By the end of the night, my throat is dry, I am starving, and my ass literally hurts.  I’ll never again complain about being hungover, ever.

Because I Actually LOVE the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show

I swear, I like men, but today is just another lady boner type of day in the life of this twentysomething. Today is the day that CBS airs the 2013 Victoria’s Secret Fashion show, and I am more than willing to skip watching my weekly dose of Awkward on MTV in order to check out the eye capturing festivities.

I may be putting feminism a few years back, or I may be applauding it. You decide. Whatever the case may be, the show does feature half naked girls walking a 100 foot runway. Yes it’s sexy, but I’d say inspiring as well, and not just in a sense that I’ll feel the need to regurgitate the 200 calorie beer I’ll be enjoying in the hopes of losing a quick 30 pounds to look like Adriana Lima.


It’s inspiring because the show is just so over the top that it’s actually amazing. What other fashion show features anything even remotely similar to the Victoria’s Secret Fashion show?

Yes, you may be thinking, “This is ridiculous, making the models walk around with giant feathers attached to their underwear.” Are you aware that this is a fashion show?? What high end fashion show doesn’t go above and beyond what normal people would wear out in public? This exhibition happens once a year, and not just so designers (Yes, people actually DESIGN underwear) can show you your average bra and panty set in nude. It’s creative, it’s different, it’s their ART. For example, this year Lindsay Ellingson is wearing the world’s first 3D printed lingerie, which may as well be the first 3D printed clothing ever created.

Lindsay Ellingson(1)

The show is also entertaining, and not because it supposedly resembles soft porn. While the models might be wearing less clothes on this particular job, they certainly get to show more personality. This is in stark comparison to the Kristen Stewart face seen on most runways.


The models actually look like they are having the time of their lives and even get to interact with the performers on the runway, which this year will include Fall Out Boy, Taylor Swift, and Neon Jungle.

Which brings me to another point. The show, the sets, the performers; all other reasons to watch the show besides skinny women parading in underwear. I would really like to single out the awesome performances at the show by specifically citing Bruno Mars’ “Locked Out of Heaven” in the 2012 Victoria’s Secret Fashion show. Did the fact that there were models walking the stage while he was singing make appreciating his performance more difficult for me as a woman? Nope. It was epic, and if you don’t believe me, watch for yourself.

Lastly, the female frustration over the show really, in my opinion, needs to stop. Women regularly complain about Victoria’s Secret for first, selling overpriced merchandise and second, using skinny models to market it. First, I rarely hear women bemoan the existent of other higher end stores that sell things that can be found in a WalMart or Kohl’s like they do Victoria’s Secret. Second, women everywhere spend hours putting on make up or high heels, picking the perfect outfits, and dieting or working out. We do this to attract attention and be seen. The Angels are just better at it than we are. Admit it and stop being bitter.

So here’s my appeal: Stop hating the models because they are hot, stop hating the designers for their preference in designing undergarments, stop hating Victoria’s Secret for being the top selling brand for lingerie, bras, underwear and clothes that we do actually buy, and stop hating the fashion show for being… I don’t know… creative, different, and popular?