Revenge is mine: Why I (finally) joined a gym

There are three things I fear:

  1. Tornadoes
  2. Unplanned pregnancies
  3. Working out in public

Geographically speaking, I don’t really have to worry about tornadoes because where I live they’re pretty rare, and there’s not a penis willing to have sex with me as far as the eye can see, but working out in public has been a legitimate fear of mine since puberty.

About two weeks ago, after realizing that both my ass and my heart look like they’ve been in a drive-by shooting, I decided that it was time to stop focusing on dating and get in shape.

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My Bachelor viewing squad all belong to the same gym, so I thought, what better way to fight your phobia of sweating profusely in public than by standing next to skinny beautiful bitches who will act as camouflage to the fact that you look like you’ve peed your workout tights? #BoxSweat

I’ll admit, part of my fear of joining a gym was because I didn’t know what to wear. I don’t own anything Lululemon based on principle, and I’ve heard how my male friends talk about girls they meet at the gym, so I’m assuming I’ll be judged by both sexes on my attire/body/hyperhidrosis.

It took serious calming down from my friend Sarah to get me to actually attend Saturday morning bootcamp, but I have to admit (and I hate myself for admitting this), it was actually the best decision I’ve made in a long time.

Sure, I should be happy that I’m getting in shape, moving more, blah blah blah getting healthier, but my love of the gym has taken a turn from “focusing on me” to a very dark place.

During my registration, I had a consultation with a trainer about my diet and fitness goals. The first question she asked was relatively simple, “What made you join a gym?”


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Do you know how satisfying it is to picture the face of the guy who ghosted you on a medicine ball as you slam it into the ground repeatedly?

I swear, if you didn’t know me, you would think I was Arya Stark, because I’m literally mumbling the names of everyone who I hate as I’m pushing 120lbs on a stupid sled across the floor… Jake, Alex, Geoffrey, The Hound.

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You should know that I’ve YET to run into an ex after a break-up, but I’m hoping all of that changes once I develop Michelle Obama arms and a thigh gap.

Yes, friends,  I’m building a revenge body because I internalize my feelings and have convinced myself that the reason I’m single is purely physical and not a all because of my personality, timing or circumstances outside of my control.

This is just the beginning of this journey of vengeance. I have 6 weddings to attend, and my trainer wrote them all down on a piece of paper to help motivate me into achieving my fitness goals.

What are those goals?


Regret (on their part)

Rue-ing the day they met me. RUE IT.


I’m not crazy.

(Ok, maybe just a bit).





Just call me Miss Scarlett: My life with Scarlet Fever

I’ve been absent from life/work/blogging for the past month after a series of health issues knocked the wind out of my sails and infused my life with a shit storm of Victorian-era drama.

I had decided that in  2016 I would approach life with the level of fearlessness normally reserved for four year old’s learning gymnastics. I was determined to tackle life like it was a pummel horse and make it my bitch. Live with an open heart, an open mind, with absolutely no fear of getting hurt!


I got back into the dating game, stacked my schedule with invitations from friends and gave up bread and cheese. For three weeks, I was on top of the world. I had a renewed sense of what I hoped was an adorable enthusiasm for life. I spoke in cliches, I was Pinteresting positive affirmations, I ate salad without croutons… I was a completely different person!

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After a few weeks I  hit my first road bump in the dating world, and decided to grant myself the luxury of two weekends completely devoted to “healing” aka drinking my troubles away with my girlfriends.

My liver and I were in the middle of getting over someone when the father of one of my best friend’s passed away. To say we were  devastated would be an understatement. My optimism, hopefulness and determination to find happiness was completely derailed by this loss, and I was just on the periphery; watching someone I love very much grieve was and is unbearable. It was sobering (literally) to have perspective on my troubles when someone dear to me had just lost so much.

I did my best to support my friend but on the morning of the celebration of life, I woke up to find my face covered in red welts. My forehead to my chest was peppered with red dots, and larger hives. I began to frantically scratch my skin, pressing my face against anything cold in hopes of a temporary relief from the heat my cheeks were radiating. With only hours before the service, I did the only thing I could think of: Free base Benedryl and paint on the foundation.

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I looked in the mirror before leaving for the service and was horrified. I looked like I was the “after” photo in a “Just Say No to Drugs” campaign, clawing at my face, I was an apparition from the future warning young children not to try meth. I managed to make it through the celebration without drawing blood, distracted only by my need to keep my friend’s glass filled to the brim with wine.

The next day, the rash crept down my chest, onto my stomach, and onto each arm. I sat in bed icing my body, convinced I was either a) allergic to my late twenties or b) morphing into the Elephant Man. My throat began to tighten, and I broke out into a fever that had me hallucinating that Colors of the Wind was playing on a constant loop.

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The next day, having absolutely no strength, I begged my mother to forego work and take me to the doctors. I sat down in the examining room and started to cry. “I normally have really good skin!” I wailed. “Nothing I do will make it go away!”

“You have strep throat,”said the doctor . “You’ll be off work for a few days.”

Like an insensitive Stevie Wonder fan, I implored him to reconsider his diagnosis. “Look at me! Look at my skin! Are you blind? This isn’t strep. This is much worse!”

“You have Scarlet Fever. A form of strep. The rash will go away in a few weeks. It’ll take a while, and peel. Take these for a week and you should be good to go.” He jotted down a prescription for antibiotics. “You don’t work with the public do you?

I left feeling like Beth March in Little Women after a visit to the Hummels. I felt so strange. Weak. Someone send for Marmie!


My boss was kind, but couldn’t veil the fact that he considered me a rat potentially carrying the plague to infect our office. “Maybe you just stay in bed. Yeah…just, don’t come to the office, OK?”

I spent an entire week in bed. A week after the rash outbreak, my skin was finally clearing up. I decided to shower and join my friends to see my sister perform with her burlesque troop. I was tired, but excited to be back among the living. I decided to reward myself with a glass of wine, for putting on pants and not scaring away humans with my appearance.

Big mistake.


I woke up the next day with swollen eyes, and a new batch of hives all over my body.

It was official. I was allergic to fun.

It turns out, not only did I have Scarlet Fever, but I had a red wine allergy. Something I didn’t clue in on until later that week when I decided to reward myself AGAIN with another glass of wine, this time for making it to work like a healthy, normal, functioning member of society. Another bout of hives and my best performance as an extra on Breaking Bad and it was confirmed that I, Elizabeth Regina Di Filippo, am forsaken by God, or a god, probably Bacchus.

No more red wine.

No more clear skin.

No more wearing make-up without looking like I’m just getting a handle on my 12 steps.

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Some co-workers have affectionately began calling me Miss Scarlet, and quite frankly, My Dear, I want to go home to Tara and hide under a duvet burrito for the next four weeks until my skin can return to normal.

I’m not quite 100%, but I’m doing much better. I’m dealing with my fear of all things red the only way I know how, by completely avoiding all clothing, food and most importantly, wine with so much as a pinkish tinge.

It’s going to be a long road to recovery, but I think I can manage.

After all, tomorrow is another day!







#PeriodProblems: Reasons I’m crying

There are some people who are grossed out when I talk about menstruation. Those people usually have penises. It’s not that I think the female reproductive system is a beautiful thing, I’m really just  looking for any and every opportunity to commiserate with my fellow egg baskets over our monthly massacres.

This morning I woke up with a week early monthly guest and a horrible nosebleed. I just tilted my head back, looked to the heavens and let everything just flow south. The only plus side to this unexpected horror, was that my best friend and I have synched our cycles, which I’m hoping means we can FINALLY fight crime and make others shed blood instead of shedding our own.

The whole thing seems very Wiccan to me. I kind of dig it.

Until then, I’ll be sitting in pajama pants, clutching my pooch, waiting the week out so I can stop crying randomly at anything and everything.

What makes me cry during my period?

Day 1: Getting my period

*Tears of Joy*

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Day 2: Catching a glimpse of my bloated self in the mirror and wondering, “Hmm, this is what I would look like at 4 months pregnant.” Then hyperventilating because you can’t imagine yourself ever being ready for motherhood

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Day 2: Afternoon

Crying because you’re worried, that if you ultimately do want kids, what if you later discover you’re infertile, and then you’ve just got your period to waste tampons and good underpants on a monthly reminder of what you can’t have.

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Day 2: Evening

Crying because you’ll get to adopt a kid and keep shit right down there.

*Tears of joy*

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Day 3: Watching old Hollywood movies and crying because everyone in the movie is probably dead

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Day 4: Checking online dating profiles and crying because you’re online dating

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Day 4: 10 mins later

Crying because you’re worried nobody will love the guys you’re swiping left to. SOMEONE SHOULD LOVE THEM!


(Just not me. Never me)

Day 5: Seeing an old person take their dog on a walk. The dog’s wearing a coat and little booties.



Day 6: Adele.

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Day 7:

Happily skipping out the door without a feminine product only to find that your body is a traitor and released a last wave of assault to remind you that you should never, ever, think you understand your body.

(Oh yes, Girls. Some of us are full week-ers)

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Day 8: PTSD

You only have 21 days before you have to relive the carnage.

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Brb. Gotta go eat some cookies.



2016 So far: Where I was when I wasn’t here

Happy 2016!

I’m a little late to the party, but I took a much needed break from blogging. Blogmas was a son-of-a-bitch. Seriously. Blogging every single day?

For free?

I dislike doing anything for free. I literally look for incentives in everything I do. My friends know this and have Diet Pepsi chilling in their fridge whenever I come over, because they know how much I loathe pants and would much rather be sleeping than run a brush through my hair and interact with people.

Anyways, I overdid it with the blog posts and fell out of love with the WordPress world, but I’m refreshed, have some new stories and am ready to get back to embarrassing my mother with my posts.

I’ve been quite the little gypsy this month, spending most of my time in a train, plane or automobile travelling for work and pleasure. I’ve been going non-stop, have barely had time to cuddle my cat (which you know upsets me tremendously), but things are FINALLY slowing down, and I’ll be able to reconnect with you good people of the internet, and of course myself… and my cat.

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Here’s what you should know right now…

I think I must have had a spiritual stroke, or been touched by the Holy Ghost because I’ve legit become like a walking Pinterest inspiration board. I’ve caught myself saying shit like, “It’s better to have loved and lost than never loved at all” and “Everything happens for a reason,” and “I’m open to the possibilities of love.”

I don’t even recognize myself anymore. I was hoping that if I ever had some kind of medical issue it would be the fun strokes where you wake up with like, a Pakistani accent but you’re still a white girl from the suburbs. I never thought I would become this monster who can self soothe and rationalize with Christian Broadcast television-like values. It’s quite disturbing, and yet, healthy? I don’t know. I haven’t had a session with my therapist in almost two months, so this is either a huge breakthrough or the calm before a storm and I’m going to be shaving my head and attacking cars with umbrellas in a hot minute.

I’m still single. YAS, Queen. Single and accepting it, thank you very much!

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It’s really not that bad. I’ve only cried twice this month, and both times were right before a cycle started so, I consider that progress.

I’m still living a carb-centric lifestyle, but I’ve been using the My Fitness Pal app to guilt me into healthier choices. I’m basic, but trying to get healthy because it’s a new year is just TOO basic. I’ll get healthy, in like, March – when my first wedding of the year is a month away and I need to shove myself into a dress. I’ve been receiving Save the Date cards in the mail and have already begun financially planning for wedding season. I’ve decided that this year, instead of being thrifty and recycling dresses, I’m just going to go balls to the wall and use every event as an excuse for a fashion show and a new profile pic.

Other than that, I’m essentially just living for Monday nights when I can watch the Bachelor with my girlfriends, have been on some serious Netflix binges because it’s too cold to do anything else, and I’ve been planning new adventures for 2016 because it’s cold as fuck and I need an Eat, Pray , Love STAT.


That’s really it for me, kids.

What about you?







Shield your eyes! Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show is coming (and more Gwen and Blake)

Every year. Every GD year I dread the Victoria’s Secret fashion show and it’s big barrel curls and 14 inch rib cages. This year, the show should officially change it’s title to, “Taylor Swift’s Friends Walking” because that’s essentially all the show has become, just twenty of Taylor’s BFF’s giving #squad and #eatingdisorder goals for the masses.

Models, from left, Lily Aldrige, Karlie Kloss, Adriana Lima, Candice Swanepoel and Bahati Prinsloo walk the runway during the finale of the 2013 Victoria's Secret Fashion Show at the 69th Regiment Armory on Wednesday, Nov. 13, 2013, in New York. (Photo by Evan Agostini/Invision/AP)

Models, from left, Lily Aldrige, Karlie Kloss, Adriana Lima, Candice Swanepoel and Bahati Prinsloo walk the runway during the finale of the 2013 Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show at the 69th Regiment Armory on Wednesday, Nov. 13, 2013, in New York. (Photo by Evan Agostini/Invision/AP)

Ok, OKAY. It’s not the model’s fault if young girls and let’s be real, grown women, internalize these images and let them feed the already gnawing belief that this is type of beauty is what results in love, success and acceptance. Models are genetically thin. Models use their bodies, their naturally thin bodies to make money. That is all.

I just wish, someone, ANYONE who was or is a Victoria’s Secret model would take a moment and think, “Man, nothing is going to change if we keep televising lingerie fashion shows.”


I give props to these girls for trying to spin VS into a positive experience, about female empowerment and supporting one another, but what about supporting the rest of the women in the world? What about saying, “This is super fucked up, but I’m making serious bank and you should know that I know it’s damaging to you.”

I would respect you more, if that were the case.

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Victoria’s Secret released a video about the auditioning process being “super emotional.”

You know what’s emotional? Me, trying to pick an outfit on a daily basis or accidentally catching a glimpse of my ass before I get in the shower.

That’s emotional.

These girls KNOW this will take their careers to the next level. They also know they’ll probably end up dating Leonardo Di Caprio.

Warped. This whole thing is messed up.  Anyways. Over it. Not going to watch.


So, Blake and Gwen are a thing, officially.

We’ve talked about this before but I still can’t wrap my head around this couple. I’m sure there are other people wondering what’s going on. The only thing I can think of is that the sex is really good. Isn’t that always the case?


If you can’t guess, this photo is from E!

I’m just hoping Blake can convince Gwen to eat a rack of ribs and put some meat on her bones.

Opposites attract, but this is like a Cat and a Dog having Pittens, or Kuppies.


Cheers to a wild Friday night! 

I wish I had the time to post a Friday Five because this week has been a busy one for me and the pop culture world, but I’m feeling a tad under the weather. 

For the past two weeks I’ve been dealing with gnarly chest pains and a super sexy cough. I thought it might be asthma (Hamilton is super smoggy) or pneumonia (because I’m a drama queen) so I finally went to the doctors today. 

Turns out, it’s an inflamed trachea/chest infection but my doc sent me to the hospital for some X-Rays and tests. There’s nothing fun about sitting alone in the hospital in a mask and gown. Loose boob and exposed bum ain’t cute!
I did however, have a funny interaction with a nurse, who prior to taking some blood samples asked me “if I was still fasting.” I was really confused until I remembered that today’s the last day of Ramadan, and that Muslims everywhere get to break fast.  

How I think I look

 I let out a really weird, wheezy giggle and then replied simply with a no. This happens all the time, a result of being ethnically ambiguous. I’ve had several situations like this where people have asked if the Canadian government paid for my tuition because of my Native status, if I could dance because I’m Hispanic or tell me that I’m “Pretty for an Iranian.” 


How I really look

 I’ve learned to laugh at it, and marvel at people’s inquisitiveness …that’s a nice way to put it. 

Now I’m at home, in bed with some books and my pup getting some much needed rest. 

Hope to be back in the blogging game on Monday! 

Enjoy your weekend! 

Day 1: Fitness Journey

Inspired by my fitness minded friends and boyfriend, I’ve decided to take getting into shape seriously. Sort of seriously. Ok, I’m considering eating less cookies and moving more. That’s as serious as I can be right now.

My resolve to be fit began after my friend Sarah started hitting the gym before her honeymoon in Cabo. I should tell you now that Sarah used to model, so go ahead and start hating her. Since we talk about everything, she showed me her super-secret progress pictures and I had a come to Jesus moment where I thought, “Hey, maybe this here exercise thing the kids are talking about actually works!” Did you know the belly button can actually move up the stomach? Or at least get so toned it travels three inches north? I didn’t but totally played like I did when I saw her after pictures.


That night I went home and looked at my memory foam tummy. Minimal muscle definition with some give. Not too shabby for someone who eats a carb-centric diet and sits for 8 hours a day and then lays for another 16. I figured I could get in shape no problem.

The real problems began when I asked my manpanion to take “Before” photos for me. Tummy, profile shot, and behind.

I’m not exaggerating when I say I started hyperventilating when faced with my own booty dimples. My behind looks like the old woman from Titanic’s face. Sad, contemplative, old as shit.


“It’s the lighting in here,” Matt said trying to comfort me. “It’s bad lighting.”

I immediately felt horrible that this poor wonderful guy was stuck dating Miss Cottage Cheese 2015.

I wallowed for about twenty minutes. Thought about where the Duggar’s purchase their Modesty Wear. Thought about just being the girl who always wears pants and says it’s some ode to Katherine Hepburn. I googled celebrities with cellulite, I googled celebrities without cellulite. Then I decided there was only one thing to do: start moving.

The goal:  Lose 10 lbs by June

How will I do that?


Cut out sweets and carbs

No crash diets/no fads

Today is day 1.


Girl talk & tea : Let’s distract ourselves

I was going to do a Friday countdown, but then I decided “No, let’s just talk about girl things without structure.”

I feel good about this decision.

Ok, first of all.  I have to say, that the 16 year old in me is freaking out about Benji Madden & Cameron Diaz being engaged. Not only because I intensely dislike when people of mismatched heights hook up/date/marry/stand next to one another, but because it’s Benji Madden. Good f*cking Charlotte!


Blah blah blah be happy for people in love yadda yadda yadda. Whatever. I don’t need to pretend here. This pairing makes no sense for 2014. 2003? Yes. 2014?  No. Ugh. What am I saying. I love when mismatchers get together. I love when people don’t understand love. I don’t get it, but I love that I don’t get it.


Did you hear Selena Gomez lost her shit at T-Swift’s 25th birthday? I love it. I imagine she was drinking.

You’ve been this girl. I’ve been this girl. We’ve all been this girl. Sometimes I’m STILL this girl. *ahem* last Christmas. You’re out, celebrating with your friends, you get on your phone, see something on social media, have a little too much white wine and all of a sudden you’re crying in a bathroom. It happens. Shrug it off. You’re a young millionaire. You probably don’t have any STI’s yet, GO NUTS.


What else…what else….

Britney’s Women’s Health Magazine!


To be honest, I’m just glad it looks like Britney showered…on her own…without a nurse present. She looks the best I’ve seen her in years. That nose contouring? Flawless. I’m always envious because I feel like at certain times my nose looks like a penis, so I’m a huge fan of this look. (PS, If you’re ever bored and want to feel good about yourself, search #makeuptransformation or #beforeandafter on Instagram).




I don’t want to talk shit about Brit, just because she’s a childhood staple, but I’m happy she’s looking coherent, lucid and healthy. Those hip tats, though. A reminder to us all that the tattoos we choose in our youth….are something we need to live with until we can afford to have them removed.

I used to go to the video store, rent Britney Spears concert DVD’s and do crunches in front of the television. Then things kind of went South for BritBrit and the whole time I kept thinking, “We will overcome! We will prevail!” and it’s taken…seven years but we finally did it! She’s back!



Weekend roundup (plus a pep talk from me to you)

Oh, Saturday!

Oh, Sunday!

You love me and leave me like a cheap hooker.

My weekend was jam-packed and today I’ve made yet ANOTHER vow to cut out the junk food, get on the treadmill and somehow have some much needed quiet time.

It all started with a lovely double date to Memphis Fire BBQ, a restaurant that made it on the Food Network show, You’ve Gotta Eat Here. Now, you should know I’m the pickiest eater in the entire world. I order the same thing whenever I’m out for dinner: Greek salad, with chicken, no olives.


I gained three pounds from this one meal. Three. Pounds. All from ranch fries and jerk chicken. I spent the rest of the evening curled up in the fetal position willing my food baby to disappear.


Beware the FITspiration: The new and dangerous era for female body image

I’m fairly candid about my struggles with body image and the fact that I’ve spent a majority of my life living with an eating disorder. Because of my past, I’m hypersensitive to any images and messages in advertisements, pop culture and the media that would have been (and sometimes still are) triggers for me to feel some sort shame for my body.

Everyday I’m sifting  through my thoughts. I’ll look at images in magazines, on blogs and social media, and even at the women around me and break down my knee-jerk negative thoughts from what I rationally believe to be true.


Me: Oh look, the new issue of Cosmo.


Initial reaction:

F*ck you, Megan Fox.

I’ll never be that thin or beautiful. Ugh. No wonder everyone thinks she’s beautiful. Look at her! You know who didn’t think I was beautiful? Billy, Timmy, Robbie and Sammy. I bet if I looked like Megan Fox they would have liked me.

Eff you, Cosmo. Eff you in the face.

(Proceeds to buy magazine)

Revision 1: Yes, Megan Fox is beautiful, but this image has probably been photoshopped and  there’s a whole glam team of professionals working on her hair and make-up, telling her which way to pose.

Revision 2: I’m sure Megan Fox has her own insecurities, just like I’m sure if I  had a team of people working on me I’d be unrecognizable and photoshopped on the cover of a magazine, too.

Usually this process goes on for the next hour, until I’ve talked myself out of hating Megan Fox for her genetics and Cosmo for feeding me an oversexed Hollywood version of beauty.

I end up accepting that all of what I’ve seen is unattainable because none of it is actually real; it was all smoke and mirrors.

Confession time

Years ago when I was in the middle of my eating disorder I used to visit  websites for ‘thinspiration’ or ‘thinspo’ as it was called on Tumblr. Whenever I felt hungry or ugly (and that was all the time) I’d visit these sites for motivation to keep losing weight. I was hooked. I would look at thigh gaps, ab muscles, visible rib cages. It was very twisted and unhealthy of me, but these sites and pages dedicated to thinspo were everywhere.

Cut to 2014 and I’ve got a brand new problem without any way to filter my negative thoughts.

It’s been years since I’ve looked at thinspo and I’m at a point in my life where I’m eating healthfully, but the fitness component just isn’t there. Weight wise, I’m average and healthy, but I’m not working out or moving my body as much as I should considering I sit at a desk for 8 hours a day.

I started moving more, eating new foods and I even turned to Instagram and tried following some pages dedicated to fitness, exercise and healthy eating hoping to get some tips and motivation.

After a few weeks (yes weeks, I’ve got better shit to do) of ‘Fitspiration’ or ‘fitspo’  (fitness inspiration) I was noticing a disturbing trend:

Fitspo and Thinspo are the exact same thing.

I Googled “Thinspo”



I Googled “Fitspo”


Poor girl left her flat iron plugged in while she was at the gym.

Thigh gaps – check

Ab muscles – check

Visible rib-cage – check

My brain was scrambling. “Fit” for me, used to mean athletic and healthy regardless of body shape. Fit today basically means “I’m skinny but I work out to be this skinny .”

I scrolled through some pages, looking for different body types aside from the super slim, toned and tanned physique of fitspo/thinspo and I found it in the form of the super jacked, body building, bulky muscle woman ( totally cool, but not my cup of tea).

There were accounts from women all over the world who work out, have jobs, supposedly eat cookies, post untouched photos where they’re wearing ‘no make-up’ and quite frankly they were so beautiful they were making Katy Perry look like day old hamburger meat. Everyday there was a new photo or post of perfect bodies, working out, telling me what they’ve eaten, telling me how ‘motivated’ they are and I was feeling worse, and worse about myself.  I tried to reason with myself and sift through my thoughts like I always do with commercial images and advertisements but I was failing against the insecure part of me that felt like an ashamed chunkamunk.

There were no make-up teams and glam squads. These were real people.

True, I COULD dedicate all that time to exercise and completely makeover my body. But even if I did, what if I never looked as thin as these people online who were apparently my fitsperation?  Would I feel like a failure?



When did fit become the new skinny? Is the fitness craze just  an acceptable way to promote the ultra-thin body type that used to be achievable by consuming nothing but coffee and cigarettes?

Why is it that no matter what we do or how many times we preach to each other about body acceptance and body diversity , the super thin and now apparently fit body type remain the most coveted?  You may be someone who loves curves and doesn’t subscribe to this one form of fit/healthy, but the reality is that a majority people still consider this image to be desirable not only for themselves, but for a partner.

After all my years of dealing with my body issues I feel like we’ve entered a new and dangerous era for women and the female form in western society. No longer are we meant to strive for the unattainable, we’re meant to believe everything and anything is attainable, if  only we work hard enough.

This means we work out more, we eat less, we spend more on gym memberships and activewear, we buy extensions for fuller hair, we glue crap on our eye lashes, we try make-up tips that we saw online, we can paint on our eyebrows and cheat fuller lips. We can look like the unattainable image we’ve been shown on magazines and billboards, but we’ll be even happier because we did it ourselves, no photoshop needed!

This is my dilemma and I hope I’m not alone in feeling this simultaneous hopelessness and anger about how these ridiculous  expectations for women and beauty continue to exist despite all of the strides we’ve made in the past 50 years.

Are you someone who looks at Fitpiration?

Tell me your thoughts about how we can combat this unhealthy fitspo and what you do to silence your insecurity monster when you know she’s spouting bullshit!







*I’m sure Megan Fox is a lovely person

*I know the solution for me would be to ‘buck up’ or ‘shrug it off’ but as a person with a tendency to take things to heart, this is an issue that deeply worries me. All of these, if seen through someone’s eyes who’s vulnerable, insecure and sensitive, are triggers for unhealthy behaviours that can lead to years of body hate and unhealthy eating habits. Despite me being over my own issues (for the most part) I worry that we haven’t done enough to protect the next generation and even our current generation of females from this one dimensional portrayal of beauty.

* Rant over

* Naturally skinny women, you know I love you. Don’t feel excluded or targeted. I’m just talking about cheating genetics.

* Ok, I’m done for real.