You know I have a thick skin -- I love making fun of virtue signaling, regressive feminism, whiny little babies, and social justice warriors.
But I canNOT stand the disgusting rape song that is "Baby, It's Cold Outside." When it comes on, I literally wait outside until the song is over.
Last Saturday, as I was writing my review of Broadway by the Bay's Into the Woods, an episode of Malcolm Gladwell's Revisionist History began playing. Within seconds, I was able to summarize the entire episode in a few sentences:
"They're going to say that Olympic silver medalists feel worse than bronze medalists, because silver medalists upward social compare ('I could have been the best in the world, but I'm not,') and bronze medalists downward social compare ('I'm so happy I got a medal!')."
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Let me start by saying that I love you. I love that you want to be there for me. I love that you're showing concern for my health and recovery. It means so much.
But can I just, real quick, tell you what my mornings have been like since my injury?
"All disease," some antivaxxing dumbass who, apparently, is writing a book about his amazing perspective and incredible life experiences, "comes from a toxic mindset and bad lifestyle choices."
"Right," I replied. "And the woman who runs marathons and does yoga every day and eats kale who still gets cancer...?"
"There is something wrong in her mind. Maybe she has a bad marriage or something."
Yesterday, I wrote about how there's a difference between helping a depressed friend and enabling an abuser. My intention was to inform those whose friends suffer from mental illness to be compassionate... but remember to think critically about your actions and the effects they may have on your friend and his/her partner.
Today, I'm writing a quick reminder to those who are, or may be, affected by mental illness:
Your partner is not your emotional slave.
My background is in psychology -- but not abnormal or relationship psychology. (I studied adult playfulness!) I want to acknowledge that before I start, because this is far from my area of expertise.
But I just saw some of THE MOST FUCKED UP SHIT on Facebook, and it prompted an important realization:
There is a difference between helping a depressed friend and enabling an abuser.
I mean, if I can skate to a party in a dress and heels at an age I'm not willing to admit, can't your kids propel their own skateboards?
Contrary to Obnoxious Stereotypes, The Victoria's Secret Fashion Show Makes Me Feel Good About Myself.
Victoria's Secret's CEO, Jan Singer, is stepping down -- and Forbes speculates it may be connected to rival brand ThirdLove's open letter in the New York Times about inclusion.
Singer, a female CEO, will be replaced John Mehas. (I don't mean to "assume his gender," but I'm pretty sure he's a dude -- I thought it was cool when a lingerie company had a woman at the helm.)
I'm not sure what this means for the future of VS... but part of me is worried about the future of the Victoria's Secret and its fashion show.
Manners are great -- when appropriate.
But there is a time and a place for everything.
Something major happens on the first day of October (and, sometimes, the first day of September) every year:
The menu at your favorite coffee shop changes. Just a little. But it is a very big deal.
About the Author
Eva is a content specialist with a passion for play, travel... and a little bit of girl power. Read more >
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