Who doesn’t miss the days of bootcut jeans and pumps, really? Together they were the lower-half equivalent of a going out top yet their versatility won them points in every properly stocked closet. The bootcut jean/pump combo paired just as well with a fancy blouse as they did with a ribbed calculator tank (named for its marvelous ability to display exactly what percentage of angel or devil its wearer was). Like Talledega Nights’ Cal Naughton Junior’s description of baby Jesus in a tuxedo t-shirt, bootcut jeans and pumps signified that its wearer was formal, but here to party.
Which just so happen to be my uniform, life motto and the message I carried with me during my extensive Mean Girls diet.
With a bachelorette trip to Miami on the end-of-week horizon, my first order of business was to develop what Fran Lebowitz might describe as an “audible tan” (see Lindsay Lohan circa 2004/my driver’s license photo circa 2006) so that no one asks me why I’m so white. The second order of business: lose three pounds.
What’s the easiest way to lose three pounds?
Kalteen bars, butter-carbs and cranberry cocktail, of course. Add vodka* and there you have what some collegiate coeds might call a balanced meal. I tried to call it dinner and ended up getting cheese fries instead.
*Do not add alcohol if you’re under 21. Unless you want some in which case I prefer you do it in the house.
We have a new writer on the team, Haley, whose name you may recognize from the story whereby she turned Zappos into her personal assistant. She’s like, really pretty but also such a martian so I made her a map of the office for navigation’s sake.
After Haley got situated and Ms. Norbury confused her with another girl from Michigan, I tried to find a friend with a Lexus to pick me up to go shopping. My rating on Uber is currently super low, though, so the wait time was forever and I gave up. Boo.
Actually, like the second day of any diet, Tuesday was a struggle: I woke up with fat calves, man shoulders, a weird hairline, huge pores, sucky nail beds and bad breath despite a PM floss — similar results to juicing. (Raise your hand if you’ve ever felt personally victimized by a juice cleanse.) Sweatpants were the only thing that fit me. My carpal tunnel came back. I was frustrated that my story would be a failure and mad that I literally did not know one person whose mom had enough chest hair for me to make a wig. My own mom doesn’t even have a velour track suit or a boob job. What the hell, Sheila?
But then I realized that I was forgetting one of the biggest takeaways of Mean Girls: Brutus is just as cute as Ceaser, first cousins are the same thing as unnumbered cousins and the limit does not exist.
The limit does not exist!
If Gretchen Weiners could make “fetch” happen (think about it: 12 years later and we’re still referencing the word) then I could do this.
I’m a pusher, you guys. Not a quitter. I also have ESPN.
Say it with me, you guys: on Wednesdays we wear…
Pink. Except I don’t own anything pink. Luckily, Damian AKA Leandra brought me this polo. Here I am on the phone making a three-way-attack-call; I learn a lot of secrets this way so I do one any time my hair needs some extra volume.
Other things that happened: Leandra lifted the ban on hoop earrings and I broke ice with a guy on Bumble by asking what day it was. He didn’t write back? Figured we’re not on a “hair looks sexy pushed back” level yet, although legit two other guys who I complimented (even though I was lying) responded immediately and suggested making out in the projection room above the auditorium.
Note to self to try: update dating app profile to include Coach Carr’s sex theories to weed out any creeps “just looking for a good time.”
By Thursday I was really hoping to have captured a friend making out with a hot dog. No such luck but I guess that bodes really well for my friends. Speaking of friends, look at this cute TBT I found from two-thousand-and-freaking-eleven of Leandra and Abie. Read the caption.
And speaking of love, want to hear a funny story? Leandra leaves bowls of sundries out at her apartment like a grandma. They’re usually boring, but one day I came over to find a rare treat: Jordan almonds! I started eating them until she got pissed because they were gifted as good luck charms for pregnancy. Unlike Cady Heron who nearly broke the fertility vase of the Ndebele tribe with her quest for popularity, this edible mishap did mean something to me. So I apologized then trust-fell into her arms.
Obviously she dropped me.
On Thursday after work I had to try on bridesmaid dresses for a September wedding. Bridesmaid dress shopping is super boring so I asked to try on an actual wedding dress instead, because why not, right? Glen Cocoa, the original YOLO, would have told me to go for it, so I did:
I’m an “ex wife.” Get it? (Or did I scare you?)
Finally! With the diet finished and zero pounds lost all I had to do was pack for Miami which has nothing to do with Mean Girls and everything to do with army pants and flip flips. (I fully intend to show up at the club tonight and have someone notice that I do not, in fact, “go” here.) After walking around Soho with nipple areas of my tank top cut out, however — see slideshow above — I feel confident that I can withstand anything, including the kind of hangover sure to arrive Saturday morning that I’m already predicting will feel like getting hit by a giant yellow bus.
But before I get temporarily banned from your lunch table (sorry again for wearing the vest) I leave you with this…
God I love you kids. You keep me young.
Collage by Emily Zirimis.