27 Things I Learned During My 27th Year

I turn 28 this Saturday. 28. That’s late twenties. Not mid twenties or early twenties — that is fucking late as fuck late twenties and two years closer to 30 in case you’re bad at math.

But, ya know, even though it slightly terrifies me to be entering a new, later phase of life, I’m ready. I really am. Because, as I’ve lamented countless times on this thing I call my blog, the 20s are the worst. They just are. They’re full of misdirection, misunderstandings, and miscommunication and, I feel like by turning 28, I can almost taste the more overt “IDGAF” M.O. of the your 30s. And damn, it tastes good.

200

However, I always enjoy looking back on years I survive and analyzing them. It’s a fun way to applaud good things that happened and try harder to suppress bad things that happened. So here are 27 things I learned from being 27 for the last 300 and however many days.

1. Being fired is actually the worst.

2. Looking for a new job with no prospects on the horizon is worst than the worst.

3. But, when the smoke clears, and you are gainfully employed again, being fired is the best thing that ever happened to you.

4. Most websites that take “contributing writers” and want “different” and “super creative” ideas are just looking for click bait like the rest of them.

5. If you want something done right and on your time, do it yourself. The only person who actually understands and is willing to meet your expectations is you. Most people you try to involve are idiots or are running on a completely different schedule than you.

6. Spiralized vegetables can be really good, and boy do they facilitate weight loss. That is, until you buckle within the same week and eat pasta and gain it back.

7. Speaking of, losing weight at age 27 is virtually impossible. Over the past few years, I went from working in a very body-conscious, unspoken yet very competitive fashion environment to working in advertising (AKA the exact opposite of the just described). Being surrounded by mainly male coworkers, drinking free agency beer, and going out to lunches all the time took its toll on me — i.e. I gained some weight. 13 pounds to be exact(ish). Yeah, I know. I’m not a big girl, I’m not overweight to the naked eye. But for me personally, I finally hit a point where most of my clothes weren’t zipping or buttoning, and I felt comfortable in nothing but stretch jeans and oversized sweaters (I still feel the most comfortable in those, but you know what I’m saying). So, finally, I buckled down and this time is for a lifetime (I hope). I stopped making excuses, realized it was gonna take some serious gym effort and even more serious food effort (UGH), and just did the damn thing. Er *am doing the damn thing. And, guys… it’s harder than shit. I mean, it’s terrible if I’m being brutally honest. Eating this well, and working out, and watching calories intently, and saying no to free work donuts, and subbing a side salad for fries is SO DEPRESSING. If the results showed up faster maybe I’d be more okay with it, but the less you have to lose (13 pounds isn’t a lot in the grand scheme of life, but feels like 100 to me), the slower this stuff goes and it’s awful. I don’t have a super happy ending to this item on my list. I mean, I think I’ve lost maybe five pounds and I can wear all my jeans again, so that’s wonderful. But I have a lot more work to do for myself, and the road less-traveled is full of quinoa and vegetables and not a lot of dessert and rediscovering my taste for vodka over beer. BALLS.

Screen Shot 2015-03-31 at 10.56.33 AM

8. “Gilmore girls” is one of the greatest television shows ever because it’s so bad in so many ways, but also so perfect in so many ways, resulting in a harmonious ying-yang thing at the end of the day and of each episode.

9. In the working world, it’s best to follow the same rules as romantic relationships: Don’t show your true self until you’re three months in, then release the crazy completely around six months.

10. Indigestion and heart burn is real and it’s not spectacular.

11. If you think you’ve lost something, like an actual personal object, have someone else look for it because panicked eyes never spot it (personal example: Thought I lost my car keys this past weekend and walked by them four times before my boyfriend calmly walked right over to them and said “Here they are”).

12. Cottage cheese, I don’t think, is something you learn to like. From day one, you either do or you don’t. That being said, I don’t.

13. If you’re dating a nice man, he will go out of his way to give you a compliment while also trying to make observations about you. Example: “Are your boobs fitter?” “…What? Can boobs be fitter?” “I don’t know. They seem fitter.” “You mean smaller? They’re smaller because of working out?” “Hmm, yeah! I guess that’s it!” ……. I can’t. 

14. Be nice to people; you never know if someone has to make a 30-60 minute commute to and from work every day.

15. People who don’t require sugar in their coffee are cool and seem to have their shit together more than the average caffeine drinker. So, in an effort to cut back on sugar in general and take my coffee like a man, I am now totally off sugar in coffee and rely on hazelnut creamer to get the job done. I learned that I can quit shit, so that’s fun.

16. I don’t do the whole “sitting on an exercise ball while you work” thing. I tried yesterday and lasted 10 minutes.

IMG_7066

17. I struggle off and on with how I don’t have a core group of girlfriends. Like a large group of them. I see things on social media and I get down, but usually snap out of it pretty quickly. Because one thing I definitely took away after this 27th year of my life, is that it truly is quality over quantity. If you have two or three really fucking solid friendships — like girls you talk to every single day, know everything about, and never hesitate to spill your guts to — you’re luckier than most. It’s fun to parade around in troupes, of course. But it isn’t realistic. Not really. Too many boobs all the time = a lot of drama or a lot of strippers.

18. It’s more normal than not to have a stash of baby wipes on hand and not even bother hiding them.

97bea5051460bee024eba896054fdfee87627e5e2a9cc9d217cfb90b364defac

19. Having a credit card that earns you airline miles with each purchase is smart AF. Do it then come fly somewhere with me and my 90K American Airline miles, what?!?!?!??? Thanks, ASOS/XXI/Tobi/Piperlime/Target/The grocery store/Various boutiques/Omg I hate myself.

20. I’m not a tea person. Shrug. I’ve tried — I even bought a couple Yogi flavors and a special ceramic tea mug that has been sitting on my desk with tea residue from when I last used it in January…

21. Lauren Lapkus is God’s gift to comedy. I’m sorry. I know I’ve written about her before and my love for her might be annoying or obsessive, but I DON’T FUCKING CARE EVEN AT ALL. One of her latest podcast episodes (With Special Guest Lauren Lapkus) made me laugh so hard yesterday on my drive home, I seriously almost had to pull my car over because I couldn’t see through my tears of laughter. I was thinking to myself, too, “Why hasn’t SNL snatched her up?” But then I was like, “Nah. She’s too good for that. She clearly wants to make a name for herself on her terms and by doing solo work, and so I love her even more now for that.” YOU’RE THE BEEZ KNEEZ, LAUREN.

22. If someone’s desperate enough for a beer that they’ll settle for Blue Moon, question their character.

23. No one’s watching you at the gym. Get over yourself. Literally, no one cares if your stomach is sticking out a little, or you make a weird grunting noise, or if you’ve somehow managed to sweat through your shirt AND pants. Everyone there is already too worried about themselves to worry about you, too. Just DO YOU.

24. If someone as ill-equipped as me can learn how to accomplish an at-home smoky eye look, you can, too. Now I know how! I also re-learned the importance of eyeshadow primer — attempting to work without it is fruitless and straight ignorant.

25. There is always something cheaper than what you’re considering spending money on. Look on Amazon. Check Retail Me Not for coupons. DO YOUR RESEARCH* (*maybe have your mom do the research for you if you’re bad at doing research and she likes doing research anyway).

26. Describing someone’s look as “rapey” will be big in 2015. Refer back to this post when I’m right.

27. The 27th thing I learned while I was 27 is that shit doesn’t happen overnight. Not with weight loss, success, recognition for anything you do, NADA. Always be your biggest champion because, like I said earlier in this post, people are dumb and don’t have your back when you need them to unless it’s your Jewish mother who is literally never not there. 

Here’s to another year!

xox,

emma

7 Embarrassing Grooming Products Most Girls Have But Don’t Want To Talk About

The sentiment “Beauty is pain” has been rephrased 100 times by 100 women, but I think we can all agree it was best represented the day Beyoncé and her staff of writers sat down to pen the lyrics to “**Flawless.” It’s like they knew how perfectly ironic it would be for one of the most sought-after and effortlessly beautiful women in the world to sing the phrase, “I woke up like dis.” Because everyone knows no one has ever woken up like that without the help of a seemingly never-ending arsenal of beauty products.

BeyoncePrettyHurts4

If a girl so chooses, being hairless, blemish-less, and faultless (from a distance) takes dedication and the willingness to perhaps buy grooming tools and beautification products she otherwise would’ve never thought twice about. The general public is privy to the obvious ones (i.e. tweezers, standard razors, pumice stones), but what about the under-the-radar ones? The ones we don’t want to admit to nor talk about unless you’re our BFFAEAE, and even then…

Face razors.

Yeah, I said it. Razors that are specifically made for YOUR FACE. Now, I personally do not have firsthand experience with this. No, really. I don’t. But I have known some ladies who use them, and it’s a real thing. Look, getting things lasered off permanently is wonderful, but it’s not typically within our peer group’s price range, unless a particular peer is a trust fund baby or incredible with saving money or has a really wealthy sugar daddy who won’t love her until she’s completely hairless. Some girls are born with misguided facial hair, and if they so choose, they are desperate to take care of it. So, instead of using the same razor they use on their ‘pits and legs for their precious complexion, they buy speciality face shavers. Random chin hairs, overly fuzzy cheeks, even an uncharacteristically bountiful collection of nose hairs — nothing is off-limits with the right face razor. Sorry, fellas. It was harder for some of us to evolve from apes than others. Deal with it.

Butt hole wipes.

I don’t care what no one says, after a certain age (25+), if you claim you don’t own a package of “wet wipes” that live in your bathroom, you’re LYING. Baby wipes are the best thing that have ever happened for the cosmetic compilation, IMO. Not only do they get the job done when toilet paper just cannot handle you right now, but they also sub-in for a bevy of other situations. Take for example, the “Whore’s Bath.” All girls are familiar with this, and if they aren’t, I don’t want to know them. When you either don’t have time to shower or just simply don’t want to, you put stock in the Whore’s Bath covering your trail of filth. This pseudo shower includes a large amount of perfume, seconds of deodorant, and of course, BABY WIPES. Wipe down your vagina, your armpits, even behind your ears or the parts of your back you can reach without straining muscles. When it comes to being lazy or in a hurry, baby wipes are a girl’s best friend — not diamonds.

Pubic hair trimmers.

Specifically designed to style and contain even the unruliest of situations, pubic hair trimmers are a widely-owned and widely kept secret… until now. One of my friend’s has hers hidden inside a bag, inside a box, inside another box, and stashed on the highest shelf in the home she shares with her boyfriend. Me? Same idea, but I don’t live with my boyfriend. I just like to know it’s hidden well and up high. Now, some of you may be thinking “Who has that much pubic hair anymore? It’s 2015!” Don’t be confused. This trimmer is not made for 70’s bushes. It’s made for the remainder of ladies out there who don’t particularly like their crotch looking like a hairless, baby infant, so they choose to keep a finely-tuned, sexual landing strip. And, in order to accomplish the latter, a grooming tool made specifically for this ballgame was born. They even come in pink.

Scissors.

If you find a pair of scissors chillin’ in a girl’s bathroom, don’t be alarmed. She could’ve just been cutting tags off new clothing, but chances are that’s not at all what she was doing with them. Girls use scissors in the grooming process in endless ways: impromptu bang trim-ups, random split end eradication, and for the activity mentioned above in the case they have not yet committed to the real deal (i.e. legitimate pubic hair trimmers). Scissors are a very real solution for a multitude of beautification/grooming problems and that’s the hard truth.

Butt acne cream.

Oh what? You didn’t know it’s a thing? Because it is. That exact name is an actual product and is actually designated only for your butt cheeks and its pimples. Because, guess what? Butts get pimples, it’s true. Ever workout? Butts sweat and sweat enclosed in hot, wet places is basically a pimple’s safe haven. A wet butt cheek trapped underneath knock-off lululemon spandex workout pants is a breeding ground for some of the nastiest zits this side of the Mississippi. Clearly, it’s an issue since literal “BUTT ACNE CREAM” was made to combat it. Yes, I own some and no, I’m not ashamed. I’d rather be actively sweating my ass off while it sprouts annoying pimples than, ya know, whatever the alternative is.

Bleaching cream.

Any girl with dark hair should know what I’m talking about. No matter your background — be it Jewish, Italian, Lebanese, totally white but just hairy AF — bleaching cream should be in your arsenal if it isn’t already. Some of us were introduced to our BFF “Jolene” at a very young age; depressingly, our own mothers took one look at our newly sprouting ape-like arm or upper lip hair, and decided to help us out maybe a little earlier than is healthy for a young girl’s developing mental health. Some of us (the more unfortunate of the group) had no f*cking clue what “bleach cream” was until they had already suffered through their adolescence, walking around with legitimate peach fuzz and forearm hair that somehow braided itself. Sure, you can get any and all hair waxed off, of course. But when it begins growing back in (and it will), mustache and arm hair is way more obvious than, say, regrowing pubic hair. You can hide your private area easily, but finding ways to mask your regurgitating upper lip hair until you can make it back for your next wax is a lot more difficult. Therefore, BLEACH. Bleach is the answer. Yes, it tickles/burns sometimes, but that’s only when you’ve let your hair get to astronomically ridiculous dark stages. Slather that stuff on and watch in bewilderment as you experience what it’s like to be a blonde for a few weeks (or just one week if you’re super hairy).

FullSizeRender (2)

Facetune.

It’s an app. It’s the poor and on-the-go man’s Photoshop. And it. Is. Everything. Didn’t have time to bleach that stache, shave that cheek, or cover every single PMS-provoked blemish on your otherwise gorgeous face? No worries. Facetune will take care of all that for you, for the low price of maybe just a sliver of your dignity. Make your eyes pop, smooth out the horrific bags under your eyes, and even clear food stains off your blouse (slob). Just don’t get too extreme with the “reshaping” tool and try to shrink yourself by 10 pounds. I’ve seen far too many Facetuners try to pull this off, resulting in Beyoncé Photoshop fail levels of swirly, misshaped benches and staircases. I SEE YOU RESHAPING, GIRL. I SEE YOU.

Now, go. Go do all the disgustingly weird things we have to do to “wake up like ‘dis.” Queen B would want you to.

The No Bullsh*t List Of What Makes A Best Friend A Best Friend

I want you to take a second or 60 to sit where you are, right now in this moment, and really think about your best friends. Think about whomever you’ve labeled as one of your “besties” and get them lined up in your mind, because we’re about to pick them apart.

As a female, I know all too-well the urgency with which girls can make proclamations about “new best friends” and “BFFAEAEAEAE.” Girls by their very nature are contradictory creatures, being both catty and easily excitable about other girls. So, when we meet a new friend who seems legit, we’re quick to become her #1 cheerleader, invite her to girls’ brunches, and tell her our deepest darkest secrets, thusly claiming best friendship far too quickly.

However, as you grow up and subsequently grow more skeptical of humans in general, this changes. You realize there are very specific truths that earn someone the “best friend” label. After a certain age, you no longer throw the term around casually — you’ve been through enough fair-weather friendships to know what actually constitutes a best friendship. And it’s the following:

You’ve seen each other naked multiple times.

No, like, naked naked. Like, you can describe each other’s areolas from memory and know how one another’s pubic hair is stylized. You guys got over the shyness of getting unclothed in front of the other years ago and haven’t thought about it since. It’s not erotica — it’s just your boobs, and TBH, you’d much rather not have to awkwardly hold them from view and suffer the inevitable, even more awkward nipple slip while trying on multiple outfits in front of her. Time is money, and sometimes you’ve gotta shamelessly strip down to nothing in order to get your bestie’s opinion.

Monica-and-Rachel-monica-and-rachel-31741533-270-169

She knows your actual weight/pant size/waist measurement and you know hers.

“Don’t let a number define you,” they say. Well, in a surface-level society such as ours, that’s damn near impossible. So do the majority of women let these numbers bother them? You bet your ass. And, since women need solid female friends to complain about their bothers to, only the truest of best friends are trusted with the real numbers. That way, they can throw you a mini text-party clad with an array of emojis when you lose one pound or can fit into that one pair of size (fill in the blank) jeans again. Duh.

The pictures you send each other are disgusting.

Neither of you are perfect, and you own it — but only with each other, really. No one else can know how gross you can be except for your best best friends. Pictures of close-up pimples, in-dire-need-of-a-wax mustaches, random body hairs… pretty much nothing is off-limits when it comes to sharing your true, disgusting selves with each other. Sure, you’ve both overstepped boundaries a few times, making the other dry heave or genuinely think “Wow, she is nasty.” But you got over it.

lorelai-sookie-040

They know you. Like, really know you.

Every psychotic, dramatic, irrational, vacillating thought that goes through your mind? They know about it. Not only because you tell them every single one of these thoughts (what’s this “filter” they speak of? because you don’t have one), but because they just know how insane you truly are. They’re well aware that you might feel one way this day and the opposite way the next – it’s who you are and they’ve accepted that. You two have said some of the weirdest, most fucked up things to one another about life in general, revealing dark, twisted, and uncomfortably strange sides of your personalities and guess what? You’re still as close as you are. That’s gotta count for something.

You can be honest.

Even the bluntest people sometimes have a rough go with being completely honest with close friends or family. Sure, you can shit talk a celebrity’s dress choice or make a Facebook status about a current event without a second thought, but when it comes to standing in front of another living, breathing human, looking them in the eyes, and being completely truthful about whatever they’ve just asked you, shit gets real. Of course, with your best friend, this isn’t an issue. Even if you one of you fibs upfront, it’s 100% guaranteed that you’ll come clean within the hour or day. “Hey, you know earlier when you asked me if I liked your new dress and I said I do? Well, I don’t. It’s not flattering at all and you can do so much better.” You see, true best friends aren’t in competition with one another. Unlike acquaintances or, in some instances, frienemies who are keeping each other close for shitty reasons, we don’t feel threatened by our best friend’s beauty — in fact, we want to celebrate it. We’re looking out for one another’s best interest, so we’re not about to boldface lie to each other in order to protect feelings. We want you to look your prettiest, excel the hardest, and feel your best both mentally and physically. This is a NO LIE zone.

The Golden Globe Awards - Season 2013

Your communication is sometimes non-verbal.

One time, during a brunch with friends, I randomly locked eyes with my best friend and thought to myself “Please ask me what’s wrong later when we’re alone.” Guess what? She did, completely unprompted. A best fucking friend can read you like a book (a book with larger font and a few pictures throw in, though). With just one subtle, passing moment of eye contact, she knows something’s up and she needs to inquire about it later. Same goes for texting or gchatting — with a few messages, she can smell your mood through the computer or phone screen. Within two responses, she’ll be like “What’s wrong?” and you’ll marvel at how amazing y’all’s relationship truly is.

You’re seriously in love with her.

Not romantic love, but real, true, unconditional love. And I’m not talking about the type of love where, within five seconds and three vodka sodas of meeting a new friend, you’re like “OMG I LOVE YOU!” I’m talking about imagining your life without this friend sends you into a fit of panic. Picturing an existence in which you used to have this friend but don’t anymore is pretty much the most horrible situation ever. Because you truly love your best friends. You love their personality, you love hearing about their seemingly mundane, day-to-day lives, you love when your phone goes off 48 times in a row because of the group text you’re all chattering on (unless you’re in one of those anti-group text moods and contemplate drowning your phone in the toilet). About twice a year, how much you love and appreciate your best friend overwhelms you almost to the point of tears (usually around one of your really bad periods), and you make a point of telling her you love her. And she probably tears up about it, too. Because hoes before bros and chicks before dicks, unless the dick is hot and it’s been a while. In that case, she’ll forgive you because, after all, she is your BFFAEAEAEAEAE.

giphy

xox,

emma

Here Are The Reasons Why I Love Dallas

I didn’t grow up in Dallas. Well, sort of. See if you can follow me here — I did and I didn’t. 

Until the age of 10, I was a Connecticutian. Yes, it’s true. I was thisclose to a “Gilmore girls” type of lifestyle, minus the small, quaint, everyone-loves-everyone type of town and plus the snotty, unfriendly, and surprisingly melting pot culture (but that may have been the public school scene alone). It wasn’t until I had chopped all my hair off into a pixie cut in the 4th grade and was on the edge of a full mental breakdown from the incessant bullying that my family learned we were making the move to Dallas, Texas. It was the most out-of-the-box, foreign relocation I had ever heard of, but I was more than ready to pack my things (see: pogs, face glitter, and Limited Too outfits) and GTFO out of Stamford forever.

It took me a loooooong time to fall in love with Dallas. Partly because I grew up in the suburbs up north, which are very far removed from Dallas proper and full of money so new, it’s still covered in placenta. But also because something inside of me, call it my “Yankee” roots, just did not want to love it. I didn’t want to be a Texan. It sounded southern and rednecky and just, gross. When I left the south to head up the map to Kansas for college, I felt nothing leaving Texas behind. Of course, most school mates and inquiring strangers alike (i.e. nosey sales associates, family friends) could not figure out why the hell I was going to KU. When the majority of your graduating class remains within Texas or travels a safe distance to school in Oklahoma, taking it a step further to the literal middle of the USA in Lawrence, Kansas confuses the piss out of people. 

And, even when I had graduated college and moved back home, I still didn’t like Dallas or  plan to stay here long. I viewed returning to the town from whence you came to start “real life” was pathetic and a clear sign of failure. I came back to Dallas in August 2009 and have been moving to Chicago/New York/Denver/LA/Seattle ever since. I’m still here, though. Catch my drift?

photo c/o Dallas Wardrobe

photo c/o Dallas Wardrobe

It wasn’t until this past year, after I went through a tumultuous six months of unemployment, applying for jobs in all the aforementioned places and receiving absolutely zero feedback or bites that finally, finally, I woke up and realized “Hey. Being in Dallas isn’t half bad. Maybe I should stop trying so hard to leave it, and just embrace it for once.” And I have.

Dallas is way cooler than outsiders think. It’s like a super small Chicago in that it’s pretty damn clean for being a big city, and it’s easily navigated.

Dallas is also trying really hard to up its outdoorsy game. We may not have something as awesome as Austin’s Greenbelt, but we’re trying to make better on what we do have. It started by building a damn park over a massive highway, and followed that with tearing up one of its most beloved dog parks near White Rock Lake in order to totally revamp it (although, the fact that it won’t be ready until May kills me).

Dallas has a lot of bleach blonde, anorexic, pearl donning, aristocrat snobs populating its more higher-end streets, it’s true. But what makes this city so great is that, for every one of these “typical Dallas” girls you spot, you’re sure to spot a completely tatted up, chain-smoking, hipster right behind her. 

Dallas is an unexpected mashup of Stepford housewives in training and a constantly on-the-rise alternative scene, both within miles of each other. And I love that. 

Dallas’s food scene? I mean, C’MON. Almost weekly, I’m either sending or sent an article about a new restaurant opening near me. Grilled cheese sandwiches, cheap burgers and beer, restaurants decked out to remind you of your school days and give you anxiety with menus designed on scantrons? There is no shortage of creative culinary artists in these here parts, AND I LOVE IT.

Dallas is livable. You can find one-bedroom apartments under $1K that aren’t complete dumps, or you can pay more to live bigger. Sure, it’s still expensive to many peoples’ standards, but looking at the bigger picture wherein you pay the same price to SHARE an apartment with 3-4 other people in California or New York, it’s not so bad. Many living quarters here come equipped with yards, designated parking spots, personal washers and dryers and even pools. Getting all this and still being able to buy Chipotle for dinner at least once a week is what I consider a win.

Dallas loves fashion. We’ve been made fun of for only being able to turn to Neiman Marcus as our highest level of couture, but that’s bull crap. Have you been to Highland Park Village? More than that, the fashion blogger scene here has exploded. Lauren Scruggs (now Mrs. Jason Kennedy), Dallas Wardrobe, Brighton Keller, Fashion Jackson, Lo Murphy, TargetDoesItAgain/Ascot&Hart/JenLovesCove — there are WAY too many to list on here, but you get the picture. These talented women realized it works more favorably to be a bigger fish in a smaller pond. Not to mention the incredible help of Dallas’s own Amber Venz Box of rewardStyle and LIKETOKNOWIT rewarding their efforts monetarily via Instagram every single day. This place is a damn mecca for fashion, and I won’t hear otherwise.

Dallas understands balance. For every overpriced, designer boutique that could make even the most basic Dallas bitch feel like Vivian Ward there’s a totally original, one-off clothing store with reasonable prices and fabulous pieces for the everyday gal. Stores like RiffRaff, Milk&Honey, and The Gypsy Wagon keep the local Dallasite well-dressed and well-fed (you know, since we have that extra cash for Chipotle). And, in that same vein, for every over-priced Starbucks (but that Flat White, tho) , there’s an up and coming, local coffee shop. 

photo c/o You Plus Dallas

photo c/o You Plus Dallas

Dallas is all about music. Although not into the thick of the music scene myself, I’ve seen and heard enough to know Dallas takes its musical talents very seriously. We even have festivals and stuff. The amount of amazing local talent that has sprung up here is impressive. Plus, rarely is Dallas passed over when it comes to big bands or artists touring. 

Dallas keeps it exciting with weather. Yeah, it can be annoying living in such a bi-polar state, but I have to admit, it does keep me on my toes (whether they’re covered with booties one day and sitting on display in sandals the next). Although a winter-lover at heart, I’ve learned to enjoy every day between November-April being a tossup, weather-wise. I can sleep easy at night knowing my heaviest winter coat will get at least 10 good wears, but that I can also possibly get away with going tights-less on a Saturday night in December.  

Dallas does sports. Not that I care (like, at all), but a lot of people do. Our basketball and football teams are no joke, and fans love them more than their own mothers most of the time.

Dallas is easy to travel to and from. It’s like, take your pick of which airport and airline, and I’ll be there relatively quickly with probably zero issues to drop you off or retrieve you. Yes, I will be PICKING YOU UP from the airport. Dallas doesn’t lend itself to “just grabbing a cab into the city.” That’s not necessary here. Not really.

Basically, from food to fashion to entertainment, Dallas has it covered, and I’m relieved for myself that I’ve finally been able to admit that I not only love this city, but I’m proud to be from it. Yeah, the traffic gets worse every year, but I can no longer blame people for wanting to reproduce here and move here. I totally get the appeal. 

Love you, Big D. Mean it.

xox,

emma