A Most Illustrious Hag: Thoughts On Getting Older

June 25, 2021 by Daniela Medina

Just For Men For Women

There are several different iterations of myself (and I expect there will be many more), but as they move backwards in time they become alarmingly intolerant. With respect to beauty standards, I remember a nineteen-year-old Daniela confidently decrying procedures that attempted to disguise or reverse signs of aging, turning her nose up at the thought of anything supporting inauthenticity. That’s a bold stance to take at nineteen, when the sun’s rays have not yet revealed how they will betray you at a later date in life, nor the pigment in the hair decided that, actually, early retirement sounds rather great. I wonder what she would think if she saw me now, poking and prodding at my face, roots and eyebrows sticky with a box of A-45 All-In-One Tube (“With convenient comb applicator!”), Auto-Stop (“You can’t go too dark!”), Semi-Permanent (“Lasts up to eight weeks!”) Just For Men hair dye, because the only two things that seem to be standing the test of time are what my anxiety orbits: commitment, and measuring things accurately.

The Mirror Has Two Faces

On occasion, my abuelita will eye herself in the mirror and joke, “Who is this viejuca? I don’t recognize her.” It’s a sentiment we commiserate on: Across a fifty-year distance I can look at myself in the mirror and take the same thing to heart. I hope and pray I’ll be blessed with a long and healthy life, but resent when I notice it might be happening. Ain’t that a trip.

When did you have (T)ime for that?

To feel your inferiority complex being called to attention when reading about a fifteen-year-old is a strange experience. Most of my greatest achievements so far happened after turning thirty. I wish—as a thirty-four, almost thirty-five, year-old woman—I could say I didn’t google the Time’s Kid of the Year and its honorees in search of reasons to believe why they weren’t all that special, or any more worthy than I would have been of receiving that distinction at the same age (or even now), but unfortunately I can’t. Nor can I say I discovered any evidence to support such a claim.

The rat race, but make it infinite

The disquiet of being shortchanged becomes harder to escape in the pursuit of sacrificing the unknown amount of time I have to things and ideas that should make me feel complete, but only leave me emptier. Ironically, this allows me to hold space for anger and despair when witnessing my aging body with little—as I discover more and more—of anything that I would label in my own definition as substantial to show for it: I had no idea life was passing me by on my own dime.

Slow and steady, emphasis on the slow

For a period of my existence I ran six miles daily at a 6:45 pace, no matter the weather or how my body reacted. Speed and prowess felt very important to me—a sort of intoxication with the idea of being the best for the sake of being the best. More recently, I walk a lot; out of choice, but increasingly out of necessity. This altered form of exercise takes longer, my heart beats much slower, and my muscles don’t build up nearly as much strength. But I cover the same distance and end up at the same destination. I’m just able to take in a lot more of the world along the way.

Thank you, Mr. Sheffield

While in a vortex of binge-watching television shows, I come across an episode of The Nanny where Mr. Sheffield lectures Nanny Fine for being distraught when depicted as “older.”

“Why are you Americans so obsessed with youth? You know, I prefer the more civilized, European sensibility that people improve with age, like fine wine.”

Part of me feels stupid that a swell of gratitude rises in my chest in receiving validation from an early ‘90s sitcom, while another part acknowledges that behind a cheesy line was a human being with a shared experience, writing down words rejecting the notion of expiration dates. It’s the little things, I guess.

I’ll take them both, Morpheus

Two pills are becoming easier to swallow with age:

You are not as great as you think you are.
You are not as horrible as you think you are.

Millenium truly was the best BSB album, tho

If I’m being honest, sometimes I forget about the Y2K scare.

Little Weirds, 1/10/20 edition

January 10, 2020 by Daniela Medina

This post about some of my little weirds is in dedication to Jenny Slate and her book, Little Weirds. I haven’t read it, so this may not be at all aligned with what she writes about.

The corresponding images also have nothing in relation to this post.

• One Saturday evening while waiting for me at the Lorimer stop in Williamsburg, my boyfriend spotted a thin Japanese man walking down Metropolitan in a fluffy fur coat and mistook the man for me, his girlfriend, coming to meet him. I was actually quite flattered when he told me this story, though I still haven’t figured out why that is.

• My sophomore year French teacher liked to confirm that everyone understood her lessons. Standing at the blackboard, she’d go over a grammar rule or vocabulary word and prompt—in English first, then in French—whether there were questions about what she’d just taught.

“Questions? Questions?”

Though spelled identically on paper, her over-eager French pronunciation of the word made it sound like she was saying “keh-stchons,” so multiple times a week for an hour and a half at a time I’d hear ad nauseam, “Questions? Keh-stchons? Questions? Keh-stchons? Questions? Keh-stchons?” To this day, any iteration about follow up questions triggers a Pavlovian response of, “Keh-stchons?” And if you’re in my vicinity, you may be fortunate enough to glimpse me silently mouthing it to myself.

• I have a misguided habit of thinking that if I strongly visualize myself achieving a physical feat I have no history of practice with, or natural skill for, that I will find myself victorious in my first-time attempt at it.

• I don’t like to have any part of my body other than my head exposed when I sleep at night. This is not for comfort, but because I don’t want a ghost to touch me. However, if they do it during the day that’s fine.

• A particularly chatty next door neighbor was standing in her front patio when I was coming home from the gym one evening, and because I was tired and didn’t feel like talking—but didn’t want her to think I didn’t feel like talking—I kept my head down, crossed the street, and continued walking to a grocery store five blocks away, where I stood outside for fifteen minutes. That was the allotted time I felt appropriate for someone who had been about to step into their building, but suddenly remembered a quick errand to run.

• In the fourth grade I became fascinated with a cartoon series called Gargoyles, and at recess I’d sit in a low squat on top of the monkey bars for very long stretches of time, hoping my classmates would think I looked mysterious and badass.

• I had a crush on Raphael the Ninja Turtle as a kid. I liked him because he was always in a bad mood, so in the end, nothing about that situation made a lot of sense.

• I’m a little too afraid of the dark than I should be as an adult, yet excessive pride prevents me from buying a nightlight. Instead, I often fall asleep in my bed with all my clothes on, comforted by the fact that every bulb in my apartment is burning and that this alone will keep the serial killers at bay.

• I ended things with a guy I was casually dating because he was a grown man who used the word “yummy” un-ironically and I couldn’t handle it.

• I once accepted a ride from a stranger when a delayed flight from Houston left me stranded at Grand Central at 2am in the middle of winter. A man in an idling black suburban had been watching me pace back and forth with my luggage looking for a subway entrance, and after fifteen minutes, he rolled his window down to ask if I’d like a lift home. Being hungry, cold, exhausted, frustrated, and lost with no access to a map because I was an extraordinarily poor grad student who could only afford a barely-functioning flip phone, I contemplated the risk for a minute until a gust of arctic wind broke my will and I stepped into his car. We drove in silence and he dropped me off a block away from my apartment. I never saw him again. Needless to say, I make it a point not to watch too many true crime documentaries due to mild embarrassment.

• After my plants die, I continue to water them hoping they’ll come back to life. One time it worked and that was probably more encouragement than the universe should have granted me.

• Many years ago a very well dressed gentleman approached me in Union Square with a greeting of, “Excuse me,” and a curious accent I couldn’t place. I assumed he was going to ask for directions, but instead, he asked if he could lick my feet and even offered payment to do so. I politely declined and not wanting to be rude, gave a small wave goodbye as I walked away.

• On a particularly muggy mid-July morning I left my house wearing a regrettable choice of underwear, and as I stepped onto the train that would take me to work and watched the doors close, I knew I had committed a grave error in judgment. Half an hour later when I was deposited ten blocks away from my office, I made an unplanned stop at a Duane Reade and purchased a pack of the smallest sized women’s briefs I could find. With a great deal of mental stamina I slowly walked to my office and used an infrequently visited bathroom to change. I stepped out a new woman. Twenty minutes later a pipe burst in the building and everyone was told to go home.

• I’ve never seen Top Gun.

Summer's Last Stand.

September 21, 2018 by Daniela Medina

Not to be confused with Custer. Custard is fine, though.

Oh, Summer, Summer! The bell tolls for thee! And it makes my heart so heavy.

There aren’t enough Pumpkin Spice Lattes (which I personally think taste like melted Yankee candles) in the world to make me appreciate the coming of fall, the most overrated season on the planet. Oh, that’s right: I said what I said.

I’ve never understood the love people have for fall, or as I like to call it, the obvious precursor to winter that people are in denial about. I especially don’t understand why North Easterners love it so much, because it literally lasts two seconds here. One. And two. Poof.

“But Daniela, think about all the fun things to do: apple picking, corn mazes, pumpkin carving . . . !“ Alright, let’s go through these individually. So, apple picking: I have to pay to do manual labor, and my reward is bringing home five pounds of apples. What am I supposed to do with five pounds of apples, chuck them at squirrels? Keep them handy to pummel potential home intruders with? (Which, I could do, because apples seemingly never go bad, and it’s unnerving.)

And corn mazes? You think I want to spend my free time in an enclosed space that’s intentionally difficult to get out of, surrounded by foliage that cuts at me? Who do you think I am, Harry Potter in the Triwizard Tournament? No! Because if I were, I’d take my my $100 million net worth and private chopper my ass out of there, STAT.

Also, who legitimately enjoys pumpkin carving? I mean, truly? If I wanted to be elbows-deep in orange, slimy entrails, I’d . . . I don’t know what I’d do, but it would be something else.

“Well, fine; but the food, the drink! Hot apple cider! Cider donuts! Pumpkin pie! So much spice goodness!” Let me ask, can you eat pumpkin pie more than the one slice a year you have at Thanksgiving? I didn’t think so. If I want to spice up my life, I’ll go put on the the pleated plaid skirt and crop top set I probably have hidden somewhere in the back of my wardrobe, and prance around my living room in sky-high rainbow colored platforms to the sweet harmony of Baby, Ginger, Posh, Scary, and Sporty Spice until I fall and break my ankles; THAT’S how I’ll spice up my life.

“Ok. But the fashion? The colors?” Yes, I will concede to that. Fall fashion is wonderful. The pants, the jackets, the hats, the boots, all in so many rich jewel tones—just lovely. And all to distract from the ENDLESS, LIFE-DRAINING, DARKNESS-DRIVEN COLD THAT WILL DOMINATE OUR LIVES FOR THE NEXT SIX MONTHS.

But sure, the fashion.

I'm becoming a minimalist because my broke ass can't afford to be a maximalist no mo'.

July 27, 2018 by Daniela Medina

I think I’ve reached the conclusion that I’m done with maximalism.

As I enter month six of Operation Give All Your Fucking Clothes Away Because You Can’t Even Sleep On Your Bed Anymore, I often find myself studying the mountain of garments that has engulfed my space and thinking, “Damn, girl: Look at all these wear-once-a-year pieces you have. Your broke ass can’t do this no mo’.”

You see, the problem with maximalist dressing—as wonderful of a creative outlet as it may be—is that it’s deceptively limiting when it comes to your actual wardrobe options.

Take this outfit for example, which isn't even close to being the most dramatic one in my possession.

How many times do you think I could wear this before people would become concerned and stage an intervention over my very apparent identity crisis? “Daniela, remember: We’re all here because we love you. This is a safe space. We just want to help you. And to do that, we need to make you understand that you are not the Chiquita Banana lady.” Who wants to deal with that heartbreak? Man, if someone had the AUDACITY to tell me I couldn’t be Chiquita Banana lady, I’d be a damn Chiquita Banana noodle pile of strained hopes and dreams. AND THAT IS GROSS.

I mean, look at this top. It A) Has big ass tropical flowers all over it; B) Is poofy sleeved; C) Is RUFFLE poofy sleeved; D) Is TIERED ruffle poofy sleeved; and E) Is THREE-QUARTER sleeved, which for some reason accentuates what’s already going on even more to me, though I’m not sure why.

This top is like if a Dole pineapple had a baby through Immaculate Conception, and the baby was a loud AF button up. The Messiah embodied through a floral print.

The bottom isn’t the subtlest thing in the world either. I mean, a floor-length pleather maxi skirt? What is this, Little House on the Prairie, which is obviously abundant in references to pleather?

And lucite heels? You know who else wore lucite heels? Liberace. (I mean, maybe. I don't actually know. I am ASSUMING that is not incorrect.) Does it look like I have time to be a prodigy? No.

No no, I think my maximalism has to come to an end for the sake of my checking account. Time to take on that sweet, sweet Steve Jobs mentality: nothing but black turtlenecks. And who knows? Maybe through spiritual osmosis I'll become the next great tech guru. I can already FEEL IT.

* Cries silently to herself * “Omg turtlenecks are itchy and how do computers work?”

The Instagram Equation.

May 03, 2018 by Daniela Medina

Social media gets a terrible rap. I know it makes me feel miserable on a daily basis, but so does the family-size bag of Doritos I treat myself to after the gym—which, coincidentally, doesn't make me feel great either—and you don't see me ceasing my participation in either of those activities any time soon, so here we are trying to find our way around life's conundrums.

Ok, fine: there is always the very real possibility of me quitting the gym (the Doritos are here to stay), but that's beside the point.

Of all the applications, Instagram most acutely triggers my insecurities. There's the obvious reason for this—that it provides me with a long look of all the things I'm not accomplishing in life—but there is also the stealthier, more insidious one that reminds me of what I'm hiding behind Instagram's bells and whistles. While I can assume viewers will know my image has been doctored to some extent, they’ll likely never be privy to how much, or how little. Tapping on a photo in the editing stage to reveal its true nature often makes me wince. And with that begins the rapid, spiraling trek down a tunnel of self-doubting thoughts, power fueled by the “You ain’t shit” ghosts from a lifetime of subtle, passive-aggressive, let’s-keep-you-in-your-place, shady ass comments past.

I wonder, however, if that's necessary. A deeper analysis of Instagram might prove it to be the foil to Imposter Syndrome. We all know about filters, we all know about angles, we all know about lighting, we all know about Photoshop, we all know about "Insta worthy," we all know that we're all lying to one another, so how could any one of us possibly be an imposter? Could it be that in the distortion of our realities we are being our most authentic selves? That the double negative of Fake + Fake = Real? We are all fake, therefore, none of us are. I'm going to assume that all of you reading this know what a double negative in algebra is, and what happens as a result. If you don't, please don't ask me to explain, because I can't. Really. In middle school I tested for advanced math and when my teachers saw my results they were like, "Lol girl bye, no Texas Instruments for you." But I digress. It's arguable that the way we choose to present ourselves, the way we see ourselves and most desire to be seen, is truer than letting other people decide that for us. It’s like being dealt carte blanche through a loophole in the system.

Of course, the issue of, "Why should we have to fake anything at all?" looms over the horizon, but to that I simply say . . . sometimes you don't like the hand you were dealt, or you find it doesn't suit you. Period. In an ideal world we would be blissfully content all the time with life as it were presented to us, no matter what, but we don't live there. I'm a radical believer of self-acceptance, but I'm also a pretty radical believer of being happy. And so—while not doing so at the expense of others or yourself—if altering your reality allows you to fulfill that, why shouldn't you be allowed to? You have to dream it to achieve it. Maybe putting our dreams so publicly on display gets us one step closer to materializing them. To quote my favorite fake (and Mean) girl Cady Heron, "The limit does not exist!"

And now, here are some pictures that have absolutely nothing to do with what I was talking about.

A different kind of Alice.

March 28, 2018 by Daniela Medina

It pains me to inform you that you may have experienced an incomplete childhood if you weren't at some point exposed to the unique horror that is the Walt Disney classic, Alice in Wonderland.

Personally it's one of my favorite Disney movies—an irony that may reveal a good deal about my character—but we're not discussing that right now.

Let us not confuse our Alices, however: I'm not talking about the souped up CGI version that Johnny Depp blessed with his special brand of weirdness. I'm referring to the animated, illustrators tripping balls, leaves you paranoid about cats, rabbits, birds, caterpillars, flowers, walruses, bread, hats, mislabeled bottles, stocky twins, and pretty much all of the natural world, extraordinarily particular, 1950s freak show.

It's the kind of film that leaves me convinced Walt Disney hated children and wished bizarre complexes upon them. You know what my greatest fear as an adult is? Bitchy flowers who make fun of my ensemble. That's why all the plants in my house are fake.

And of course, who wouldn't enjoy a prepubescent existential crisis.

And this, cementing my fear of deep open water. Probably also treadmills.

Or this, in which my present day claustrophobia stems from the irrational belief that if I get trapped somewhere, some extinct asshole bird is going to come set me on fire, and I'll accidentally snot rocket a lizard into oblivion as a result.

Also, let's talk about this. Like, all of it. Specifically why it's the reason I'm afraid to look out into the darkness of my bedroom at night.

AND FINALLY, THIS, WHICH IS WHAT I ASSUME HAPPENS WHEN YOUR PHONE DIES AND YOU NO LONGER HAVE ACCESS TO GOOGLE MAPS.

So on that note, if you ever find me in a weeping heap next to the off-brand Sesame Street cosplayers in Times Square, please take pity.

Amazon headband; Grana tank; Etsy pants; Zara sandals and trench; Alba basket ; J. Crew collar necklace

Who let the dogs out?

February 16, 2018 by Daniela Medina

Because dogs are the frickin' best.

Cos black shorts; H&M red vinyl puffer jacket; Zara sweater and boots; Vintage silver earrings

I love you, and I hope you love you, too.

February 14, 2018 by Daniela Medina

Ah, February 14th: That random day in the middle of the coldest and most miserable month, slated as an opportune time to express your deepest, burning, flaming hot desires; probably because it's so cold and miserable outside, and Canada Goose ain't doing shit to remedy that. (To be clear, I'm actually familiar with the history of Valentine's Day. I still think February is the worst.)

Valentine's Day can be magical for a lot of people, but also kind of a bummer for a whole lot more. So if you count yourself a member of the latter group, I want to say that I love you, and I hope you love you, too. You're pretty wonderful. And you know what the best kind of candy and flowers are? The kind you buy for yourself, because you know what you like and don't got time to mess around with all that other bullshit.

H&M oversized pink sweater (similar here and here); Soho Girl red sequin skirt (similar here and here);
Uniqlo socks (similar here); Zara suede slip-ons (similar here)

It's okay to let go of who you were.

February 02, 2018 by Daniela Medina

I'm going through a monumental closet overhaul. I mean, not right at this moment, but in general. It snowballed into an event by accident when, in a misguided attempt at feng shui paired with a tragic err in the assessment of my strength and motor skills, I tried moving an oversized wardrobe in my room and found myself scrambling out of harm's way as it cracked and leaned into its demise.

The Icewoman Cometh.

January 19, 2018 by Daniela Medina

And so, here we are in a new year: New dreams, new goals, new aspirations, and new levels of winter fuckery to deal with.

But like . . . amirite, or amirite?

I rang in 2018 at a cottage two hours north of Toronto, and as midnight struck and everyone was kissing, hugging, and extending warm wishes to one another, I was checking the weather on my phone because I have my damn priorities straight.

-19 degrees. FARENHEIT. Which means that shit looked even crazier in Celsius.

Do you know how long it takes for your nose hair to freeze at -19 degrees Farenheit? The answer is not very long at all. I don't know about you, but I prefer not to use my nostril caves as miniature models that demonstrate how stalagmites form.

This winter is proving to be a bad one, for sure, but even I have to admit it doesn't compare to the one four years ago, when the mere mention of "polar vortex" was enough to trigger a PTSD episode.

But, no: "bomb cyclone" doesn't give me the warm and fuzzies either. That sounds like something out of a nearly entirely CGI Vin Diesel movie, with a plot that involves cybergenetically enhanced abominable snowmen (and snowladies) trained in ballistic warfare, spreading global terror by being shot out of the sky by a blizzard hurricane—Sharknado style—artificially created and powered by a demented, vengeful, genius Mr. Freeze type. Also starring The Rock, Dwayne Johnson, who for some reason is in CGI as well.

This is a safe space, so if any of you steal my movie idea, I'm going to be very, very upset.

H&M faux fur coat and corduroy trousers; Uniqlo cardigan; Zara top and shoes; American Apparel belt

November 08, 2017 by Daniela Medina

Most people will see this and ask, "The fuck you doing wearing a STRAW hat in November?" And I will respond, "Umm . . . hWhAt the fuck you doing NOT wearing a STRAW hat in Novembe—no good call this was a poor execution of judgment."

H&M Overcoat • Uniqlo shirt and jeans • Zara metallic pumps • Mango straw hat • Loeffler Randall purse

Y'all remember that season of Friends Monica waitresses at a 50s themed diner and wears fake boobs as part of her uniform, and then a billionaire (they say millionaire on the show, but we all know what's what) falls in love with her but she's all like, "Oh no no no, homeslice, I am not into you like that," but THEN she conveniently comes around and he flies her to Italy for pizza or whatever, but THEN they break up because he becomes an MMA fighter and she's like, "BOY, I CANNOT WITH YOU"? Yeah? Haha, good times, everything is a real possibility—just like living in rent controlled apartments with private terraces in the West Village, and being able to keep high-paying jobs that are never attended because of an egregious amount of coffee drinking—with no threat of caffeine overdose—being done all day instead. Super relatable.

Vintage shearling coat (Etsy) • Vintage Valentino linen dress (Detka Vintage)
Vintage leather braided belt (childhood) • Zara velvet platforms • Mango headband

I loved superheroes as a kid. Part of my Saturday morning routine, which I adhered to with the utmost devotion, was watching this revamped version of Batman called Batman Beyond, that was set in Neo-Gotham. It starred a curmudgeonly and aged Bruce Wayne, and a bratty high school kid who had assumed the responsibilities of masked vigilante. That show was wild, man. There was this one episode where gene splicing human DNA with animal DNA had become the new "getting ink done," and all these teenagers were full on running around Dr. Moreau style with tails and shit. Until, of course, "Batman" and Bruce Wayne discovered there were dangerous side effects to mixing people with animals (**shocking**). A chase was set in motion, battles ensued, and at the end of the episode, the criminal mastermind spliced himself with all the animals and transformed into a huge BOOGER WORM WITH RAZOR CLAWS AND NEEDLE TEETH, and then exploded because there was too much conflicting DNA in him or something, I don't remember exactly.

Anyway, here's a faux fur jacket.

Zara faux fur jacket and espadrilles • American Apparel denim vest • Vintage shift dress (Etsy) • Noir necklace

And here I am in a beret. A raspberry beret.

Fine, it's more of a wine color, but to be honest, that hue speaks to me on a deeper, emotional level.

Sorry, I mean a deeper, alcoholic level.

Uniqlo wool beret • H&M pile biker jacket, resin necklace, and lace-up platforms • J. Crew v-neck tee • Zara culottes

Ever worn something so tight you questioned if it did permanent damage to your uterus? No? Oh, well, good for you and your perfectly non-squished future children, I'm so happy for you.

H&M pile coat and patent skirt • Zara top, loafers, and purse • Banana Republic snake chain necklace

Well everything about this outfit seems weather appropriate.

Zara bodycon dress, velvet platforms, and earrings • Vintage lace trench (Etsy) • UO belt

Is the Jim Henson Company hiring? Tell them I can provide my own wardrobe.

Vintage silk top (Etsy) • Vintage silk pants (Etsy) • Zara leather and acrylic heels
Forever 21 faux fur jacket • Vintage seed bead necklace (Housing Works)

Fake it 'til you make it. Then fake it some more.

September 27, 2017 by Daniela Medina

I have a confession to make: My life is a complete and utter shit show.

Now, some of you who are more familiar with this site may be thinking, “Biiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiitch no duh: The name of your blog is "Strugglista" for fuck’s sake.”

But because Instagram, Facebook and Snapchat—and whatever the hell is designed to make you feel like crap now—often make us want to blubber our lives away into a 10-ton jar of Nutella (No? No one else fantasizes about this? Just me? Ok.), I wanted to do my part and reiterate just how not together my shit is. And that's okay. That doesn't necessarily mean I'm doing something wrong, or not trailblazing my path in the way it's intended to be made.

So I present a very special behind-the-scenes look at a Strugglista blog post in the making.

Stream of Unconsciousness.

June 28, 2017 by Daniela Medina

I’ve been meditating a lot recently. This isn’t a new development, but something I’ve had an on-again, off-again relationship with the past few years. After reading about the healing science behind "mindfulness," I began in an attempt to mollify the severe anxiety and depression that's followed me around for 18 years. It's done wonders. However, like many beneficial practices that hold potential for tediousness, committing to being inactive for fifteen to twenty minutes day isn't always easy.

Baffling, isn’t it, how someone who wants to sit at home and never do anything, can have such difficulty sitting at home and not doing . . . anything.

That’s unfair, though, because meditation is far from that. Instead, I'd describe it as actively not doing anything, to keep from doing too much something.

It’s frustrating. I’ll shy away from the word “intimidating,” because I’m not scared of my mind. Nor would anyone be the wiser if I sat on the floor with my eyes closed, contemplating how many parakeets I'll own when I'm a crazy old bird lady. No: I’m just aware of the obvious complication involved with wrangling my thoughts into submission.

But it's worth the effort.

Self-awareness is delivered by unassuming vessels, and it's fascinating that concentrated effort on monitoring the breath reveals patterns of thoughts and emotions. There is an extraordinary byproduct in which becoming intimately familiar with what works for me, has also resulted in becoming intimately familiar with what doesn't.

Moreover, judgments have become more easily discerned as either based in reality, or skewed perception. For example, how emotional I should actually be, over how emotional I feel; the difference between what is real fear, and what is anxiety masking itself as that; if the fatigue I'm experiencing is laziness, or do I actually crave rest; when I might be indulging rose-colored glass privilege, rather than a screaming need to step back a minute for the sake of my goddamn sanity; whether I'm contributing what I want to the world, versus what I can.

There is also the added bonus of being more aware outside the self: To walk through the world and take it in without determining what Instagram filter would look best on it.

Last month I read an article discussing the longstanding Ayurveda tradition in India. The article, which was in Elle, eventually looped back onto the tried and true “which beauty product is best for you” trope, but the basic message resonated with me deeply: listen to your body and self. An idea that makes more sense than anything in this world, but one we all have difficulty grasping.

Of course, there is a strange irony to discovering that wisdom in a periodical known to heavily suggest how one should live, but I won't pick and choose where I find my revelations.

Meditation is not a foolproof system, or I haven't found it to be. Some days I don't get to it. I also still freak out—just not as much, or as drastically. And occasionally while I should be focusing on my breath, my mind will insist on continuing the debate over how many parakeets I'll keep company with in my old age. Nevertheless, to say I have not gained from it immensely, or that it is not worth pursuing, would be a lie. So sitting uncomfortably and fidgeting on the floor I will continue to do.

Also, in case any of you are curious, up to date I've formed a rough estimation of approximately twenty-five parakeets.*

*Subject to change/grow in number.

We live!

April 21, 2017 by Daniela Medina

I recently bought a pair of vintage white satin pilgrim shoes on Etsy.

That's right: white. satin. pilgrim. shoes. Those aren't even my own words—they were in the description blurb. Like, "white," "satin," "pilgrim," and "shoe" were there side by side, clearly available to read and make an executive decision on, and I still clicked the purchase button.

They have bows on them, too.

A few months ago I bought a pink pajama jumpsuit from Reformation to wear outside, in plain sight, when I am not asleep. I had to get the arms and legs hemmed, and as I stood on the platform being measured by the tailor, he looked at the garment and asked, "So you . . . do you. . . do you wear this to go places?" I said no, that I'd watched too many movies from the 1940s, but then failed to expand because it was a lie and I hadn't thought that far ahead. He shifty-eye looked at me. And then I shifty-eye looked at him. And then we shifty-eye looked at each other. Because we both knew I was lying with an actually much weirder response, and neither of us understood why I hadn't just said yes.

The truth is, if you break into my apartment on any given night, you'll find me aslumber under a mountain of clothes, with far too deeply stuffed earplugs, using a drool laden mouth guard, and wearing my legitimate pajamas: underwear with holes in them.

Here's the thing: I don't really give a damn how I look inside my home, but out of it? KA-POW! It's a bunch of weird shit, live and in your face.

I have high heels I can't walk in because there are feathers that get in the way. So basically I just stand there and have someone guide me when it's time to move. Not to mention the flats I daren't walk around in not on tiptoe whilst journeying across a New York City sidewalk, for fear of what could get trapped in their long, black, furry heels. Basically feces, I'm scared of feces getting trapped in the heels, ain't no one got time for that, gtfoh.

Remember that one episode of Sex and the City where Carrie wore a belt around her bare stomach, and everyone was like, "Girl what no"? I've done that.

I own a long yellow faux fur coat that makes me look like Big Bird's estranged short cousin, and I will straight up shuffle into brunch on five-inch glitter platforms I have to calculate each step in, with something shiny sticking out of my head, and wearing some very, very questionable eye makeup, being all like, "OH HAI HOMIES," while everyone dies of shame for me.

Come to think of it, I guess I don't really care how I look outside my home either.

HOLEY UNDERWEAR, IT'S TIME TO MAKE AN ENTRANCE.

Re: Friday Night.

April 14, 2017 by Daniela Medina

My most beloved pastime is not talking to people. My life is like a meme with the human version of Cathy sitting in bed with her phone on a Friday evening, responding to texts and pretending to be bummed about a cancelled girl’s night out, while actually thinking about chocolate, hair frizz, her thighs, or whatever.

I don’t think about my thighs, but I do think about chocolate and hair frizz.

That’s a lie. I think about my thighs.

Whenever I get that text message alerting me to a change in plans, I don’t get mad. I don’t get mad that I steamed my clothes, got dressed, put on makeup, and did my hair. Hell no. I think to myself, “Oh snap, looks like a reservation just opened up at my fave joint, Chez Daniela, table for one.”

Do you think that’s sad? Well let me take this quickness and shut that theory down, because I’m here to inform you there’s only one “I” in LIT.

Ain’t no party like a home alone drunk girl party, 'cause a home alone drunk girl party DON’T STOP.

And that is also a lie. It will stop at approximately 11:34PM, when I fall asleep on my couch in aforementioned steamed clothes, makeup, and did hair, with Bob’s Burgers playing quite loudly on the television, and a half bottle of wine with a straw in it sitting on the coffee table.

I am currently in talks about the revival of a millennial Cathy comic strip, starring me. I will keep all of you posted.

I'm bitchin' 'bout the rain, just bitchin' 'bout the rain.

April 06, 2017 by Daniela Medina in Fashion, Outfit Inspiration, Style, New York

Tina Turner once sang, “I can’t stand the rain / Against my window,” and I was like, “GURL, WHAT? YOU ARE INSIDE WHERE IT IS DRY. LET’S KEEP OUR PRIORITIES STRAIGHT.”

I hate rain.

You know that thing when a cat is submerged into a body of water against his will, and then he comes out looking fifty pounds skinnier and like a demon who will FUCK. YOU. UP? That’s essentially me all of April, except not fifty pounds skinnier, due to the fact I have to lug fifty extra pounds of waterproof gear everywhere.

If you’ve ever been curious about whether Totes is lying about the indestructibility of their umbrellas, stand with one open in a New York City wind tunnel on a rainy day for a short experiment.

New York is the worst when it rains. Everything smells weird. You probably smell weird. Hair care and beauty routines become, I mean, like—why? Just why? The sight of sidewalk runoff water makes you want to throw up in your mouth, because that shit is a whole lot yellow-red-browner than it should be. The subway becomes its own urban wetland, only instead of marshes and alligators, we have floating Cheetos bags, Slushie cups, and suspect debris, and the strong muscle rats who weren’t washed away by Sandy. And cars are assholes; not the people driving them per se, but the cars themselves, what with the tires, and the puddles, and the splashing.

This city is miserable wet. Rain brings all the inconvenience snow does without the fluffy, beautiful, shuts everything the hell up, magic.

“But, Daniela: April showers bring May flowers.”

IT’S FUCKING NEW YORK. CONCRETE JUNGLE. EMPHASIS ON CONCRETE. I DON’T EVEN REMEMBER WHAT A FLOWER LOOKS LIKE.

New York: If you can make it here, you can make it anywhere. Sort of.

March 31, 2017 by Daniela Medina

And here are the reasons why:

You will gain super strength.

Going up and down subway stairs during rush hour with two or three weeks worth of groceries = Every endurance workout for the rest of your life.

You will become an expert map reader.

So long as it is color coded with elliptical routes, and doesn’t extend past a thirteen-mile radius, which encompasses one island that is set up on a grid.

You will learn the value of a dollar.

It is $0 dollars.

You will realize the right thing to do in witnessing a street fight is not walk away.

Ryan Gosling might appear out of nowhere to break it up.

You will be unparalleled in time management.

Two transfers? Not leaving the apartment.

You will inevitably be the bravest human ever.

I ain't scared of no rat! Waterbug, yes.

You will perfect your survival skills.

I could run away into the woods and set up camp with all the shit that finds its way into my backpack.

You will master keeping your cool.

Leonardo DiCaprio’s strolling down Bowery? DON’T NO ONE GAF. Except for me, I gaf.

You will grow ambitious, and go for what you want.

SLOW MOVERS TO THE RIGHT OF THE STAIRS, FAST TO THE LEFT.

You will reach Nirvana.

Because that is truly the only place to go when you are late for work and the L train malfunctions for the third time in a week.

A Love Letter to the Eternal Optimist.

March 23, 2017 by Daniela Medina

Dear Eternal Optimist,

See, here’s the thing: I want you to just keep doing you. We’ve had a lot—and I mean a lot—of differences, what with you, always looking so positively to the future as you ride off on your cloud of forward thinking, and me, stuck in relentless cynical motion powered by the duo of a crashing present wave and a riptide of the past, the two of us brought together by cataclysmic forces that only inspire us to continue going on the way we are.

I really, really want to dislike you. So much. I mean, obviously—that’s in my nature. You are just so positive: all those pastel themed inspirational quotes and silver lined excursions, my god. Ugh.

But: I need you. I don’t like admitting that, but I do. And you need me.

Because sometimes even my cynicism becomes too cynical for me. Man, sometimes I just . . . can’t. I can’t even deal. That’s where you come in.

As for me, I remind you that no, life is not always fantastic and amazing. You can’t sugarcoat everything, you’ll get diabetes. Gotta throw some kale in the mix. You need to see that in the same way I need to see life actually is pretty fantastic and amazing. You show me despair is not the ruler of my life, but I show you it’s not entirely the evil tyrannical leader you make it out to be. It’s only kinda sort of an evil tyrannical leader.

The truth is we can’t exist without each other. We’re like the diametrically opposed hot and cold winds necessary to create a hurricane: the more different we are apart, the stronger we’ll be together.

You know what, let's scratch that last analogy because hurricanes are actually quite destructive and obliterate everything in their paths, but I think you get the gist of it, right?

What I'm trying to say is, we keep each other going.

Anyway. I love you.

Ok bye I need to go watch Curb Your Enthusiasm and take some notes.

Sincerely,

Me, Forever Pessimist

Problematic Icons.

March 12, 2017 by Daniela Medina

In the fashion industry, few names rival Chanel. A staple of celebrity and influencer alike, the mirrored C's are recognized world over, and no tweed jacket matched with pearls can go without the house's stamp of influence.

What fewer people are knowledgeable of (including yours truly), is the murky history of Coco Chanel. Outsiders such as myself have recognized her purely as the talented French maverick who had a love affair with Igor Stravinsky, and who dared sport trousers and a tan when utmost femininity ("feminity" here referring to the prudish and backwards idea that it exclusively encompassed a universe of dresses and fair skin) was the only style considered attractive.

But if journalists have done their homework correctly, it would appear that Coco Chanel was more than an icon: not only was she a chronic anti-Semite, but evidence alludes to the fact that she was a Nazi intelligence operative as well.

Why is this information not more widespread? Well, I can think of a few possible reasons. Convenience would be the biggest one, I suppose. Ugliness is much easier to sweep under the rug and turn a blind eye to, especially when that ugliness involves an empire like Chanel. There was also her style and talent, which in the eyes of some, are qualities that make a person more redeemable.

And then there's the simple idea of not biting the hand that feeds you. That makes sense enough. No one wants to seem disloyal or ungrateful: Chanel is a French idol, and moreover, global fashion treasure. But what if the other hand had been punching someone in the face while you sat chewing quietly? How is not biting excused then?

This isn't to remark on who runs Chanel now. Karl Lagerfeld, as far as I know, is not anti-anything, except maybe nice sometimes. Nor is it to remark on the house itself, though it does carry the famed designer's name. But as stated above, the unsavory bits of Chanel's timeline have never seen enough light to bring any real damage to the label, unlike Spanish-British designer John Galliano, whose indisputable, recorded anti-Semitic outburst at a Paris bistro in 2011 cost him his job at Dior and ostracized him temporarily from the fashion community. It took years for Galliano to atone for his sins—atonement that was never required of Coco Chanel and her hidden sordid past.

And shouldn't that be more concerning than it is?

Basically Zara everything, except for the Banana Republic necklace and Mood Fabrics ribbon.

The struggle of being a Texan on Go Texan Day.

March 03, 2017 by Daniela Medina

Today is Go Texan Day, but my home state is on some bullshit right now, so I'm a little torn about celebrating.

Ugh, Texas, why you act so bad when you be so good? WHY? I mean, have any of y'all ever been to a Rodeo? And before you say that's a super hick activity, a) let me inform you of how fucking judgy you are, and b) don't knock anything until you've tried it; there's an event dedicated solely to little children riding sheep and hanging on for dear life, so don't try to tell me it's not a good time. Man, and they have FRIED OREOS there. I swear, if you say "ew gross" . . . CHILD. I am NOT in the mood to repeat what I just lectured. Fried Oreos are heaven in your mouth, and I actually feel sorry for you if you've never experienced one.

Texas has real nice people, too, y'all. I mean, we have some backwards ass people who happen to be extremely loudmouthed—for sure—but the rest of us are real nice. Also, we say "y'all" unironically!

And that weather? Oh man, so temperate, so warm! Except in May, June, July, August, September, October, and November, when you'll die either by heat, hurricane, or both.

LET'S NOT FORGET TO MENTION IT'S THE HOME OF CHUCK NORRIS! THE MAN, THE MYTH, THE LEGEND! INSPIRER OF SO MANY JOKES, INFLUENCER OF SO MANY ROUNDHOUSE KICKS GONE AWRY, A G-DAMN DREAMBOA—

What's that? He voted for Trump?

HHHHHNNNNNGGGGGHHHHH.

THIS IS WHY WE CAN'T HAVE NICE THINGS.

Zara dress, boots, and earrings; American Apparel vest and skirt; J. Crew belt; Vintage bandana