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By Isaac Kennedy, July 18, 2011 6:00 am

Photo by Tom Grill

I hate myself sometimes–my face, my body, or even my hair when it won’t go quite exactly how I want it to go.

Since I was 13 years old, my weight has remained fairly constant, but my height has changed by around a foot. In a span of a few years, I went from awkward overweight child to awkward underweight teenager. I’m only now just at a healthy weight for someone of my size, and it only took me seven freaking years!

Since I’ve experienced being both overweight and underweight, I sympathise with the arguments for each. I’m often asked which was worse, which I considered the worst to deal with.

The honest answer? When I was “just right.” That perfect moment of equilibrium, when my height and weight were in perfect harmony? That sucked, ironically enough.

Being either side of the “right” weight meant I had a goal to aim towards, some target I was aiming for that would grant me a sense of accomplishment when I reached it. Because when I was unhappy with how I looked, I was damn well motivated to do something about it.

But when I was just the right weight? Well, that was hemlock for my motivation.

When I was overweight, I was around 5′ 4″ and weighed 10 stone (or 60 kilos, for you non-Brits). This put me on the cusp of being obese. For around six months, every meal I ate consisted of junk food, but no one in my family or circle of friends commented on this. Despite seeing me literally killing my insides with junk food, no one batted an eyelid.

Of course, my family’s silence was more than made up for by the bullies at school. Their insults made me turn to food more. It wasn’t until I tried running at a school sports day that I realised that even though the bullies were Class-A dicks, they had a point: I wasn’t healthy.

Continue reading 'I Hate Myself, But In A Good Way'»

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By Julie Hartley, November 8, 2010 6:00 am

I’ve come to expect all sorts of reactions when I tell people that I’m dating someone eighteen years older than me. The blood-curdling screams have been (thankfully) few in number, though I usually expect jaws to drop and eyebrows to shoot up into hairlines.

There are also those whose expressions remain suspiciously blank. When their trained smile spreads across their face at just the right moment, and there’s no unconscious flicker of facial features–not even so much as a forceful blink–I know that the rumor mill got to them before I did.

I expect people to find out about my relationship. But instead of just admitting that they know, people treat it like a dirty secret they’re not supposed to be privy to. Um, hello? It’s not a secret anymore. We’re even “Facebook official.”

Before I was dating a man significantly older than me, when I was just normal, seemingly-well-adjusted Julie, it always came as a shock to people when they realized my parents were divorced.

“Huh, that’s funny, I just always assumed your parents were still together,” they’d say.

But after becoming Julie, The Cradle Robbed, people’s assumptions changed. When I mention something about going to visit my dad, now an overwhelming number of people ask, “Oh? Do you have a good relationship with your dad?”

“Uh, yeah, I try to see him when I’m in town. Why?” Continue reading 'No, He’s Not My Daddy'»

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By Cameron Livermore, July 26, 2010 8:00 am

Voluntarily insane

By any standard definition, jumping motorcycles is both stupid and insane. Sanity is functionality. It is the wisdom to not be dangerous to yourself or others. It is the ability to swim with the current and stay clear of the undertow. Intelligence is the ability to learn, to assess risk, to choose the most logical and profitable course of action.

Stupid and insane. Words to describe the young men and women who break bones, wind up in wheelchairs, and sometimes die from riding high-powered off-road motorcycles. Though it’s a more acceptable fixation than it has been in the past, we still feel the bite of deviant labels in the stares of passerby as we drive to the local riding spot, ostentatious, brightly-colored mechanical steeds in tow. We can still hear the unanswered question in those stares:

“Why?”

Because. That’s why. It’s as simple as the question.

We do it “because.” It’s innate. Or, if it’s not, it becomes innate as soon as fear is overshadowed by excitement. We hop on a bike at a young age, maybe crash, learn the controls, and before long, we can’t stop. Teach a beginning guitarist a few new chords, and see if he puts down the guitar anytime soon. We see the tools and components that make up the masterpiece compositions we’ve witnessed—the 75 foot backflip combinations, the fourth-gear pinned, all-or-nothing outside pass—and we want to begin composing.

“But the risk, ohhhh, the risk!”

Yeah, we know. Continue reading 'Voluntary Insanity'»

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By David K., July 12, 2010 8:08 am

Photo by flag75 via Flickr

When did the line between genuine and false confidence become blurred to the same level as a faked photograph of indiscernible alien life?

True confidence is out there, but people will just as quickly dismiss it as douchebaggery these days. When I’m out navigating the faux-hawks, faux hos and faux pas that serve as the foundation of Vegas nightlife, I observe all manner of posturing and territorial behavior. I internalize (usually) my amusement and bemusement when such actions pass for successful flirtation, and I ponder what has brought us to this point.

Actual confidence used to be rather simple to identify: a powerful yet relaxed stride, a commanding but courteous tone of voice, eyes which at once act as both as lasers and Zen gardens. Today, however, it seems the pretenders—these airs to the throne of self-assurance—are being mistaken for leaders and real men.

The definition and perception of the alpha male finds itself under fire.

I see the fractures in the once rock-solid foundation of the alpha male castle. Male authors wearing goggles and frilly shirts and calling themselves Mystery… online articles entitled “Secret Dating Tactics Nice Guys Use to Get Women”… reality shows depicting hopeless guys attempting to become attractive to women… “peacocking,” the “negative comment,” flat-out asshole behavior…. Combine any or all of these tactics with a delusional or insecure male, add a completely contrived personality, pour in vodka and Red Bull, splash it all with Acqua Di Gio, and you have false confidence that will assault any sensible person’s senses. Continue reading 'When The Alpha Male Is Just A Betta Fish'»

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By Dennis Hong, December 2, 2009 8:00 am

Image by Clipart.com

I’m a lucky guy. Why, you ask?

Because I’ve dated girls who are absolutely awesome.

And how do I know they’re absolutely awesome, you ask?

Because they tell me so.

Repeatedly.

Here are two random subjects I’d like to think I’m pretty knowledgeable in: 1) evolutionary biology, because I studied it for six years in graduate school, and 2) swing dancing, because I’ve been doing it for 11 years.

Now, which of these two topics would you say is more controversial? Which one would you guess has ensnared me in more heated discussions?

The answer, of course, is swing dancing. The debates over swing dancing that I’ve been mired in make those town hall meetings on health care reform feel as warm and fuzzy as a carton of milk in a broken fridge. I still cringe at how riled up I’ve gotten in the past (hey, some swing dancers take their art very seriously). Continue reading 'How Awesome Are You?'»