24 Pieces of Advice for 18-Year-Old Skylar

My 24th birthday is tomorrow. I know, I know, so exciting, I wear a size XS/S, I like everything Kate Spade, dahlias are my favorite flower, yadda yadda whatever. Despite the fact that I will now be entering my "mid-20s" and leaving "early 20s" debauchery behind (....), I'm not one of those people that freaks out about suddenly being old.

24 is not old. Not even close. Works for Hugh Hefner!

However, 30 is getting there. You're still workin' it, but you're expected to have your life slightly more together and could potentially have a baby. Whoa. A lot can happen in six years, and while I'm excited for all of those opportunities, I realize there will be a lot of lessons to learn along the way. I'll probably look back at my current self and think, "Really?" mostly because that's exactly how I think of 18-year-old me.

If I could go back in time, I would try my best to save myself and avoid being such a dumbass. Clearly I turned out [arguably] normal, but there are some unnecessary events that could've been avoided with some guided wisdom. Here is that wisdom:

1. Change your hairstyle - You look like a little lad who loves berries and cream.

2. You're still growing - Your body is on like a three year delay, which is jussst adorable. Hold on to that green dress, it'll look better on you in a few years.
3. That girl's actually kind of mean - Don't hang out with her anymore.
4. That guy turns into a huge hippie - I know, right?!
5. That guy turns extremely religious - Hahaha. I mean good for him.
6. Step up your party clothes game - Who wears a cardigan to a house party? This is embarrassing.

7. This is the last year you'll be able to eat meatball subs every single day without consequence - Cherish it. For the love of God cherish it.
8. Never take an 8:30 a.m. class, Math or other, ever again - We both knew that was a terrible decision from the get-go.
9. Say yes to [almost] everything - Everything's an opportunity, everything's an experience, don't miss out on any of it just because you were tired. Surprise: you'll be tired no matter what. Just say yes and go.
10. Save every piece of your writing on an external hard drive - Your computer crashes in four years and you lose it all. Fuck.
11. Wear less eyeliner - It's just a better look.
12. Stop making inappropriate profile pictures using FaceinHole - Funny, sure. But your head on Miranda Kerr's body isn't getting you a job after college and it makes your mom sad.
13. "Ugh I miss you we need to hang out! Lunch soon?" - Use as necessary.
14. You are a trendsetter for hating Twilight - Congratulations! And stay strong, it catches on.
15. Breaking the rules has zero consequences - Anyone who tells you otherwise is a liar. You'll have much better stories down the road.

16. Have patience with the difficult people - They'll come back around, and you will have been the bigger person. Snaps.
17. Getting embarrassed is a waste of energy - No one remembers when you just laugh it off, so just laugh it off.

18. Your AP Government teacher who told you you probably wouldn't amount to much because you couldn't care less about PACs? - He can respectfully go fuck himself. And if you had told him so to his face it wouldn't have mattered in the long run. Hindsight is 20/20.
19. A walk of shame is not shameful if your hair looks good - Finger comb, shoulders back, work it.
20. Call your grandma - At least twice a week. She enjoys this. She will like you better than the rest of the family. They will argue this point. They are wrong.
21. Running on the treadmill for 15 minutes doesn't count - Permissible because you've still got a rapid fire metabolism on your side, but refer to #7. Step it up before it's too late.
22. Most of the guys you know today will look like 40 year olds in six years - Cut your losses, it's for the best.
23. Succumb to saying "y'all" for the time being - It's not the only regional accent you'll adopt in your life, might as well just enjoy it while it lasts.
24. Keep writing - It's working. :)

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Ugly Boybanders of Yesteryear

I went to the Backstreet Boys concert this past weekend. Needless to say, it was one of the best nights of my year, if not my entire life, and my best friend and I couldn’t say anything but, “Oh my God! That was amazing!” for the majority of the ride home.

At the beginning of the concert, the boys’ faces flashed up on the big screen one by one, causing pandemonium that, in hindsight, was probably a little embarrassing for a crowd of 23-30 year old women. Nick pops up? Vocal cords exploded. AJ? Everyone realized that the bad-boy phase they went through when they were 18 wasn’t totally over. Kevin? The girls who go for bar dads and/or appreciate thick eyebrows had a field day. My best friend and I personally lost our shit when Brian appeared, because we were wise beyond our years back in elementary school and inherently knew that he would forever and always be the hottest person in the band alive.

And then came Howie’s face, and we were all reminded of something that just seemed to be a fact of life when we were young: no one likes Howie. Like, there was barely a woo. It’s nothing against him personally, and it’s not like he’s a completely unfortunate-looking guy, but every boy band of the 90’s needed their token boring ugly dude, and for BSB, Howie was/is it. I think he accepts it now and uses the lack of attention to do whatever he wants on stage aka drinking a random fan’s Bud Light and throwing in inexplicable cha-cha moves. I chopped off my cholo ponytail and still no one loves me?! Fuck it, my only solo is a verse in “Show Me the Meaning of Being Lonely;” give me a beer.

Not helping your case, bro

I felt bad for the crowd’s lack of enthusiasm for Howie, but I realized that he simply got the short end of the boy band stick, and was a part of an elite crowd of once-famous male performers from the late 90s/early 00s that everyone knew existed but that no one cared to remember the names of. Quite frankly, Howie should feel pretty great about himself, because I think he might be one of the most popular ones on the list of Ugly Boy Banders of Yesteryear. It’s the little things in life, everybody.

Chris Kirkpatrick (*NSYNC) was also ugly. Historically, regardless of if you’re a guy or a girl, you have to be pretty mind-blowingly hot to be white and rock dreads; instead, Chris looked like the creepy human version of a Muppet. Think about it: Lance was obviously not totally “into” all the girl attention from the get-go (but was a terrible dancer? One of life’s many mysteries…) yet I knew plenty of ladies that preferred his likeness to Ellen Degeneres over Chris’s goatee’d doublechin and obtrusive oversize ball chain necklaces. Not even his sweet falsetto could save him then. I drive myself crazy thinking of you, too, Chris, but only because your terrifying face is haunting my dreams and I haven’t slept in weeks.

Justin Jeffre of 98 Degrees really just didn’t even stand a chance. The Lachey brothers were buff and gorgeous, and Jeff Timmons was destined to become a Chippendale, so what role did that leave Justin to lead? You guessed it: the role of the chubby Danny McBride look-a-like with a white trash, bleach blonde Caesar haircut and a convincing air of pedophilia. Singing all of those songs about Jessica Simpson was probably the closest he got to a woman in the band’s entire five-year run. 98 Degrees was supposed to be the band that could beat up all the other bands, which I guess meant that Justin was the lazy friend/hype man in the back who just yelled, “YOU DON’T WANT THIS! YOU DON’T WANT THIS!” while nudging Nick forward and hoping everyone would just call a truce so he could go back home and finish playing PS2 all by himself.

In theory, I suppose Dan Miller from O-Town isn't a complete dud. However, when you compare him to the beauty that was Ashley Parker Angel or Erik-Michael Estrada, you realize that his misfortune lay in two key factors: his boring, white-bread, three-syllable name, and the fact that his chin strap made him look like a rapist. In fact his whole oral region really bothers me. He's got thick lips that appear to perpetually have lipstick on them, and it's almost like he's got lock-jaw and can only open his mouth wide enough to creep me out as he explains his liquid dreams.

Devin Lima from LFO looks like a fucking vampire, straight up. I have a moral opposition against any male who obviously gets his eyebrows waxed, and between his perfectly-sculpted arches and presumably collagen-filled lips, he's completely crossed the line from metrosexual to potential drag queen. You know in "Heavyweights" where Tony Perkis goes crazy at the end of the movie and somersaults off the chandelier? Devin looks like that on an everyday basis. Apparently he has a new band now called The Cadbury Diesel, which just sounds like a really unfortunate thing to find in your Easter basket.

There is a reason you probably haven't heard of the majority of the guys on this list, and that is because they were outshined by their sexy frontmen, therefore garnering themselves very little (if any) real estate on your locker door. These guys were the DUFFs of their bands--it's unfortunate that they had to suffer the trauma of being no one's favorite, but it had to be done, and for that, the guys who went on to have successful solo careers thank them.

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Surprise Studs (not really): Bar Dads

Here’s a little tip for all of you post-grads out there: Real-world bar life is much different than college bar life.

 

In college bar life, you pregame with your friends for about an hour, listening to 90’s pop and changing your outfit four times. You arrive at the bar to find 80 of your peers crammed into a 16x30-foot space, sucking down pitchers of watery beer and pretending to be big spenders by buying a round of Sauza shots that actually come to about $2 a pop. You know everyone there, you commiserate about your most recent Business Statistics test, and then you go home with the kid you went home with last weekend who you swore you would never go home with again because he’s like, such a douche.

 

It’s fucking heaven.

 

Real-world bar life is much less predictable. First of all, there is no pregaming. Your friends are all meeting for happy hour after work, meaning everyone’s coming from four different directions wearing blazers and heels of a sensible height. You will order a glass of wine, maybe a margarita because it’s “Thirsty Thursdayyyyy!” and you’re still gripping onto memories of senior year. Very few people your age are there. In fact, very few people you know at all are there, but there is one specimen whose attendance you can be certain of: The Bar Dad.

 

Nice try, Jon Gosselin

He is very easy to spot. Unlike the businessboys of our generation who stay fly til they die rockin’ Microtwill Photographer Suit Pants from Express Men, the Bar Dad’s suit was $650 from Jos. A. Bank and no he did NOT wait for the buy one get two free sale. Everything is tailored to perfection, so much so that it does a pretty spectacular job of hiding his 55-year-old spare tire. His black leather loafers with tassels mean business, as does his slicked-back flow. He wears cufflinks….EVERY DAY. WHAT THE FUCK.

 

Needless to say, you’re impassively curious as to how Bar Dad achieved his success. Don’t worry, he’ll tell you, but not before summoning whatever bit of 25-year-old suaveness he has left and beginning the conversation with an awkwardly confident, “Well helLO there."

 

“Hi,” you respond, suddenly wishing you were wearing your high school “Class of 2008” t-shirt or Chuck Taylors or feather extensions or ANYTHING that would communicate, “I’m too young for you, bro.” Damn this pencil skirt to hell, seriously. He asks what you do. You’ve perfected making your entry-level job sound a lot more prestigious than it actually is, so you immediately spit out, “I’m an assistant project manager for an information technology company!” i.e. you staple the project manager’s daily schedule together and watch Pretty Little Liars on Hulu.

 

“Way cool,” he responds, because that’s what a young guy would say, right? He starts describing his career—an executive at an asset management firm. He pauses for effect, as if you have any clue what that entails, and then goes on to casually describe how they just entered a joint venture with a European money manager, as if you have any clue what that means. Thank God he mentioned Europe, because it was the perfect segue into describing his love for cross-country skiing and how he just went to Italy this past winter to a resort in Pragelato.

 

 

 

“I’ve never been skiing,” you accidentally offer, a mistake you immediately regret as you notice the sparkle of potential romantic opportunity light up his eyes.

 

“Heh heh, well maybe we’ll start you on something smaller than the Alps. I rent out a place in Aspen every few years, you should come with me.”

 

“Aspen, where the beer flows like wine?”

 

He doesn’t get the reference, but continues to woo you with, “Yeah, we don’t want you to take on the BIG ones until you’re ready.” (Ew.)

 

At about this time, you’re throwing your friends a major stink eye, because they’re dying laughing at your misfortune from across the bar. He’s oblivious to you mouthing, “FUCK YOU GUYS” as he describes his various other vacation spots and sports cars and tee times with clients who are apparently a big deal but you wouldn’t know. He finally steps off his soapbox and asks what you like to do for fun. You carefully sort through your hobbies, trying to sound as boring as possible so he’ll leave you for the administrative assistant slut that just walked in.

 

“Well, uh, I like the beach and reading and I like to work out.”

 

“Heh heh, trust me, I can tell.” *wink* (Ew.)

 

 

 

Make a mental note to wear muumuus to happy hour for the rest of your life.

 

"What beach do you like to go to?” he asks, and you weirdly feel like you should say Caños de Meca or Crete or basically anywhere but Ocean City, Maryland. Does this guy go to nude beaches in Europe? WHY DID YOU JUST IMAGINE THAT.

 

Cautiously, you mention that you and your friends went to Delaware for Memorial Day Weekend and he excitedly responds, “My daughter was there that weekend too!” and starts to break out his phone for pictures.

 

“WELP my friends are over there waiting for me but it was really nice meeting you!” you say with a wave. He tries to buy you a drink but you’re screaming, “No thanks!” from across the room and vowing to your friends that because of this they will be wearing the ugliest bridesmaids dresses imaginable.

 

Bar Dad is always there, always waiting, always hoping that you’re desperate enough for a Sugar Daddy to take him up on his lavish offers and play Step Mom to a girl your own age. Feel free to accept his free drinks, but everything else is just weird. Rest assured: most Bar Dads keep their Bar Dad behavior at the bar, but if you notice your boss comes creeping by the receptionist desk upwards of five times a day and is always asking you where they keep the extra paper clips, it’s fair to assume who you’ll be avoiding later this evening.

 

Note her look of sheer terror

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Thrust into the Real World: Month 10

This month, the creepers came out to play. Reasonably warm weather and the fact that I emerged from my hermit shell (aka my bed, in yoga pants, with my hood up) led me into the outside world. There, I was quickly reacquainted with strange men with zero perception of just how unwelcome their forwardness and ineffective pick-up lines truly were.

Here are a few of my favorite interactions:

Chris the Wigger:
“Ay girl.”
“..Hi.”
"You’s beautiful.”
“Well thank you.”
“You a country girl?”
“What?”
“You a country girl? You from da country?”
“…I like being outside…?”
“We should go four-wheeling sometime.”
“Yeah.”
“Lemme get yo number, we can go four-wheeling. On a four-wheeler.”
“Great.”
“So what’s yo number beautiful?”
“How about I get your number instead?”
“Aiight dat’s coo.”
[Gives me number. Watches me put it in my phone. In a rookie move, looks away for a split second. I delete his number.]
“Alright, I’ve got it!”
“You should call me and we’ll cheel, aiight?”
“I’m psyched.”
“You look cold. Wanna wear my jacket?”
“Not really.”
“Aiight dat’s coo.”

Dubiously “Olympic” Gymnast:
“I was in the Olympics.”
“Are you sure?”

 

iPhone App Developer:
[After finding out that he lives in my neighborhood]
“I live on Ferrier’s Court. Where do you live?”
“…Close to there.”
“How close?”
“Pretty close.”
“Like the next street over? The street after that?”
“Well it’s a big neighborhood so maybe it’s not as close as I thought.”
“Hunter Green Circle? Raspberry Drive?”
“….”
“Cranberry Street? We should hang out; I’m lonely in my house. I live there by myself. Alone.”
“You know actually I don’t think I live there anymore.”

Robbie the Dead Head:

*Whistles*
“…”
“You are gawrgeous, baby.”
“Thanks.”
“What’s yer name?”
(in my head: Veronica? Jade? Whitney? Felicia?)
“Skylar.” (in my head: FUCK.)
“HOO HOO re-heally? I live on Skylar street!”
“Really? That’s cool. How’s it spelled?”
“S-C-H-I-L-E-R! Why how do you spell yer name hunneh?”
“Exactly like that. WHAT a coincidence. Is there a street sign?”
“Yeah.”
“You should steal me the street sign so I can hang it in my room.”
“WE should steal the street sign together. What’s yer number baby?”
“I’m afraid of danger. How about I get your number, and I call you in a few weeks to see if you’ve stolen it for me yet?”
“Well all raht!”
“Yay.”

Surprise Stud: Jason Mraz

From listening to him speak, you would think that Jason Mraz was a quintessential over-emotional, my-guitar-communicates-my-pain, I’ve-dated-Taylor-Swift musician. He sounds like he voluntarily reads bedtime stories to terminally ill children every Wednesday night and has three pet Dollface Persian Kittens.  

This sweet and smooth voice is very deceiving.

The guy is a freak.

We’ve all listened to his radio hits and just thought they were poppy little songs showcasing Mraz’s impeccable diction. False. They are so effing sexual. “I can save you from unoriginal dum-dums/Who wouldn't care if you com...plete them or not”? “I'm yearning to turn you on/I've been working on getting you off, so get on board”? Jason Mraz isn’t a virgin?! This is worse than when I found out Jason the Red Ranger became a porn star.

When he’s not banging hot chicks, we’d all like to believe that Mraz was planting peonies in his garden. If by “peonies” we meant “marijuana,” we’d be right. He’s a huge pothead! In 2009, he marched to “Free the Weed” and has been quoted as saying, “Pot laws are ridiculous.” He’s even been arrested for possession! What?! I guess this explains his laid-back vibe and brings a whole new meaning to his song “Live High.”

He first premiered on the scene with “The Remedy” and basically looked like every half-cool college guy with an ironic t-shirt who got his hair trimmed every six weeks. Now, he’s coming at us with Jesus hair, hippie beanies, and an array of philanthropic work that makes Dave Matthews look like Hitler. His scruffy man-beard is a thing of beauty. I have to congratulate Mr. A to Z on keeping up appearances for so long, because it’s quite obvious that now that he’s achieved repeated success, he’s going for the gusto and letting it all hang out. I can’t knock him for being a bit of a manwhore or being a fan of the ganja, but I’d be lying if I said it didn’t all take me by surprise. For some reason, I expect these things out of John Mayer…but then again, he is THE quintessential over-emotional, my-guitar-communicates-my-pain, I’ve-dated-Taylor-Swift musician. Score one for Jason. 

Frienemies

Surprise Stud: The Hinge

When I first came to college and didn’t know anyone, I would identify certain people by nicknames. I now know the names of Highlighter Shirt Kid, Pukes-And-Brushes-Her-Hair, The Shnoz, and Fishface, but that doesn’t mean I ever stopped using the nicknames, and I probably never will. Giving a person a nickname grants you a lot more conversational freedom, because talking about someone “behind their back” right in front of them is like, way more respectful. Duh, it’s called manners.

I was once told that guys spoke in code around girls so that they could talk freely about them with the girl being none the wiser (sketchy), but SURPRISE we do the same thing. I love giving guys nicknames because even if the one they are awarded is painfully obvious to the rest of the world, generally the guy has no idea he’s being talked about, which gives me a hearty chuckle. Let’s explore my favorite and most widespread (among my friends, at least) nickname invention. I’m gonna need to copyright this shit:

If you are one of the 0.0001% of red-headed males out there who are actually attractive, and you have ever been around me, you have probably heard the word “Hinge” thrown around quite a bit. Congratulations, unlikely-babe magnet, I’m talking about you. A Hinge is a Hot Ginge[r]. That’s right, an attractive person sharing a follicle-likeness to Carrot Top. I didn’t think it was possible either. Jokes about the carpet matching the drapes and a lack of soul aside, a Hinge should own his Hingeness, because when girls realize what a hot commodity and rare occurrence a decent looking red-headed guy is, they pounce. It’s a part of every girl’s bucket list, promise! Red-headed females are especially fond of Hinges, because if they’re going to repopulate a species, they might as well give the next generation a fighting chance with a strand of surprisingly sexy DNA. A Hinge cannot be determined by anyone except an outside source, aka a girl, because if Hinges were all going around self-proclaiming Hinge-dom, Rupert Grint might actually stand a fighting chance in society (sorry, Ron). If you’re a guy and a ginger, keep on crossing those fingers that you make the cut. You probably don’t, but at least you distracted yourself from your unfortunate freckly knuckles and lower-than-average life expectancy. 



A thousand times yes.

Potential...

SAVE ME JESUS

Fat Bottomed Boys

I don’t think it’s fair that guys get to go to college, gain 40 pounds, and call it “Broin’ Out,” but if I happen to make friends with the Subway guy and he knows my meatball sub order backward and forward, having a little extra junk in my trunk is the worst thing I could do. The pool in my apartment complex opens in a couple of weeks, and I’ve been prepping for that day since November. Yes, November. You know what that’s called, boys? Maintaining the magic. Remember a few years ago when you were all strutting around with your ripped arms and sick abs and girls thought you were hot? Well after three years of beer, Qdoba, and Call of Duty, your stomach is one big pillow of shame and the only “hot” thing I can think of is the oven I’d rather stick my head into than be forced to look at your shirtless sack of embarrassment and defeat. You know what’s a lot of fun? Not hooking up with someone who’s spent the winter months harvesting a layer of flubber, that’s for sure. Listen baby beluga, I understand that you’re not the star of your high school football team anymore and the club lacrosse team is “full of a bunch of fags who can’t play,” but I also know that I run the risk of becoming a Butterbody and do everything in my power to avoid such a catastrophe. I expect you to do the same. Spending an hour powerlifting in the gym one day a week – sounding like you’re blowing your load and dying simultaneously – is not going to get the job done.

You’ve got a girlfriend? Not for long, Jack Black. Nice job sealing the deal when you still looked like Gerard Butler circa 300, but if you’re grabbing ass as she’s grabbing love handle, girl’s not gonna be around much longer. You see, while you’ve been perfecting the dent in your couch cushion, some of your fellow males have been quietly keeping themselves in line and emerging as Surprise Studs. I’m sure your personality has maintained all of its humor and chillness over the past few years, but college is absolutely a beauty contest, and a competition between his biceps and your razor sharp wit is really no competition at all.

Honestly, I’m sorry that you lost your sex appeal. I’m sorry that countless cases of Bud Light and bottomless Saver Sacks have brought you to this truly unattractive and unfortunate place in your life. I’m REALLY sorry that you fail to see the problem with any of this, because come pool time I know your pale manboobs are going to accost my eyesight and I’ll be scarred for life.

Hopefully I’ll see you on a P90X commercial in the near future…or, more realistically, The Biggest Loser. A title you so thoroughly deserve.