Hard To Get

I was talking (which means, complaining) to a friend the other day (which means, back in September) about relationships and dating. "WHY can't people just tell each other how they FEEL?" I lamented. "Why are there all these tricks and "codes" and signals and secret handshakes and "blink twice rapidly if you want to go on a second date" things?" He was sympathetic. "How did you meet your girlfriend? Was it simple?" I asked. Oh, she wouldn't even TALK to me at first, let alone date me. Hold the phone. I was aghast and not even because I had a crush on the guy at the time and was like "you should let me love you, let me be the one to, give you everything you want and need." That was definitely not why I was aghast.

Something about the whole thing bothered me, and, apparently, still bothers me. I know that if I was attracted to some guy on a basic level, but he was purposely treating me like I didn't exist, my friends would say something along the lines of Forget about him, gurl. He doesn't know what he's missing! Now lets drink. They wouldn't encourage me to pursue him as a challenge-mode to be felled (and seduced). The opposite seems to be true for guys, though. I mean, I can't count how many movies show decent guys falling for emotionally unavailable or just downright uninterested girls. Of course, there's generally the trusty best friend, a girl, who secretly loves the boy but SHE'S JUST TOO NICE FOR HIM. The lack of interest is viewed as an obstacle to overcome, not a deterrent.

From my impressively-extensive television and movie-watching experience, I've been taught that I am supposed to be hard to get, a tough cookie, aloof. Now, if you know me, at all, even slightly, you know that I am not aloof. A loofah maybe, but not aloof (No, I'm not going to apologize for that). I've always been of the mindset that feelings should exist outside of your head and heart - they should be shared and voiced and poem-icised and turned into simple, bad ukulele songs. If I like someone, why should I pretend not to? That's never made sense to me, but it seems to make sense to so much of the world. I came across this quote on tumblr (I know, I know) that was by, I think, good old F. Scott Fitzgerald, and was something along the lines of, "The girl really worth having isn't going to wait for anyone." And hey, I almost reblogged it. That sounds good, you know, I am a strong independent woman, I WAIT FOR NO MAN. But then I found something nagging me about it, the same naggy discomfort I felt when my friend told me his girlfriend wouldn't even talk to him at first. The girl who doesn't give up on someone she cares about, on something she believes in, is for some reason less valuable than a girl who isn't willing to "wait" for it/him/her, whatever "waiting" means? Though a little different, it was the same idea from the romantic comedies I grew up watching, repeated in a story written by someone writing in the 1920's. WHAT?

Obviously not every relationship starts with one person pursuing someone who has flat-out turned them down, and not every person who's turned down is going to be like, CHALLENGE ACCEPTED. But for the whole of my "romantic" life people have been telling me how to "hook a man": play hard to get, unbutton the top button of your blouse (that was my grandmother, btw), chew like you have a secret, don't give too much away, don't kiss him on the first date, don't ever SAY that you like him. I've never understood all that much of it, though. Not that I have, uh, much authority here, but I think some of the last things that should be involved with feelings and relationships are games and tricks and sorcery or whatever. Some strategy? I get that. I've pulled a Ted Mosby or two, and you probably shouldn't tell someone you love them on a first date. But liking someone and telling them, and showing them? Shouldn't it be as easy as that?


According to my blog, I only wear this sweater. I'm alright with this depiction of myself.

Dress: Madewell, Sweater: Urban Outfitters sale, Belt: Some pair of pants,
Shoes: Ruche, Bag: Elanor, Sunglasses: Target, Eventual hat: Dad's








Until tomorrow,
Nicole

Old School

I spent yesterday afternoon with my good pal Kerri (who some of you internet folk may know) at a rehearsal of a John and Hank Green show, that also included a guest performance by Kimya Dawson (I know, I know). Before hand, though, we decided to grab some lunch at whole foods. Amidst fawning over Thorin, Fili and Kili, discussing a mutual distaste for loud chewing and our inabilities to sleep at night, and more fawning over Thorin, Fili and Kili, we stumbled onto the topic of my writing. Or, rather, she just asked me about. I mentioned in my last post that I was trying to write a sonnet sequence, so I started to tell her about it, too. As I was talking, though, I kind of rambled my way into a fear-laden rant about whether or not anything I do creatively "matters." "Does anyone even CARE if I'm writing a heartfelt sonnet about a lobster? Am I ADDING anything meaningful to the world of poetry?" I was about ready to dramatically throw my prosciutto panini at the loudly chewing man behind us (ya'll know I'd never actually do that, I love food too much to just waste it like that) when she was like, "GURL." And I was like, "I am bereft." But then she was subsequently like, "Of course it matters. Are you just not going to make a movie because someone else in the world's made a movie? NO. You are going to put your spin on an idea, and that matters."

I think she's right. Well, CORRECTION. I know she's right, I just fully haven't convinced my naggy little neurosis gremlins that my work matters. But it does. One of my favorite things about literature is its ability to remind me that the human experience transcends time or culture. Homer was writing about longing and love way back in ancient Greece. Lord Byron was writing about wanting to bang all the fine-ass ladies of the 1800's. Emily Dickinson struggled with the themes of death and anxiety long before I did. So, why should I not write love poems, or any other sort of poem, just because people have been doing it forever? Why should I not write for the exact reason that I love writing and reading so much? I think that being passionate about something, whether it's a person, a dwarf, or a creative outlet, requires vulnerability. There's something about writing that makes me so scared, and so uncertain, and so fearful that I'm doing it wrong, or that I'm not "worthy" of being a writer, like I'm doing an injustice to Homer, Lord Byron, and Emily Dickinson if I even try to write a sonnet. And it's because I care so much that I know I have to keep going.

This tale is from yesterday, but these photos are from today. I've been wearing these jeans pretty much non-stop, and this back-pack was a Christmas present I'm very excited to use. I just feel like a cool prep-school punk in this outfit, and I really like it.

Oh, and by the way, you may have noticed a new link in my sidebar. Catch a Tiger By the Toe is my 365 poetry project, that I started to keep me on my toes about this sonnet sequence. I try to write at least one line a day. Follow along if you like.

Jeans: JCrew, Blouse: Old Navy, Sweater: Urban Outfitters sale, Backpack: Herschel












Until tomorrow,
Nicole

The Wanting Comes in Waves

You guys are great. Really. I'm not just trying to flatter you or anything. You're really great! Over the past year especially, I've wanted this blog to become a safe place for me to overshare, and for you guys to share your stories if you feel inclined. So, I just wanted to thank you for your kind words and inspiring stories on my last post. I mentioned in that post that my main goal for the new year was focus. I haven't been all that focused lately, but I have been thoughtful about what I want, and that's at least something. Around the end of December, I came up with this silly idea for a sonnet sequence. I think I was, like, on the express bus coming home from a day in the city when I thought of it, or something very ordinary like that. One of the many things that makes writing difficult for me is this idea of "inspiration." I'm in no position to declare what the "most important" thing you need to have in order to be a real deal writer is, but I will say that I've learned discipline is at least on par with inspiration. Maybe I'm just inclined to say that because it's also one of the most difficult parts about writing for me. As convenient for me as it would be for "inspiration" to just happen, there's work to be done. I think my brain always needs to be turned on to poetry. It's got to be searching for and recognizing what can be a poem, a first line, a metaphor. It's hard work, and I forget that (or ignore it) too frequently. So, giving myself this project, and not "waiting" for something to "speak to me" (oh my god that was like the worst thing I've ever typed), is terrifying. I'm not giving myself any sort of deadline, and even if nothing comes of it, it's something I need to try. It's easy, or at least easier, to write something when you're in a class, and it's required. There's a push there, and it's nice to have a force of motivation. But, I'm graduating (very very very, oh my god, very) soon, and I'm going to be the only person there to push myself. So, here goes a test run!


Another goal, like I said, was to get comfortable with my body, and figure out how to use my old clothes to dress myself in a way that feels good. I used to be more into experimenting with my clothes, spending late nights putting outfits together in front of my mirror. And while that's not too much my thing anymore (that may be a lie), I think a bit of creativity could come in handy in figuring this out.

blouse: Levi's, Tee: Threadless, Skirt: H&M, Shoes: Clarks











This is how I dance (not really) (really).


Until tomorrow,
Nicole

Body Talk

I was going to do one of those yearly round-up posts, I really was. But then I was like, "Noooooooooo." I actually said that, really. Aloud, to myself. You see, I did the work of it. I went through a year's worth of blog posts and picked my favorite outfit from each month. But, as I went further and further back, I got glummer and glummer. It had nothing to do with the year itself, as I've had a wild and crazy and wonderful and adventurous 2012. No, it had to do with, as is the tendency with fashion blogs, how I looked. As I scrolled into the past, all I could see were smaller breasts and smaller thighs (I was apparently a chicken for most of 2012). And who wants to start off a new year reminiscing about the size of their thighs? Not me, no sir.

So instead, I want to talk a little about my body. You guys may have noticed that I've dropped off the face of the flat blogging world like it was the time of fashion blogger Christopher Columbus. Sure, I've been busy, and yes, it's been the holiday season (so hoop-dee-doo, and dickory-dock, and don't forget to hang up your sock) but I've always been busy, and it's always Christmas (if only, am I right). The truth of the matter is that I don't have the same body I had a year ago, or even, heck, six months ago, and I don't really know what to do with it.

Because I enjoy coating my misery in a delicious layer of light-hearted humor, I've been telling my family and close friends, when it comes up, that "MY BODY'S JUST GOING THROUGH A LOT OF CHANGES RIGHT NOW," like I'm 13 again. But honestly, my body is going through a lot of changes right now and I'm just sort of like, WHAT IS THIS PUBESCENT SORCERY?

When I started this blog, I also started a "weight loss journey." I kind of like that dumb phrase, because losing weight is this journey where you have to sort of machete your way through things and fall down cliffs and chart new territory and try not to eat all of the cupcakes. But, I digress. This past summer, I was at my lowest weight, and had just finished training for and running a 5k. I had finally figured out how to dress myself in a way that felt both flattering and reflective of my personality.

Since then, I've gained about 10 pounds. But this isn't just a weight thing. My breasts feel huge, you guys. I don't even know. My bras don't even fit, which means it's going to be a long sojourn through jiggle city until I fork over the money for a new Victoria's Secret bra. I've got stretch marks in a whole lot of areas I'm already self-conscious about. A thyroid problem I've had for, probably, my whole life has been causing a lot more body hair to grow, and I already have plenty. I've always been self-conscious about it all, and have struggled a lot lately with the wondrous world of hair-removal products and techniques, shaping and trimming, bleaching and tweezing. I have very mixed feelings about female hair removal, but I can't deny that all of mine makes me feel more than a little self-conscious (mostly in the "but will boys think I'm GROSS?!" way, which is probably the worst way). And this is going to sound weird, I'm sure (because going on about body hair for a paragraph isn't weird), but I feel like my face looks different. Older. Wider? Wiser? Just different. And frankly, I'm a little overwhelmed by it all.

A big part (the biggest part) of having a fashion blog is taking photos of yourself as frequently as possible, saying, to an extent, look at me and what I'm wearing. And frankly, I haven't been wanting to extend that invitation very far lately. It's not an "I'm ugly and I hate my body" situation, though I have plenty of days where I just glare, gut extended at my side profile in the mirror saying LOOK AT THE MONSTER YOU'VE CREATED. Really, it's more of an "I have no idea what the hell I'm doing" situation. I don't know what I'm doing, and I feel a little, well, wrong, saying "look at my style, be inspired," when I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know what shapes work best on my new boxy hips and larger waist, I don't know how to be both a lumberjack and a JCrew model, I don't know what cream concoction gets rid of stretch marks best, I don't know how the hell to "landscape" my body hair, but at Christmas my cousin was going on about MANSCAPING and I wanted to punch him in the FACE because I am a WOMAN and I am supposed to KNOW what the HELL to do with my BODY HAIR, not my MAN COUSIN who is a MAN and doesn't have social pressures to be a HAIRLESS PORCELAIN GODDESS.

Hoo. Got a little carried away there. Let's bring it back down. Let's think of kittens. Kittens in little boots. And hats. Ahh, there we go.

I just finished up a, probably incomplete, list of new year's resolutions, and while one of them is "become comfortable with my body," whatever that entails, I think my main goal for the year is to focus. Focus on writing and getting published. Focus on getting healthy. Focus on what I really want for myself and how I want to achieve it. I don't think that losing 30 pounds and going hairless is going to make me "comfortable with my body." I think there is a way for me to be comfortable, though, and I just need to focus on what that would be, how to be comfortable. I took these pictures with my mother this morning and stopped halfway through, saying my outfit made me look fat, and that I probably should stop fashion blogging altogether. After thinking about it, I realized quitting probably wasn't going to help anything. So, instead, I decided to put up some of the photos from today, because after looking at them again I realized I was probably being a bit hard on myself (surprise, surprise). So, let's raise a metaphorical new year's eve toast to focusing on what we truly want and how to achieve it, to having body hair if you want it, and to realizing there is beauty even when you're sure there isn't.

Shirt: Delia's, Denim shirt: Madewell (gift), Jeans: Urban Outfitters, Boots: Dolce Vita (gift)






playing the accordion on my shirt, apparently.


Until tomorrow,
Nicole

Litte Bits and Big Changes

This is Nicole Testa here, reporting to you live from beneath three blankets, a pile of dirty laundry and roughly 47 books. The only false thing about that sentence is that I'm not a news reporter. I've just finished up my work for this fall semester and am very slowly (think baby sloth) burrowing my way back to reality, one Sufjan Stevens Christmas album at a time. It's so strange to me that I've managed to neglect this blog for so long, especially since things have been changing a bit up in here, up in here. One might even say these changes made me act a fool up in here, up in here. I'm sorry, I couldn't help it (I'm not sorry, but I couldn't have helped it).

You might have read my post, "The Giver," a few days (weeks, months, YEARS? Okay, definitely not years) ago, or you might have started and been like screw this after a few sentences. That post felt weird didn't it? Ew, that post. Let's just put it behind us. Except for that jumper. Let's put that jumper on me. The problem, I think, is that last week, I had a lot of things I wanted to say, but I wasn't ready to say them. I was jumping the gun on saying things that I really couldn't talk about at the time, and what resulted was this weird, sort of self-righteous, not even completely honest post that made me go "yuck-o, buck-o" (I probably didn't actually say that).

The main change I'm talking vaguely about is that I quit my part-time job last Friday. There were a lot of reasons, most of them personal. This was no easy decision, no-sirree Bob. Or, the Christmas version, "no-sirree, Parson Brown." This semester was difficult. I had too much on my plate to be happy, and the problem was that it was all voluntary. I put that stress-food on my plate myself. And let me tell you, stress-food is gross, like liver or brussels sprouts or Flinstones vitamins. Next semester will be my final semester of college, possibly my final semester in "school," and I want to participate in it. I want to find new opportunities for myself, experience new things. I want to spend all morning dissecting an Emily Dickinson poem while that is still part of my job as a student. I want to at least try to be social (???) and do some silly and not so silly college things while I still can. I want to graduate with as few regrets as possible.

One of the wisest people I know told me repeatedly over the past few months that if you're not happy at your job, if your work doesn't make you feel good, then there's no reason to stay. I know that it's not that easy, but it is very, very important. It is important to feel valuable, and safe, and productive, and excited - especially when you're still young and figuring things out. And I was neglecting my itch to "expand my horizons," to seek a new happiness when the old one had run dry. But now I am determined to scratch the itch (literally and figuratively, btw). I am so excited to have found an amazing internship for this spring at a place called Figment (some of you folks might remember I entered a poetry contest there last year and asked for you to help by voting for me. Thanks for that, again). I'll be doing a lot of work that I care about, and learning a lot of new things, and traveling to the city and probably drinking too much flavored coffee. It just feels like a right decision in so many ways, and that is a swell feeling.

This semester has been one of so many goodbyes, of so many instances of me feeling like time was running out on me while I scrambled to find my balance, to find the right words to say to the right people. I know everyone is, like, stereotypically "bad at goodbyes," because honestly, if you met a person who was excellent at goodbyes you'd probably think they were a real jerk. But, I am especially bad, because I cling, and don't see the point in any relationship (with a few exceptions) being final, which is not a viewpoint everyone shares, as I have found. But as I say goodbye to friends graduating early, co-workers with superb facial hair, old jobs, old classes, old pairs of tights, I take pride in knowing that it is possible to move forward without losing the things you leave behind, that you can take leaps and do new, exciting, scary things, and only have to say "but I'll see you soon, because I love you." Now, let's all raise the hypothetical Caramel Brulee Lattes we all wish we had and toast to progress without forgetfulness, and the good  selfishness that can be really hard sometimes, but is necessary if we want to grow and find out how wide our arm spans can really be.

I know that indoor photos are a no-no, unless there's like, daylight, and a white, blank wall or whatever, but outdoor shots were just not happening today (or yesterday, or the day before that), and hey, at least there's a Christmas tree?

Dress: Vintage, Sweater: H&M














Until tomorrow,
Nicole

Doodle Do

So, let's just put it out there that OH HEY, I really shouldn't be on blogger right now because OH HEY, I have eight thousand (give or take 7,990) final projects to do, but OH HEY, here I am. Things have been wonk-central over here, personally and school-ally. I'll have a post where I talk about some exciting things soon, but for now, I wanted to put up a little post to say hi, and maybe grab a quick cup of coffee with you guys, before I dash out the door to write 5 final papers. Some of you may know that I love poetry, though I'm very shy about sharing it here. Someday, maybe. Something that's been really calming this semester, though, is doodling. Back in high school, we didn't have creative writing classes, so instead I tried out visual art. I'm not so good at it, but I still enjoy it. So, I thought it would be fun to just share some doodles I've done lately with you guys. Someday, when I stop being a big ol' wimpity wimp, maybe you'll get some poems, but for now, DOODLES!












Until tomorrow,
Nicole

The Giver

No, no, no. Not that The Giver. Though, Lois Lowry certainly is an author worth talking about. I'm more so talking about myself, but I'm inclined to delete this sentence because WOW, does that make it seem like this is going to be a disgustingly self-glorifying blog post about how freaking charitable I am or whatever. But fear not, that's not my intent. At all. In fact, there's probably going to be a good deal of self-deprecation in this post. Here here!

What I really want to talk about is giving and giving and getting attached and becoming a semi-endearing host for a whole bunch of sometimes attractive but often not completely worth it love leaches. Got it? Cool.

I was talking to a friend tonight night over an abundance of Mexican food about a current crisis I'm dealing with (I'll just let you guess at it based on your current knowledge of my life, it's more fun when posts are interactive). I was sort of (read:very much so, in a high pitched whine) going on about how I feel guilty and responsible for making a good, solid decision that benefits me but inconveniences someone I care too much about. As I fretted, she sighed and said, "Nicole, you are a giver." I stared into the abyss of Mexican rice on my plate and took a very long sip of sangria.

Here is where I attempt to define what a giver is, not at all ever based at all on my personal experience. Because what do I know about that. A giver is a special creature who is pretty bashful and sometimes lives in a small hovel type dwelling, a la a fox. Maybe they just spend a lot of time in their bedrooms. Wherever they are, they are generally spending at least some of their time thinking of sweet things to say or creating thoughtful gifts to give the people they think are really swell. They are known to try too hard, harder than the person they think is really swell, and often they inconvenience themselves for people who sometimes deserve love and warm gestures, but plenty of times so totally do not even deserve a low-five.

Okay, I lied, that definition is 100% solely based on me. I've always been a fan of gifts. Now you're saying to yourself/me, "Nicole, that's such a dumb thing to say, who doesn't like gifts?" But what I mean is, I like the idea of a gift a whole lot. I love the idea of getting someone something meaningful just because you like them. Just because you like them! That's all. You think to yourself, "I really think that person's swell, and I want to make them happy, so I'm going to do/make/find/buy/carve/cook this for them, and they're going to DIG IT." That makes me happy. It is also a huge part of my personality (to a fault?) to show my like, and speak my like, for other people. Often, though, I've found that the sentiment isn't reciprocated. That doesn't stop me though. Because you are still my friend, someone I like a whole lot, and by gum, I'm going to keep at it.

I'm not saying here that, oh wow, I am a very sweet person and it is such a problem because I am just TOO SWEET. No, sirree Bob. It's more of an argument that I have an insecurity that folks won't love me unless it is known, and known via expressing it early on, and loudly. How does this tie in to my lamenting over making a decision that benefits myself? PERFECTLY, I THINK. This need to make others happy and insecurity that if I am not proactively being like LOOK, LOOK I MADE YOU A SWEATER MADE OUT OF APPLE PIES BECAUSE I KNOW YOU LOVE SWEATERS AND APPLE PIES, then that person isn't aware that I care. And making a decision that benefits only me and has a side effect of inconveniencing another person, any like or love that person felt for me must hypothetically fly out the hypothetical window, right?

Wrong. One of the quotes I've most frequently heard in my life is something along the lines of "If someone was really going to drop you that easily, then they're not worth your time." But that's also one of the hardest things for me to remember. Sure, a person isn't a good friend, and is likely not worth having in your life, if they're going to lose their like of you at the drop of a hat. Unless it was a glass family heirloom hat that you angrily threw on the floor to break and insult them. That's understandable.

It's one of many things I'm working on, and can be categorized under the broad umbrella heading of knowing your own worth - something I seem to always come back to. Lately I've noticed more and more reciprocation in my life. And honestly, maybe it was always there, or always trying to be, but I was too insecure to see it. But now I'm starting to see it. Here here, am I right?

Oh, and I'm wearing an outfit I like.

Jumper: Beacon's Closet, Top: Levi's, Shoes: Dolce Vita via Marshall's, Coat: Lord & Taylor















Until tomorrow,
Nicole