Browbeaten.

The eyes may be the window to the soul, but the eyebrows are the window to the ego. If you want to know whether or not a girl takes pride in her appearance, look no further than the square space above her peepers. While approaches range from the full form of a Camilla Belle or Olsen twin to the majestic, bordering-on-drag-queen swoops of a Sara Ramirez, the general consensus remains that any choice is better than no choice, and a refusal to participate in female facial landscaping is a relegation to beauty purgatory. Pick apart any Hollywood makeover and there’s a 98% chance that “dramatic transformation” was brought to you by a pair of contact lenses, a well-executed eyebrow wax, and Anne Hathaway. When it comes to universal standards of beauty, eyebrows talk.

I don’t think of myself as an exceptionally high-maintenance person, but I’m admittedly fanatical about my eyebrows. In fact, I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t fanatical about my eyebrows. They’re thin, somewhat patchy, albino blonde, arched at almost imperceptibly different angles, and viciously maintained by yours truly to combat all of the above. Brow patrol isn’t a hugely time-consuming process – think biweekly pluckings and three to five minutes with a silicone pencil every morning – but for me, that minimum baseline is pretty much non-negotiable. As a brunette, I refused to so much as go to the gym without my eyebrows done (in my defense, I looked like an alien au natural). With my natural coloring, I’m a little more laid-back, but I’ll still abandon my unfinished morning crossword to fix my face. And those three to five daily minutes add up to half an hour a week—nearly 34 hours a year.

According to classic wisdom, beauty and brains are incompatible by nature. A woman can be smart, or she can be pretty, but she can only be both if she’s some sort of dark spirit or tragic orphan or socially stunted disaster (or, evidently, post-makeover Anne Hathaway). This, of course, is ludicrous. I can name any number of women who are both brainy and beautiful. Most days, I consider myself to be one of them. And that’s why it makes me queasy to think of the time I spend actively, ritualistically cultivating my eyebrows, my hair, my clothes, my body—while consequently expecting my mind to take care of itself. Because that’s the catch. You can be born brainy, and you can be born beautiful. If you’re lucky, you can be born both brainy and beautiful. But you can’t spend any given moment becoming more brainy and more beautiful at the same time.

Time I spend plucking my eyebrows is time I don’t spending reading, or watching the news, or even watching the world go by. It’s time I spend thinking of literally nothing but metal on hair on skin, and that is a choice I make—a choice that not only reflects my values, but affects my character. It’s not about the eyebrows. It’s not about the media, or Photoshop, or society’s unrealistic expectations. It’s about the time I spend getting prettier when I could be getting smarter. And while the pursuit of beauty has a maximum return – assuming, that is, that you are willing to devote maximum effort to beauty on a regular basis – I would argue that the same cannot be said of intellect. There is enough to know and see and do in this world that the mind can continue growing far beyond the confines of vanity’s outer reach, and the mind doesn’t reset every time you take a shower. From a strictly economic standpoint, ritualizing beauty over brains is illogical.

I don’t see brow patrol disappearing anytime soon. I don’t see myself wearing sweats every day, or bypassing the gym for the library. Nor do I believe that any of this should be required of me. I see genuine value in beauty—in its ability to instill calm, to inspire confidence, and even to ignite the intellect. I’m at peace with the fact that I love things that are ostensibly frivolous. But I can recognize that the time I devote to my appearance is a choice with a consequence, and I can perhaps schedule a counter-ritual that pays my mind the same unremitting regard I do my face and physique. A mandatory weekly writing date. A commitment to finishing the crossword puzzle. A book on tape, so that maybe, just maybe, even as I stare into refracted images of metal on hair on skin, I can absorb a little something more.

Do you ever think about the long-term consequences of your daily routine? To what extent do you ritualize your personal growth?

Broke(n) spirit.

If I had a dollar for every time the words, “Oh, I really shouldn’t spend money,” escaped my lips, I’d have eliminated the need for the phrase. Everyone knows New York City is expensive, but what you can’t understand until you experience it firsthand is that it isn’t an itchy, guilty, well-all-right-if-you-insist kind of expensive. It’s a gross, prohibitive, internally violating kind of expensive. When I’ve visited in the past, I’ve always considered it vacation and gleefully lived beyond my means. Now that I live here, reality is setting in, and I’ll be honest: it’s bleak. I’m not paying rent yet, but I’m saving as though I am, and to say that my new lifestyle has been an adjustment would be an understatement. Last weekend, I had a meltdown at the hair salon. Not because of the bad haircut, but because if I’d wanted a bad haircut, I could have done it myself and bought dinner.

There’s a lot of debt here. But there’s a lot of privilege here, too. I marvel at those who can eat out every time hunger strikes, take cabs up and down the city at will, buy clothes without silently converting them into utilities—even in my own age demographic. I have friends who, by their own merit, make more money than I do. I also have friends who continue to receive postgraduate “financial aid” from their parents. And you know what? It’s not fair for me to resent either camp. It’s fruitless, and it’s none of my business. For a long time, I had it just as good, and the cutoff sure didn’t happen the moment I turned 18. Functionally speaking, financial disparity isn’t going anywhere. Given my profession – which, it bears noting, I chose – and, it bears noting, I love – there’s a good chance I could be just as poor five, ten, twenty years from now. Might as well get used to it.

Perhaps the harshest disparity exists in that awkward moment when your parents’ financial situation ceases to have anything to do with yours. Going from Fairfax County (which boasts the second-highest median income in the United States) and Northwestern (which boasts the second-highest number of North Faces per capita in the United States) to just above the urban poverty line is a hard fall when you’ve had the chance to develop a taste for quality. I’m not talking about designer clothes and five-star restaurants. I mean J.Crew and Fage yogurt. “Affordable luxuries” that currently exist beyond my reach. I’m no princess – I’ve held part-time jobs since I was fifteen, and I’ve long paid for my own clothing and entertainment, as well as textbooks and groceries in recent years – but while I earned that cash myself, I’ve also always had it to spend at my discretion. My basic needs were taken care of, and anything extra I made was just that—extra.

What’s more, in many ways, I do still benefit from my upbringing. My ability to take unpaid internships when I was younger undoubtedly allowed me to get the job I currently have, and the fact that I’m not paying off student loans is a blessing I often take for granted. I have to check myself hard when I’m tempted to be self-righteous about standing on my own two feet (temporary living situation excluded), because social class boundaries are as much about emotional armor as they are about logistical concerns, and nobody wants to hang out with a monetary mean girl. I’m not quite passive-aggressive enough to make jabs like “must be nice,” but I’m totally guilty of volunteering “I can’t afford it” when a simple “no thanks” would suffice. Why? Just like where other people’s money comes from is none of my business, why I’m not spending is none of theirs.

I’d love to say that I’ve come to view my relative poverty as a blessing—something that forces me to take stock of my values. That would be a lie. Honestly, not having money is a major buzzkill, not to mention a source of stress. What I have come to realize, though, is that I don’t want to be a money shamer. I don’t want to preemptively exclude myself by being the bitter poor one. I’d rather help a girlfriend pick out a dress at an upscale department store, obnoxiously try on the entire Jason Wu collection, revel in the fact that I can con the staff into thinking I need to be serviced, and then go home to my well-worn but no less well-fitting favorites. I’d rather swig my Jack Daniels from a water bottle in the cab, and then dance the night away next to suckers holding overpriced mixed drinks (and treat myself to one superb cocktail when the occasion demands). I’d rather pinch pennies all week to drop a small fortune on brunch, and then walk home by way of three different grocery stores to pay 30 cents less for a can of chickpeas.

Have you been guilty of money shaming? Have you been the victim of money shaming? Can you set me up with a sugar daddy?

It’s easy to be Puff, but it’s harder to be Sean.

Left: Sean Combs circa 1987, his senior year of high school. Right: Diddy and Jay, bein’ Diddy and Jay.

Now that writing is my livelihood – specifically, now that writing for someone else is my livelihood – it’s more important than ever for me to keep pushing myself to grow as a writer and to actively cultivate my own voice. I’m fortunate to be able to do what I love all day, and I feel connected to the topics I cover at work (taking risks, finding balance, and empowering women, among others—all things I’ve written about here). That being said, I necessarily approach these subjects differently in the context of my job. The personal anecdotes and conversational style of a blog would be inappropriate in much of what I write for work, and without the reliable crutch of “me,” it would be easy for my writing to go to a very generic place. There, my challenge is to find fresh approaches to familiar ideas, and to do it in ways that aren’t about me. Here, my challenge is to write about me, but to do it in ways that make the “me” part matter.

A pensive moment for Sean (or is it Diddy?) Combs.

I hesitate to even address this, but I got an anonymous comment comparing a post I wrote on my new lunch place to a Yelp review. I genuinely welcome conversation and criticism—me writing about myself to a faceless Internet with no interactive component is pointless, even – especially! – to me. I will always approve negative comments, as long as they aren’t hateful or gratuitous, and I gave this one some thought. Yes, the post was fluffy. And yes, I want to be real on my blog. But the part of me that loves lunch and wants to get better at writing about lunch is as real as the part of me that loves looking deep inside myself and sharing what I find (and the part of me that believes in attaching a name to my opinions, for that matter). Sometimes I want to write a lighthearted restaurant review. Sometimes I want to write something more personal. It’s all me, though. It all takes time and effort, even if only some of it takes courage.

Sorry he’s not sorry.

In my first post, I touched on how I used to use blogging predominantly as a way of controlling my public image. That’s no longer the case. These days, when I write a Diddy ditty instead of a Sean Combs confessional, it’s because I strive for a life of balance, and I hope that the openness of BITE reflects that. Truthfully, though, there is a lot of stormy stuff I’ve shied away from on here. I’m tempted to blame it on timing – first I was job hunting, and now I’m making new friends and don’t want to scare them away by being That Girl – but I would be lying if I didn’t also cop to being afraid. Accountability is the dark side of being a writer. There’s never a convenient time to open a vein. But pushing yourself to grow in your passions isn’t supposed to be comfortable or easy, and I’m feeling increasingly driven to share. Because if I didn’t believe that words could make a difference, I wouldn’t be doing what I do.

Is there an aspect of doing what you love that scares you?

Fish come true.

There’s something palpably tragic about tuna fish. Perhaps it’s the mercury content. Perhaps it’s the cat lady-derivative aroma. Perhaps it’s those poor dolphins—what about the damn dolphins, dammit?! Perhaps it’s the associations of middle school, when I used to brown bag straight cans of tuna in water. Needless to say, I was not as popular as the kid with the Zebra Cakes.

That’s not to say the chicken of the sea is entirely without merit. During a two-year vegetarian stint that recently ended over a perfectly melty and meaty Cajun sandwich (worth it), my chronic protein deficiency would occasionally erupt in raging tuna melt cravings. Rather than resign myself to the classic mayo-and-pickles special, however, I developed an extensive repertoire of ethnic interpretations. Greek. Italian. Indian. Delicious across the board. For all its political incorrectness, tuna is remarkably international.

As a general rule, though, I prefer salmon. Its taste is less fishy, as are its origins, and memories of lox-and-a-Bloody-Mary-please? boozy brunches are far kinder to my emotional recall. While the canned variety can’t touch Sockeye sashimi or a flaky dill butter filet, I made this recipe last summer to good effect, so I knew salmon salad could rally for a spot in my inner circle of sandwich toppers. Despite being a fan, I rarely prepare it at home—I can never finish a full tub of cream cheese, and salmon doesn’t pair nearly as well with my go-to tuna companion, Greek yogurt.

Hence my lunch hour love affair with Ess-a-Bagel, Gramercy Park’s answer to New York’s love-hate relationship with carbs. While exceptional, the corner shop’s perfectly balanced salmon salad is far from its only draw—the bagels are chewy and authentic, devoid of the dreaded “bread bagel” consistency, and the array of both sweet and savory cream cheeses (including vegan tofu varieties for just about every flavor) is legendary. An everything bagel with lettuce, tomato, and a generous scoop of salmon salad – which, if you’re me, will last you two meals when paired with a small mountain of baby carrots – will set you back about $7. Could be worse. Could be much worse. Could be so much worse.

My one complaint? They’re not on Twitter. Come on, Ess-a-Bagel, I’m just trynna holla atchu.

Ess-a-Bagel. 359 1st Avenue (21st & 1st). 212.260.2252.

Marry it.

I’m not a superstitious person, but I do believe deeply in the cosmic significance of my iPod. I keep it on shuffle, and it has a knack for unearthing from my musical archives exactly what I need to hear at any given moment. My home life unfolds to seasonal rotations of club jamz and thug jamz, so when I’m in transit, I throw playlists to the wind and leave my soundtrack in the hands of the universe. I’ve been known to experience spiritual epiphanies on public transportation, and the effect is amplified when it comes to travel—whatever song plays as my flight touches down sets the tone for my entire trip.

As my plane angled into Reagan National last Wednesday, I was curious to see what the iPod gods would throw my way. The evening before had brought my last Trivia Tuesday at Simone’s, a favorite Pilsen haunt for raspberry ale and sweet potato fries, followed by “it’s-not-goodbye-it’s-see-you-later!”s to three of my closest Chicago pals. I had spent the wee hours of the morning dismantling my apartment, a studio in Rogers Park that saw my transformation from rattled but resolute half-shell of a human to what can only be described as Me Again, But Better. At 6am, I had left my keys on the counter, hailed a cab to O’Hare, and boarded a one-way flight to DC. I hadn’t slept in 36 hours. I was physically and emotionally spent. As we prepared for landing, my iPod made its selection, and I fought back tears at the opening chords of Lady Gaga’s “Marry the Night.”

Gaga wrote “Marry the Night” about her return to New York City after a breakdown of epic proportions, so the song assumed a particular gravity for me as I steeled myself for a similar undertaking. I grew up in Northern Virginia, but I’ve wanted to live in New York since I first learned what New York was, and a summer spent interning there in 2010 dispelled my Sex and the City-esque notions but did little to otherwise dampen my affection for the city. I knew I was headed back, but I had no idea when—I graduated without a job offer, and while I had committed to relocating by June, I was half-convinced I’d end up begging for work at the Brooklyn Crossroads. I had contacts in publishing, but I knew of no open entry-level positions. My one prospect was an online editorial gig at a women’s empowerment and career advice site, and while I had managed to fight my way into a second interview, I was expressly told I didn’t have enough experience for the position. I figured any interview practice I could get would be useful, however, and a weekend in NYC would boost my morale for the months of living at home and waiting tables that lay ahead.

On Friday, I boarded a one-way bus for a two-day trip with enough clothes to last me a week. By the good graces of Lord iPod, the theme song to “NFL on Fox” blasted as we drove through the Lincoln Tunnel. Game time.

On Saturday, I woke up early, ate oatmeal I’d brought from home in a plastic baggie, went for a run, showered, donned my prized Chanel jacket, and hopped a subway train downtown. I gave the interview my all, then spent all night blowing off nervous energy. Shortly after 5am, I straggled in, peeled off my sweat-soaked clothes, hurled myself onto my couch bed, and decided I wasn’t leaving.

On Sunday, I called my parents and told them I “had a feeling” I should stay, that there was nothing I would be doing at home that I couldn’t do from Manhattan, and that I would keep them posted on my plans. I think they thought I was nuts. I nursed my hangover, updated my blog, and went about business as usual.

I got the call on Monday. On Tuesday, I began work as a professional writer and editor.

Things happened quickly for me. Almost too quickly. I knew living in NYC would require a learning curve, but I didn’t expect my first week to be such a shock to the system. I wasn’t sleeping, eating, or working out as I normally would, and the temporary suspension of this basic framework hit me hard. I felt frazzled and sluggish and ill at ease in my own skin. Overwhelmed by my hour-long commute from Washington Heights to Gramercy Park. Simultaneously afraid of and prone to overspending. I’m fortunate to have a support network of family and friends in New York, but the reality of building a new life in a new city seemed suddenly daunting. A three-month internship two years ago does not a New Yorker make. I know subway lines and neighborhoods, but I don’t know work-life balance and Manhattan real estate (!) and long-term budgeting on a modest salary. I felt like I was finally living the life I’d always wanted, and I was ruining it.

Needless to say, I can be a bit hard on myself. I zoomed down to Virginia this weekend to get more clothes and collect my thoughts, and I’m feeling infinitely more prepared to take on the changes. Moving to New York is a thrilling and inevitable milestone, but I can’t go into it expecting everything to be perfect. I can love New York with all my soul, know in that same soul that I belong there, and still admit that I find it intimidating. I’ve made peace with that. I also got an iPhone, so I feel like that’s really going to change things for me.

Today, I “came home” to New York for the first time. I don’t have an end date. I live here now. Whether or not that life looks like I imagined it would, my childhood dream is a reality. I did it. I got here. And I’m marrying it.

Today, as my bus drove through the Lincoln Tunnel, I chose the soundtrack myself. You guessed it—”Marry the Night.” I don’t harbor any delusions that this is going to be easy. New York is an expensive, competitive, often indifferent city. It’s exhausting. It’s exhilarating. And I’m marrying it.

Today, my life as a New Yorker officially begins. And I’m marrying it.

No questions, just a request:

The night is now. Marry it.

Silent knight.

I am the least coy person in the history of coyness. I hate that rule-following, game-playing nonsense. If I like you, you will know it. I might hang back until you demonstrate an interest, but once you do, I’ll gladly be the one to propose a specific, non-theoretical plan to hang out with you. It’s not that I’m obsessive or willing to rearrange my life to make those plans—it’s just that I do what I want. My love life is probably the one place I am almost entirely ruled by my Id, and I can’t be bothered to think about how I might come across by communicating with you as I would any other human being.

When it comes to getting first dates, it’s a huge boon. Being pursued is wonderful, but once I got over the idea of the rom com-caliber beginning, my monologue transformed from, “He acts like he likes me, but when is he going to do something about it?” to, “Yeah, we’re going out this week.” Potentials became actuals, and concrete dates replaced ambiguous movie nights and cryptic text messages. Dating isn’t dead—you just have to be willing to ask for it. I occasionally feel silly and unromantic being the one to say, “Great, we like each other, now let’s make a plan.” But for every guy who might have been startled by my unorthodox girl behavior, I’ve had one tell me, “Hey, I’m really glad you got me out tonight, because I’m happy to be spending time with you right now.”

Forwardness has a flip side, though—once you establish yourself as the pursuer, it can be difficult to tell when a doomed courtship has reapportioned you from default plan-maker to clingy stalker. I’d like to think I’m generally pretty adept at picking up on social cues, but there’s something about the delicate nature of relationships that complicates the signals coming from both ends. Unless you’re a complete sadist, it can be as hard to reject someone as it is to be rejected, particularly if you have to see that person on a regular basis. So what do you do when someone refuses to reject you? When tenacity is met with “Yeah, definitely, sometime soon!” wrapped in “I’m just really busy right now,” under a fine drizzle of “WHY AREN’T YOU GETTING THIS PLEASE STOP.”

There comes a point when our sanity demands that we consider ourselves rejected until proven desired. When you feel like the potential for something special lies in your hands, committing to that mindset feels unwise, even dangerous. What we forget is that choosing to read silence as rejection doesn’t necessarily make it so. If the excuses are legitimate and the interest in there, that will most likely make itself clear before long. Taking a step back – in essence, rejecting yourself – is about respecting yourself enough to believe that you deserve someone who likes you enough to make the effort. Someone who is willing to put himself out there just as much as you are. It’s not about games. It’s about values. Asking, What do I want? And is it you?

As human beings, we’re addicted to the chase. We find the idea of a tortured romance as intoxicating as a beautiful one. Letting go is easier said than done, particularly if that person continues to give off signals they might be interested, and I’ve been on both sides enough times to know that sometimes there’s more to the story than, “He’s just not that into you.” Listen, shit happens. People get busy. But if you want to spend time with someone, you find a way to make it work. And if you would make time for someone, but that person is not making time for you, that is a statement of value in its own right—no matter how into you they act when you’re together. Remember that you have a choice to make here, too.

Have you ever made the choice to reject yourself? How did you know when to draw the line?

A tiger changes her stripes.

I like my closet the way I like my coffee—strong and simple for everyday, jazzed up for special occasions. I’ve embraced uniform dressing over the past nine months, and taking a more formulaic approach to fashion has made my morning routine worlds more efficient. For first dates/job interviews/anything that could possibly end up documented on Facebook, getting dressed should be a bit of a production. But for the daily grind? Let’s be sensible. I love a good peacocking, but there are ways I’d rather spend a Tuesday morning.

I recently wrote about how I’m tired of fashion. Tired of trends. Tired of buying things only to want more things a week later. I believe in establishing a personal style aesthetic—one that leaves room for experimentation, but keeps you grounded, financially and otherwise, in clothes that leave you looking and feeling your best. But the truth is, I do have a trendy side. And while I used to indulge it with cheap high street pieces from H&M and Zara, I realize nowadays that I usually don’t need to. I can create the same effect with things I already own, save money, and end up with an interpretation that looks more like me to boot.

So we’re doing this. One trend. Three ways. Using items I already have in my closet. Because plain old outfit posts feel kind of vain and played out for those of us with ghetto cameras/non-model proportions, but themed tutorials fall under the umbrella of educational (if only to convince you that you will never, ever put clothes remotely resembling mine on your body) and therefore excusable.

Let’s talk about print mixing.

Ladylike minimalism may be back, but the gaudy traces of the man repeller era still won’t quit when it comes to prints. Prints on prints (on prints on prints on prints). The bolder the better. The bigger the clash, the higher the fash(ion). But how does print mixing translate to the preppy tomboy aesthetic I’ve come to own by day? Can a self-proclaimed “classic peacock” carry off a visual smorgasbord without betraying her loafer-loving roots?

Two words: stripe mixing. If I’m wearing a print, I’m wearing stripes. Polka dots? Too cutesy. Leopard print? Eh, only on accessories. Stripes inhabit the holy intersection between straightforward and playful, embodying my love for all things classic with a sense of madness. Let’s see how they hold their own when paired with three not-so-subtle printed counterparts.

[J.Crew shirt, Elevenses pants, Keds shoes.]

Stripes on florals. You know, the staples: LBD, trench coat, pleated mum-print trousers. Who doesn’t own a pair? Good with a white tee, better with a striped sweater. A bro tuck and raggedy old sneaks keep the boatneck-and-pedal pusher combo from feeling too prissy. Bro tuck the shit out of that shit, bro.

[H&M shirt, vintage belt, vintage skirt, Topshop shoes, Michael Kors watch.]

Stripes on fruit. Stella McCartney was the first to produce produce for the masses last spring, but Dolce & Gabbana and Moschino ensured that the trend would be ripe for the picking in 2012 as well. Technically, this skirt is already stripe mixing all by itself, but I’ve gone bananas and added another layer. How do you like them apples. Orange you glad I didn’t wear my striped belt too? I think that would have been berry fetching. Okay, plum out of fruit puns.

[BDG shirt, Cooperative dress, Zara shoes, Michael Kors watch.]

Stripes on…stripes. (On stripes on stripes on stripes). This is probably my favorite combination. I do this a lot. Sometimes they face the same way, sometimes they don’t. The key is to keep your stripe types distinct enough that it’s clear you don’t believe they actually match. Matching is not the goal here. Matching is the enemy. MITE.

So there we have it. The Emma Aubry Roberts version of print mixing. By combining zanier prints with a mainstay of my wardrobe’s usual aesthetic, I’ve exercised the pursuit of trendiness without losing my style identity.

Are you a uniform dresser or a daily mixologist? What do you think of prints on prints (on prints on prints on prints)?