The Ability to be Honest With Yourself Even When It Absolutely Sucks

I’ve never been a good liar. Rewind to freshmen year of high school when it surfaced in the Wilkins household that instead of spending my afternoons at the library working on a science project, I was spending them with my hormonal 14 year old boyfriend. This tid bit of information escaped from my loveable sister’s mouth. When confronted by my mother, I could only muster up a startled, “Um, no I didn’t!” That resulted in being banished to my room for a night where I plotted revenge and cursed my young adolescent life.

Moral of the story: I’m not a good liar.

But, it’s not other people I find myself lying to anymore. That never works and is a waste of everyone’s time and energy. No, now, I’m usually confronted with having to be completely honest with myself.

A few weeks ago upon my return to the East Coast, I dug through old Facebook messages and found the number to a guy I used to know. After spending many, many months riding solo dolo, I came back home hoping to plug my love life back in to its barely used electrical socket. So, I hit up this guy–let’s call him Stable Yet Boring Guy. SBG and I met where you meet stable and boring people–a work environment. Over the years, we chatted every now and again and it was always just nice. Nice is that word you use to describe someone when you don’t have shit else to say about them.

But, I thought it was time to give the entire situation a fair shot. I was here. He was here. Maybe it would just work.

And, then, I canceled our date three hours before the fireworks were set to explode.

Because, as much as I could tell myself the “maybes” or the “possiblys,” I knew it was a bold faced lie that I would ever, ever feel anything remotely fiery for SBG. I knew that we might have a decent conversation over a decent meal and could possibly go on to live a decent life. But, I don’t want decent or nice or mediocre. I want fucking amazing. So, it was time to leave good for great, as my TV wife Kim on Startups: Silicon Valley so eloquently put it.

And, then, I found great. Sorta.

I met a guy who we shall name Hottie With a Body. We embarked on a 5 day text binge and it was the most delicious thing I have experienced in awhile. Instantly, my “I really like this person” blinker went off. And, when that blinker goes off, I know I am in and I am in big with a capital B. I usually settle for tolerating people but every now and again, someone throws me off and completely fascinates me. HWAB did just that. We interlaced witty banter with chatter about our pasts and our ability to volleyball between the mundane and the not-so-mundane impressed me. But, HWAB was not shy about expressing a very complicated knot he was tied in regarding a muddy and unresolved past relationship. He was honest with me. In return, I had to be honest with myself.

I’m not here to expose another person’s circumstances or pour buckets of judgment on those circumstances. Instead, I had to look at myself and the progress I believe I have made when looking at my life from different vantage points. So, today ended the 5-day text binge and the start of a potentially yummy friendship/relationship/whateveryouwanttocallit. I couldn’t lie to myself about my patience or my ability to potentially play second string in someone’s life. I know how ex situations work. I’ve been in my own and I’ve been caught in others. Without one person’s absolute and unyielding resolve to walk away, they become a lifetime game of Russian Roulette.

So, I had to be honest and admit that I cannot be someone’s greatest silver medal. I have to be gold. I deserve to be gold. Goddamnit, I am gold. And, without requiring myself to walk away from situations where I am not treated as such, I will never be treated as such.

I have finally and fully admitted to myself that I want a relationship. That’s some scary ass shit. But, that is also me being 100% honest with myself. And at this point, nothing else will sate that. A full and real and wonderful relationship. One where I can love and be loved in the same way. One where my heart pitter patters when my phone rings and I know it’s him. One where we tell life stories in bed on Sunday morning. One where I open the door to my life’s library and let someone read the pages until they memorize the words. I want a relationship. And, that’s some scary ass shit.

But, at least I’m being honest.



My Hate/Hate Relationship With the Term “Lady”

This blog post has been brewing ever since the time I was four years old and couldn’t stop donning a black sweater with stitched pickup trucks. I think my grandfather didn’t realize he wandered in to the little boys section of the department store or maybe he just couldn’t see that those were trucks on the sweater. Or maybe he just didn’t care. Either way, this clothing item became a prized possession on my teeny tiny kindergarten body. And thus began my struggle with gender norms. Or something like that.

I took a women’s studies course during my freshman year of college and anyone who has taken a women’s studies course knows feminism and all that just freaks people out. I spent a greater part of the semester feeling terrible for the one guy in our class who always came late and ate Subway while simultaneously wondering why the hell bell hooks didn’t capitalize her name. So, I’d rather not write some thesis with feminism as the backdrop. I’d rather just speak freely. Let’s begin.

There are two recent distinct instances where I was called a “lady.” One was about a month ago when I was sitting in the hair salon with a gaggle of giggling girls. Hot Chicago Man was standing in the doorway and the girls weren’t too discreet about commenting on the silhouette of his package. I laughed awkwardly because everything I do is awkward. On my way out, HCM commented that I was “Such a lady. Wow, such a lady.” Ok, dude. I guess.

The second instance was not too long ago while I nursed a beer with a male friend of mine. Because I am not one to quickly imbibe any form of alcohol thanks to an acute awareness of my light weightedness, I guess this read as code for being a “lady.” “Wow, you drink like a lady. That’s good,” he commented.

Both instances stand out because 1) I don’t exactly think of myself as a lady and 2) I think most people realize that and would agree with me. I don’t know what being a lady is. I don’t know where it begins and where it ends. But, I do know if you were to look it up in a dictionary, a photograph of Tyece probably wouldn’t be anywhere in sight. In fact, I’ve been told (and would also agree) that I emit really masculine and ballsy energy which has a tendency to make guys want to pee in their pants and run away. So much for my blossoming dating life. Every now and again, I try to soften up and do some cliche shit like “Let a man be a man.” But, my ability to string a sentence together coupled with an affinity for dropping F bombs doesn’t exactly make me the most dainty being on the planet.

Yes, I like to wear heels. I like to wear dresses. I like to be complimented on my eyes or my smile or my legs. I am not above that shallow feminine shit. Beyond that, I don’t think I’m fitting the lady bill. If there’s anything I’m aware of, it’s that I’m a conglomeration of wit and damage and idiosyncrasies. I am an unpredictable missile. I am not easy to love. While most people neatly peel their life layers, one by one, until they are confidently standing there naked and unvarnished, I do the opposite. I wrangle them off like a four year old abandoning a wet swim suit. I shed my layers rapidly and toss them in a corner like pre sex panties. I yank them off as though they are burlap scratching my skin to the point of near insanity and all I want is for someone to see me without my clothed perfection.

I speak too freely. I think colorful lace bras are a sin against functional clothing. I can probably cook 3-4 decent meals and I probably only cook them 3-4 times a month. I have a difficult time pouring liquids without spilling them; gravity is not exactly a friend of mine. I’m a hard layer of experiences and doubts, successes and failures, peaks and valleys. But you crack that layer, and I am soft. And vulnerable. And permeable. But, a lady? A lady I am not.

Maybe it’s like one of my friends said: “You just are.” Maybe I don’t need to be a lady or not be a lady. Maybe I just am.



Spontaneity, Youth and Other Things I am Coming to Terms With


Kissing life’s greatest mantra.

The other night I used a feature on my phone that I completely forgot about: the voice memo. Remember when all we had were dumbphones and we would consecrate 50 seconds of a B2K concert on a voice memo, never ever to be deleted!? Yes, well that was the last time I used a voice memo.

But, the other night I was driving and, per usual, playing a mental game of ping pong with my dating life as the little plastic white ball up for smacking. Then, a few ideas came to me and I just sort of mumbled through them on a voice memo so I wouldn’t forget my post midnight profoundness.

“I feel like I’ve conjured up this idea in my head that people who are in relationships are somehow more adult or somehow more put together…as though they’ve figured out some shit that the rest of us are trying to figure out…I’ve realized now that’s not it at all.”

That’s how the voice memo started.

I’m always evaluating and re-evaluating and crowdsourcing when it comes to Tyece’s Theories on Dating and Relationships. And, the other night, I finally reached a point where I shrugged my shoulders and decided maybe, just maybe, it’s time for me to take a chill pill.

After being laid back on a slingshot and fired in to the unforgiving world of adulthood, I wrongly assumed that being an adult was some prescriptive package. Stable job. Decent place to live. Cool hobbies. Vibrant social life. Secure and consistent monogamous relationship. And, perhaps that is what we all aim for. But, we certainly do not all get it at the same time or in the same way.

In my quest to become the automaton version of a grown up, I convinced myself that it was time to stop being a fucktard when it came to dating. It was time to only go on serious dinner and drinks dates. I convinced myself of some twisted single girl theories and spent way too many nights writing about my life instead of going out and actually living it.

But, now, I’m starting to realize that is not adulthood at all. Adulthood is owning your choices and their subsequent consequences. It’s living your life. It’s sometimes shutting your mouth and not giving everyone access to graffiti your existence with their opinions. And it’s being a decent, kind, fully functioning individual among all of that.

I started to recognize something even more important. Twenty-three years old is just as adult as PlayDoh is edible. I can fake it between the hours of 8:30-5:30 and hide behind my brightly knit cardigan, but I am still a youngin. I am still allowed to screw up and make mistakes. We all are. And we all will. We won’t plunge ourselves in to a never-ending pit of self-destruction if we get completely twisted one night or quit our job or make out with a stranger. In fact, maybe it’s through those things that we will finally come in to our true adult selves. Pat Benatar said, We are young. Heartache to heartache we stand. No promises, no demands.

 And, obviously, Pat Benatar is a god among men. Obviously.

Back to Saturday night’s voice memo: people in relationships are no more or no less than the rest of us mere mortals. In one of my favorite lists of all times, 11 Things to Know At 25 (ish), it says all of our choices are half chance. We do not become adults by being in relationships or having great jobs or any of the other lies we like to tell ourselves. We become adults by owning our choices and their subsequent consequences.

Until then, I’ll enjoy being young.



Confessions of a Cool Kid: Lindsay Simone

Bloggers unite.

So, I’ve never actually met Lindsay which probably makes me a creeper and, well, that’s OK. I think one day her name popped up on my LinkedIn as one of those people I may know which then led me to scope out her blog, The Life Muse.  And, then, after some hey-I’m-a-blogger-and-you’re-a-blogger-and-we-should-chat moments, I figured it was time to show her some Twenties Unscripted love.

So, here’s Lindsay.

Name: Lindsay Simone

Age: 23

Current location: Our Nation’s Capital

Tell us about your blogging history. How did you get started and what led you to begin The Life Muse?

Five or six years ago, I started a verrrrry small blog entitled “Calendar Eats” that basically documented what I consumed on a daily basis. At the time I was really into Calendar Eats, but then my Freshman year of college happened and life as a collegiate took over. A year or so later, during my sophomore year at NYU, I began a new healthy living blog and this time around, called it “Position: Transition.” Again, this blog outlined my daily eats but rather than for fun, I started this second blog out of my need to create some sort of accountability as, at the time, I was living alone and battling bulimia. Not a great combination. A few months after I started Position: Transition, a good friend tried to commit suicide, I relapsed on my bulimia treatment, and I found out my pseudo boyfriend was cheating on me via a drunk butt dial on New Year’s Eve. It’s no wonder that, at the time, I felt the need to want to live closer to home, eventually deciding to transfer from New York University to the University of Maryland. With so much going on, Position: Transition came to a screeching halt. At the time, I thought my days as a blogger were over, but earlier this year, I heard the blogosphere call my name once more. So come March 2012, I began to blog once again.

“The Quote I Wrote” was a great jumping point for me. It gave me the confidence as a blogger to “be real” all the while allowing for my “special” humor to shine through. TQIW had a small-ish but nice following. I received emails from girls that I knew, and from those that I had never met, both of whom expressed their feelings of gratitude for my quotespiration. Nonetheless, TQIW was an emotional place; a place that winded me on a daily basis, and one that made me feel sad. I know TQIW was supposed to be about lifting people’s spirits up, but all of that personal talk really weighed me down. So, with the support of my then boyfriend (now fiancé), I decided to start a new blog that would be a place for fun, funny, and pure blogging joy. And, seeing how the then BF always told me I was his “life muse” since I always knew how to do everything a certain way (then again, he’s a guy and therefore knows how to do nothing), I decided to make this new blog, “The Life Muse,” about providing readers life tidbits one day, one topic, and one bad joke at a time!

 What’s your blogging philosophy? Find a niche that’s unique to you and run with it. Also, follow your gut. You know yourself best.

Finish this sentence: In ten years, I will be… Assuming I just got engaged, I’m thinking I will be married. With Children. And a dog. CEO of my own company. Author. Life Muse extraordinaire.

Three things you never leave home without:

1.)    A notebook and pen—you never know when a good idea is going to come to you.

2.)    My health insurance card. I know this one sounds a little crazy, but I just have this fear that god forbid the one day/time I would leave my apartment sans card that I’d get into some horrible accident and then be rushed to the hospital and essentially have to go through a bazillion hoops since I DIDN’T HAVE MY INSURANCE CARD ON ME. And yes, this does include everything from midnight CVS runs to a night out at a bar. Safety first!

3.)    Bobby pins are a must seeing how they’re so multi-functional, way beyond the realm of hair (think: make-shift paper clip, lock pick, bookmark, impromptu screwdriver, etc). There are literally twenty something bobby pins floating around in the bottom of my purse as we speak.

What are some of your favorite blogs? Man Repeller. I Spy DIY. Eat the Damn Cake.

What are you currently reading? Nudge by Richard Thaler and Cass. I was a sociology major in college so this kind of stuff is beyond interesting to me.

Open Mic—anything else you want us to know? Ummmm, (cue shameless self promotion) read my posts on The Huffington Post: Becoming Fearless page?!

Where can we reach you? ,


Today’s Middle Finger Goes to Trying to Date in D.C. When It’s 40 Degrees Outside.

I just told my good male friend that I was going to write a blog post about how I can’t date because it’s cold outside. He told me that was the dumbest idea ever.

So, here it goes.

On Saturday night, I waited around a crowded restaurant with a friend of mine as we caught up and exchanged stories of DC douchebags. I thought dating back on my East Coast home turf would be easier but I have now confronted the stark reality that I’ll probably deal with the same fuckery I’ve dealt with in two other states. In fact, this time my dating woes are only exacerbated by the fact that I am fighting off the low-hanging fruit of previous hookups.

I didn’t realize people in DC are, more or less, assholes. I can only confidently say this now that I have lived in the south where people are human cupcakes, all saccharine and fluffy. People in the south are warm and cozy and downright friendly just for the sake of being downright friendly. DC people aren’t necessarily outright mean, just more, eh…aloof. Most people are conservative and snide and ready to see your skivvies drop the minute they impress you with their intellect and pseudo Ivy league degree. Because clearly, that’s enough to get me all hot and bothered. And, then there are the girls. Now, I’m not trying to date the girls. But, I can hardly keep up with them. Their hair is straightened to perfection and they flip it all while balancing on 4 inch heels. I tell you, my pixie cut and flat boots can’t keep up. We simply can’t keep up.

And, then there’s the real problem. IT’S FREEZING. Someone should have told the troposphere that 40 degree weather is not conducive to going out and trying to find the man of your dreams. I saw some girls the other night in tiny dresses without any hoisery or outerwear and I just thought, girl, you crazy. I don’t want to put on skimpy little dresses. I don’t want to smile at people while the wind is whipping my cheeks. All I want to do is put some fuzzy socks on my pedicure-less feet and curl up with a Real Housewives marathon.

Unfortunately, I also missed the time of the year affectionately referred to as bunning season. That’s when everyone scouts out their prospective mate to cuddle up with during these frigid winter months. I think I was packing boxes to move at that time. Oh, damn.

I already mourned the demise of my dating life this weekend when I went to Target four times, including two times on Sunday. I knew it was bad when during these visits I 1) bought a Taylor Swift CD and 2) got way too excited about a dollar off coupon I had for Advil Migraine. All I need now is a pair of Birkenstocks to officially morph in to TLSWA-The Least Sexy Woman Alive. 

In the meantime, give me the hot cocoa. It’s freezing, I am not dating, and it is going to be a long winter.