3athletejen

I distinctly remember my first encounter with food coloring. It was love at first chemical-laden sight. Mom and I were icing sugar cookies. We'd made a bowl of white icing. Then she broke out the food coloring. I was memorized by the bright colors and giddy at the thought of mixing them. Like most six year olds, I believed more was better. So the icing started a lovely pink after a few drops of red. Next came lavender with some blue. Then Mom turned her back just long enough for me to reenact the movie Cocktail with food coloring. Every color was going in and hell with a few drops, more is better. This is fantastic, I thought, as I created a rainbow in the bowl. I stirred with glee until I realized the rainbow was disappearing. The icing was turning a disgusting shade of gray-brown. This was terrible. No one wants to eat icing that looks like poop. So you're thinking, nice little story Jen. Way to point out that more isn't necessarily better. But that's actually n

Dear Ms. Lemon, I have a bone to pick with you. This may come as a surprise because you're pretty much perfect with your fabulous patterns and ability to make most asses look perky. But here's my issue. You've turned yoga class into junior high. Like Guess jeans and Benetton rugby shirts circa 1988, you are all about status. That little horseshoe-like logo winks at me from the next mat over. "You know you want to own a pair," it says. "Athleta and Lucy are fine and good, but if you are serious about yoga, go with Lulu." Like most new moms managing a budget that includes one million diapers per month (that's what it feels like anyway) I picked a special occasion to reward myself. I'd get a pair of Lulu's for my fortieth birthday and BAM, I'd be the cool kid in yoga class. My ass will perk, my thighs will tone and maybe even splits will become possible because if I'm going to spend $100 on a pair of yoga pants, they better damn we