On dressing like I'm ready to run a marathon in Chacos

I've been a victim of bad fashion on the weekends. But in all fairness, I think we're all entitled to letting ourselves be free from conformity on our days off. Not like it really mattered to me since I work for a startup with a bunch of dudes. But lately, I've taken my poor fashion choices to whole different level, going back-to-back weekends wearing running attire and Chacos.

Not sure how my thighs are much tanner than my calves. 

Not sure how my thighs are much tanner than my calves. 

If you're not familiar with Chacos, it's because you have good taste in style. However, I must say they're by far the most practical sandals I've ever worn in the summer. I refuse to take these things off for anything or anyone. Even if you were Ryan Gosling begging to rub my feet.

I wear them out hiking.

I wear them to work.

I wear them casually out and about.

My sandals are my motherfucking Green Eggs and Ham. I wear this shit everywhere. In a house with a mouse. In a box, with a fox. 

But the madness doesn't end there. 

We can't forget about the running attire and shoes. Here's last weekend at the motorcycle dealership. I was trying out bikes.

Honda Grom

Honda Grom

Can't forget about the following Sunday when I went to Costco to molest bears.

The madness is unreal. So I listed out some hard facts to explain the recent faux pas:

  1. I just came back from working out. True story. I hit the gym to do cardio on the weekends now preoccupied with school during the week.
  2. I'm just tired of being here. I think I've given up on Boston and what everyone else here thinks about me. If you haven't read any of my prior posts, I'm moving out of the state.
  3. I'm ALWAYS preparing for the Zombie Apocalypse. Another true story. You just never know when you have to run for your life.

The Boston Effect, Part 2: If tables could talk

It was a gloomy and rainy New England day. So when I heard news that someone wanted to come by and buy my dining room table, I was pretty ecstatic.

I've started selling stuff two days ago and things are selling like hot cakes. I'm fortunate to live in a huge college town filled with kids buying disposable furniture they can wipe their greasy potato chip hands on and build fortresses out of PBR cans with.

But it turns out, the young couple that came by to pick up the table just moved in together for the first time. And it really brought back memories to when Marius and I first moved in together in this very apartment, and how it made me feel like I was passing on this heirloom of fucking love. My only hope for this couple is to pass it on to another couple who would treat it with the same love and would eat-out every night so not to compromise the integrity of the woodwork and fine Swedish engineering that IKEA spent centuries crafting.

In my heart, I knew I couldn't have sold that table to better people. It's weird because I know I'm making it sound like this one fucking table changed my life. But in all seriousness, this ain't no ordinary table.

This table was a symbol of all the conversations we ever had when we came home tired from work, or the many times we've made smoothies and sat there and just stared at each other because sometimes words are worthless. 

It was the symbol of all the times we sat there talking shit about Boston's weather and laughed about how shitty the shittiness was. Because if we laughed hard enough, we'd just forget. And the only thing that would hold our sanities together was each other. That's all that really mattered. 

Easy like Sunday morning.

A photo posted by Mary Anne Rodis (@maryannerodis) on

That table also meant that we would have breakfast for dinner and no one would judge us.

Bwekfust for dinnur.

A photo posted by Mary Anne Rodis (@maryannerodis) on

And it makes me wonder if people ever think about this the way that I do. If people ever wonder if their walls or tables could talk, what would they say about them.

Would they tell a story of a life fulfilled?

Would they say they didn't live enough?

Would they say they were loved?

As I walked through my kitchen this evening, it made me very sad to see it so empty. And yet, this is the first and only piece of furniture I've sold and wasn't expecting to feel so sentimental about it.

I blame that on all the great memories that were made here in our short, two year stint. And if our tables or walls could talk, I bet they would all agree. 

I've been insulting everyone's mother and no one seems to care

Since the beginning of time, I've been insulting everyone's mothers on Instagram and no one seems to care.

Here's my theory on this: Instagram is a photo sharing app so everyone's interest is measured 90% eye porn and 10% funny/interesting caption. Most users are "skimmers" so they scroll up and down until something catches their eye. It's at that moment they'll engage by reading the caption, "liking" and/or leaving a comment. You can game "likes" if your hashtag game is strong. But even if people searched your hashtag, they're not looking to read the caption, they're interested in the photo.

I have a pretty decent following to follower ratio.

I don't have over a thousand friends. Heck, I don't have 200 real friends that I follow. Most of my followers don't know me personally and don't care to. Most of my followers care about the climbing photos I post because they're likely climbers too. I've actually met some of the coolest people through Instagram and have traveled/climbed/skied with these friends in the coolest places. Here's a few of them:

Ryan and I checked ourselves before we wrecked ourselves. #skiing #breck #colorado #breckenridge

A photo posted by Mary Anne Rodis (@maryannerodis) on

Walking through the snowy #Gunks with my #WCW, @andrews_lm. Will be back in better weather. #newpaltz #ny #newyork

A photo posted by Mary Anne Rodis (@maryannerodis) on

#Yoga poses in beautiful places by Jared. #lovelandpass #colorado

A photo posted by Mary Anne Rodis (@maryannerodis) on

I spy a cute belayer next to me while I was belaying. Oh wait, that's just Kathy (@inheadlights).

A photo posted by Mary Anne Rodis (@maryannerodis) on

This has been definitely the most rewarding part of my Instagram experience. The rest of Instagram has been quite the Twilight Zone for me. Also, it's not supernatural that I have followers. I AM A GIRL. ON THE INTERNET. THAT LIKES CLIMBING AND MOTORCYCLES AND COMPUTERS. Simple math. Lurkers, trolls, and pervs will eat up anything I post.

Since the internet is full of noise and my internet foot print is not even a speck to make an impact, what's really holding me back from insulting people's moms? These are the real burning questions that keep me awake at night.

So I gave it a whirl...

The kayaking photo seemed innocuous enough for anyone to notice the caption. So I tried it again...

The comments for the motorcycle photo:

No one was offended even after I told someone that I wanted to ride their mom so badly. Just a bunch of likes and comments and more followers poured in. The caption wasn't as direct either, so I tried it again.

I received a bunch of likes for this photo. No one seemed to care that I was showing their moms a good time. The photo was easy enough to "like" and move on to the next. One of my friends even said that I was the coolest. 

This study has lead to some interesting conclusions:

  1. The internet is a sick place.
  2. People dislike their moms. 
  3. People don't read.
  4. People approve of my mom fetish.
  5. Photo captions are worth shit.