Maybe I Should Just Go Barefoot.

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It wasn’t the overly-telling suction to my chicken legs. It wasn’t the apparent contour of my booty that I was worried about. You wanna know the real reason I was stressed out about embracing skinny jeans?

The Shoes. 

Skinny Jeans come with the commitment that you must also buy a specific sort of shoe. This just felt like a large fashion commitment. So I was, admittedly, a late adopter. 
I find these shoes REPUGNANT and blister-inducing.
No offense. Image Source
And while I think I have somewhat navigated the world of skinny jeans, I think I am still working out the shoe part (and the sock part for that matter). 
I have come to realize that I am not the best accessorizer of feet. 
I don’t consider myself a “fashionista” but I’ve always considered my style “comfortably cute,” to say the least. I mean, I get compliments on what I wear, so I can’t be a horrible dresser. But recently I’ve had an epiphany. I don’t get compliments on my shoes. I get… comments
It all started in ninth grade. We did this thing called “The Issuing of the Faults,” where everyone went around in a circle and told one another their faults. It was a bonding experience. I don’t remember what anyone else said really (well, Elaine told me I had ugly hands, but whatever), but something that Ruth said stung me to the core. 
Before I tell you, I should probably paint a character sketch of Ruth…. and Ruth, you must understand, I mean this very lovingly and with extreme affection. Ruth wore the Muppets on her clothes. Usually she wore a long-sleeved striped shirt underneath a short shirt and sometimes overalls. All her clothes were purchased at Savers. Truth be told, it was one of my favorite things about her. She was a hipster long before it was cool to dress… like that.
My point is, it blistered when Ruth announced  that she didn’t like my shoes. It was the first time I gave into peer pressure; I bought new shoes that weekend. 
But I still remember these very shoes with nostalgic fondness! 
Here’s the best image I could rustle up.
If you can’t tell, these shoes had a one-inch foam platform, and were cobbled with brown striped suede. They gave me the needed height to navigate the high school halls with dignity. Apparently my dignity was misplaced. 
Years later, my feet are still getting comments, though I am realizing that the bulk of my trouble comes from my sock issues. Jeremy has REAL issues with my socks. 
Most Recently, the comments have been:
  • “Sierra, your socks.. don’t even come close to matching.”–Jared
  • “Jared, haven’t you noticed? Sierra’s socks never match.”–Kristy
  • “Sierra, those are boy socks”–Chloe  (To which, I scathingly reply, “No they are not! I stole them from my mom’s sock drawer.”)
  • “Sierra, you’ve got to stop wearing my socks.”–Jeremy (yesterday)
  • “Are those really the shoes you want to wear today?”–Jeremy (he says this every time I want to wear my beloved moccasins). 

I thought all was fair in socks and war, as long as Burkenstocks or Jelly Sandals weren’t involved. 
But you know what, I have cold feet, so I need warm (boy) socks! And I get ready in the dark, and so I can’t be asked to locate socks that match in the dark in the immediacy of the cold feet issue!
Jeremy told me I needed to purchase these special (flimsy, piece of crap) socks to accompany my skinny jeans shoes. But honestly, I don’t see the major difference between 

and This:
Honestly, you can still see my socks no matter what, but in one pair my feet are cold and the other are not. 

And you know what?! If Moccasins had platforms, I would certainly be buying those too. 

Your Daily Intake of OverShare

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   I know about fiber, so I should have known about fiber. I first heard about fiber and its ills my freshman year of college. Laden with Jamba Juice, courtesy of our Dining Plus Meal Plans, I was enjoying a pleasant walk back to the dorms with Chloe Skidmore.  Our friendship was still a young spring chicken newly hatching—I didn’t know her well, but she trusted me wholly and lovingly enough to stop us dead in our tracks, double over in front of me, and let out a cavernous moan.

 Chloe confided in me—on a streak of nobility, she’d opted for a fiber boost in her Jamba Juice, and its effect was immediate. After several minutes of stomach-clutching, we were able to move forward. But I was forewarned. And I’ve never even been tempted by a Fiber Boost ever in my life. Plus it was a defining moment for mine and Chloe’s friendship—I saw her through her gas, and I liked her still.
However, four years later, I recently found myself the possessor of a package of Fiber One bars. And it looked just like an innocent granola bar should—yellow packaging, chocolate chips, peanut butter, and joy.
 I packed one in my lunch, but got so excited about it that I ate it on my way to school. And the taste was better than any Nutrigrain I’ve ever tasted. It was candy! And I was wild about it.
Several hours later, I started having abdominal pain. I have a lingering fear about a rupturing appendix, so I was fairly sure that was my mere little problem.
If Only, Friends. If Only.
By 1:00 PM, my pain had become severe, but I recognized a variable. Whenever I would… how you say…pass wind… things felt better. Yet, you can obtain no reprieve when you’re sitting in the middle of your relatively silent Modern Literature class. You have two options: Sit and suffer in pain, or sit and allow others to suffer, if you catch my meaning.
But by 3:00 PM, inflicting suffering on others had become involuntary. The fiber had worked its way through my system and was wreaking its havoc.
I told my friend about my plight and she exclaimed, “Fiber Bars! I only eat those around my sisters!”
And then I remembered, with horror, that I had distributed one other fiber bar earlier that morning. My husband was travelling to Chicago for a big time interview for an internship that will basically determine the rest of our lives. In an attempt to show love and support, I had packed a little care package for Jeremy, complete with Fiber One.
Frantically I sent Jeremya text to warn him not to partake! But it was too late. Jeremy had been “Passing Wind” in his interview all day long.
So…we won’t be offended if Jeremy doesn’t get the job. It will have been all my fault.

Jeremy Fainted! He FAINTED!

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I collect idiosyncrasies; which is to say that I’m kind of an odd duck. One such idiosyncrasy is my peculiar affinity for having blood drawn. Since I was tested for mono in the 9th grade (test positive, thank you very much), I realized that once the needle was in, it felt kind of like a little sucker-fish sucking on a teeny hole in my arm—and for some crazy reason, I kinda liked it.

An unfortunate Robinson reality: I have yet to break the 110-pound limit required of blood donors, so I’ve never gotten to wear one of those nifty criss-crossy colored bandage thingies that you get, along with complimentary juice, that one receives after they donate. Thus, I persuaded two of my most trusted BYU acquaintances, Miss Chloe Noelle (who you’ve met before) and Sir Jeremy Penrod Esquire, to donate their red humor in my stead.

Chloe. Was. Nervous. 

Jeremy was obnoxiously nonchalant.

Jeremy, after finishing the question and answer session, which sounds more akin to a PPI, was escorted to the donation chair, where they juiced his arm up with iodine and inserted an impressive needle. I played the role of the dutiful girlfriend-type-thing, and gasped and grimaced in all the right places. Jeremy charmed the male nurses, all the while maintaining a positive demeanor, and cheering Chloe on as she made her begrudging death march to her own donation chair.

Chloe. Was. Still. Nervous. She declined my invitation to hold her hand, and opted for Jeremy’s masculine (albeit a tad clammy) hand instead. The nurse was appropriately sarcastic with Chloe as me, Jess (another cheerleader), and Jeremy gathered around her and watched her squeeze the blood out of her arms. Chloe expressed her concern, not about the pinch of the needle, but of the lurking fear that she would pass out after the deed was done. Jeremy made wise cracks about the impossibility of the whole affair.

And then, he mentioned that he perhaps ought to get something to eat.

And then he turned paler than Edward Cullen.

And then I thought he was merely trying to psyche my woe-begotten friend out by falling, face-first, almost in slow motion, on top of her as the blood drained from her arm.

“Jeremy!” I said harshly. “That’s not funny! Stop faking it.”

Jess was quicker on the uptake. She realized that my boyfriend-type-thing was indeed fainting—genuinely. There was a slight panic as the nurses eased Jeremy’s pale, momentarily lifeless, and excessively limp body to the floor.

Chloe got up and got juice like it was nobody’s business.