Be a someone, not a something

When I was a kid, I used to think that you had to be a famous person to have your own website. I thought, Wow, you must have had to make substantial advances in cancer research or written seven platinum albums or invented Toaster Strudels. But as it turns out, any pathetic whiney Joe Shmo can get their own dot com. This isn’t to say I fall into that category, comma, because I don’t, comma, but it seems that everyone is trying to make themselves known, or become someone.

I’m saying this after a coworker of mine told me in passing today “I need to change my brand.” This struck me in a weird way. Yeah, it’s kind of a hipster, post-modern, trendy thing to say with a straw still in your mouth, but it is sad and a true testament to who we’ve all become. Or rather what we’ve all become.


Why would you want to change your brand? What are you, Coke? Are we commodities? Are we services? Are we a means to an end? This all led me to question the transitory nature of identity. To say that individuals have brands is also saying that we are on the market, and perched atop the shelf of life. Who will buy us? Will they pay cash? I, personally, don’t take debit.

Okay, I bet you’re all like, “All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players” and now Shakespeare is rolling over in his grave. I won’t disclose my coworker’s position, but it saddened me deeply to hear him articulate so naturally that he didn’t feel like he was enough -- in an industry that values radical thinking and alternate ideas, no less.

Ending thoughts: Brand, shmand. Settle into a brand organically. If you have to hem the edges, sure. But transforming yourself will feel incredibly stifling and will be a huge fun-suck. Not to mention, your audience can smell a sham miles away, like a bad Louis Vuitton on Canal Street.

In sickness and in health, but hopefully the latter for the most part

Hello, readers (ew, seriously so boring and overdone. I feel like I need to brand you guys like Lady Gaga's Little Monsters or something.)

Today I got a cold and it was my microcosm of an apocalypse. For someone who takes care of her health to a meticulous degree, and as a result always feels STELLAR (I'm talking +2 hours of exercise a day, a solid blend of complex carbs and protein, at least eight hours a night), you can probably imagine the uproar that was my body upon learning my lymph nodes were swollen.


A blog is a terrible place to complain about an itty bitty cold. But herein lie the therapeutic properties of writing! (You hear that, Obamacare? Cheap health care right over here. Going once, going twice.) 

Whenever something feels minutely wrong with my body, my mind shuts down along with it. I'm too busy panicking that my cold will transmogrify into this full-blown calamity resulting in puddles of phlegm and a post-root-canal puffy face. But those are all pretty one dimensional reasons to fear sickness. In truth, being sick is your body's sly way of telling you to chill out and take the escalator once in a while. We can't ALL be decathlons, all the time. Or can we?