funny

My Comeback Blog Called Downward Dog

Posted on by Emma Unedited

Hello blog world.

If you’re reading this, or if you’ve followed my blog AT ALL in these last few months (years), you will know that

IT

HAS

BEEN

A

MINUTE

since I’ve written.

Now stop judging me. Things just get crazy in this life and we forget to do the things that make us happy in order to check off the things that make us feel competent.

 

You know.

 

Gal things.

 

In order to get my parents off of my back for neglecting my civic duty as an amateur blogger (one of very few?), I am here and ready to write. And to be honest, I feel pretty rusty and I don’t even know if I’m funny anymore so guess you can roast me in the comments section with all of my other followers (?) if you feel like this was a waste of time. If enough people do so, I will take another sabbatical and probably be there until I die.

Anyways.

Here we are.

The topic of this blog has to do with, none other than, the sweet, sweet YMCA.

A word of the wise to all of you fellow amateur bloggers out there—if you are looking for writing material, go to the YMCA. People will provide you with comedy gold without even trying. If you don’t believe me check out one of my previous blogs about a lady who cut the cheese in a Pilates class. That really did happen.

Anyways.

Without further adieu…

Our story begins in the Harris YMCA. The Harris YMCA is generally my least favorite branch because I always see people I kind of know. This usually results in a flashback to my high school days when I was simply way cooler than I am now, OR I have one of those weird encounters when you keep making eye contact with someone but you’re simultaneously doing sumo squats so you want to make darn sure they don’t get the wrong idea because the world has decided to sexualize squatting–particularly of the sumo variety (idk).

giphy

(There are several directions this blog could go now, but imma just move forward because most of the above info wasn’t actually relevant at all.)

ANYWAYS.

I’m at the Harris YMCA, getting ready to go to yoga.

Side note: since my last blog I’ve switched over to the dark side of actually liking yoga so you can hate me now, sorry.

SO

YES

I’m in yoga.

Back corner.

The room is full of the “YMCA New Year’s people” (the ones who mysteriously vanish into thin air on February 1st)

At this point, the lights are down and I feel so Zen I could literally physically transform into a savasanaaaaaoijfcahuwfhuaw.

I am there. Present. Ready to move forward in my practice. My life. My now. My third eye. Hey.

 

And. We begin.

 

We start with some stretching and breathing like normal. I am finding my breath.

 

Feeling like a queen.

 

Flash forward.

 

About 25 minutes we are still stretching the same leg and I think to myself, “This is probably the easiest yoga class I have ever been to.”

 

I look around.

 

And I realize.

 

I

Am

In

A

Yoga

Class

For

Senior

Citizens

 

Heck.

 

(side note: the best part of this story is that whenever I tell someone that I accidently went to a yoga class for seniors, they WITHOUT FAIL respond with,

 

“well you’re a senior”

“a senior in college”

 

giphy (1)

 

HEHEHHEHEHHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHHEHEHEHHEHEHEEHEHEH

HahahahahhahahaHAHAHHAHAHHAHHAHHAHHAhahhahahhah

HOHOHOHOHOHOHOOHoooooooHHHHHHHHHHOHOHOHOO

HOOOHOOOOHOOOHOOOOOoooooooooOOOOOOOooooooOOOOOOOOOOhOOOOO

 

(!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!iamrollingwithlaughter!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)

 

I just wanted to include that bit to let everyone know that my friends are obviously coming up with some unparalleled comedic material. Check out their Netflix special arriving in 2020.

 

Anywayssssssss.

 

Panic ensues.

 

Why did no one tell me?

 

You may be thinking, “Well Emma. You should have looked around the room prior to the class beginning.”

 

And to that I say,

 

Yeah, you’re right….

 

Quite literally, I was the youngest person by AT LEAST 40 years. And I was in the back corner, so any escape plan would make me look like an old lady hater. And I don’t hate old ladies. I quite admire them.

 

SO

 

YES.

 

But yeah that’s pretty much the end of the story.

 

I went to a yoga class with a bunch of old people and it was super easy.

 

Hope you enjoyed.

 

Bye!

old ladies.gif

 

A Week of Whoops: How a Clumsy Girl Fares in the Big Apple Without Her Mommy

Posted on by Emma Unedited

Hello world. So if you keep up with me on social media you might notice some pictures of me in the Big Apple. That’s probably due to the fact that I was, indeed, in New York City for Spring Break. Lit, right? Well. No.

Well, actually, yes.

It was a super fun trip and I absolutely love NYC every time I go. However, this blog isn’t about all of the things that go as planned in my life–that would be LAME and far too short… This blog is about all of the crazy and inconvenient things that happen to yours truly. So without further adieu, here are a few of the moments that epitomize why my mom made me start a blog.

1.) So if you’ve ever gone to NYC with a theater kid, you’ll know that we tend to get exceptionally excited and more often than not exit the plane like this….Sound of Music

It’s a thing.

Anyways, my friend Cassie and I get off the plane, hop onto the ever so classy NYC Airporter bus, and make our way to Grand Central Station. (If you are a basic white girl, you will know that Grand Central Station plays a large role in the FIRST EVER episode of Gossip Girl. So you can imagine we were pretty stoked.)

After a 30 minute bus ride we hopped off and busted through the doors. In our excitement, we ran to the spot where Serena first stood (because, duh) and snapped a pic while embracing the beauty and chaos constantly flowing through the building.

Then, however, disaster struck. We realized that we had made a grave mistake.

We

forgot

our

suitcase

on

the

bus. (see gif below for reaction)

nooo

Yep…

This suitcase had all of our stuff in it–clothes, toiletries, coats, and my 250 dollar pair of LaDuca character shoes (cue the theater kid gasp). We were screwed. However, in our childlike innocence, we ran around for about a half hour trying to catch the bus at its next stop. Nothing.

But then, a miracle happened.

I saw something green out of the corner of my eye.

The one.

The only.

The shimmering, beautiful….

NYC AIRPORTER BUS.

I ran as fast as I could across the busy streets of the concrete jungle and found out that it wasn’t our bus….

HAHA.

BUT THENNNNNNNN, a nice man named Brandon (shout out to you, B) told us that our bus was coming back around. He called into headquarters, located our bus and had the bus driver come back and give us our bag. Wow. Thank. You. God. (and also Brandon). Solid start to our trip….

2.) After a solid week of sightseeing, I got to the airport early for my return flight to try and avoid any unexpected mishaps (continue reading to see why this is ironic). I told myself I would get through security, grab a snack, and read my book until I boarded. And that all went according to plan! Yay! I got through security, took a quick bathroom break to avoid the yucky airport pottys, and sat down at gate B6.

Then however, I couldn’t find my phone.

Of course.

So I asked the lady next to me to call my phone number. She proceeded to say yes and convince me that New Yorkers are not mean people like everyone thinks they are. Thanks lady. I now believe you.

However, I still couldn’t find my phone. So I got up to go retrace my steps.

As I stood up to walk toward the bathroom, my foot got caught in the strap of my duffle bag and I fell for what felt like an eternity. Flat onto my face. In the middle of gate B6.

Literally why does this happen to me.

My tumble had my jacket thrown out in front of me, my foot still in my duffle bag, and my water bottle on the other side of the seating area at some poor old man’s feet.

Pure class, my friends.

I stood up as gracefully as humanly possible and looked for a ditch to hop into until Jesus returned. Unfortunately, LGA is bereft of any such thing.

Things couldn’t get any worse.

Or could they?

3.) Just when I thought losing my dignity was enough for one day, I realized that I still couldn’t find my phone. I went into the bathroom stall and it wasn’t there. I looked at the book store and it wasn’t there. I went all the way back to security and it wasn’t there either.

I decided it would probably be best to embrace defeat and go crawl in a hole and die. Before accepting my fate, however, I saw a man with cleaning supplies walk out of the men’s room. I asked him if he had cleaned the women’s restroom lately and if he had found a phone. He nodded and pulled my phone out of his back pocket.

YAS YAS YAS.

YAs

I thanked him over and over again to which he replied “bano” and laughed.

I don’t speak spanish so I was like okay, you sweet man, I don’t know what you’re saying and I can’t say that I really care because you returned my phone and for that I am eternally grateful.

I went back to the scene of the tumble from earlier and sat down. Right as my pride started to slowly repair itself, the lady next to me said “Oh are you the girl whose phone they fished out of the toilet?”

Ummmmmmmmmmmmmmmm…

Oh. no.

Oh. no.

OH. NO.

I was then informed that earlier–probably as I was falling onto my face in front of the entire airport–my phone was taking a nice bath in an LGA toilet bowl.

Yum.

She told me she was waiting in line and saw the man fish it out and put it in his pocket.

Bano means toilet in Spanish, friends–you learn something new every day.

Perfect.

In the end, when I tell people these things they think i’m exaggerating. I’m not. I’m just a girl trying to make it in this world and clearly not doing a very good job. I’m cursed with clumsiness and poor sports abilities except when the goal is a good ole’ airport bano.

So yeah.

Anyways, If you need to get ahold of me, send an email. Or a fax. Or talk to me in person. And stay tuned to see if the rice trick actually works.

Xoxo,

Emma

A Song of Weeping: When My Tears Feel Ignored

Posted on by Emma Unedited

I like to consider myself a pretty positive “glass half full” kinda gal. Aside from the occasional explosion of built up sadness resulting from an age old insecurity or the playing of the Holiday classic “Christmas Shoes,” my every day life consists of pretty level emotions. I think….

This quality of level headedness has served me well and allowed me to get through most weeks unscathed.  However, this Monday my emotions apparently felt ignored and decided to make themselves known with an extravagant entrance and absolutely no warning.

So I’m in my Monday voice lesson, working on all of my material for my Jury (a Jury is what they call our final in this class). And as I’m singing my first piece, my accompanist stops playing and says, “Could you breathe before you sing?”

My brain heard exactly that, “Could you breathe before you sing?” But APPARENTLY my emotions translated this simple statement as, “You are the worst singer in the entire world, you will never succeed in this business, and you are also fat and smelly.” 

In my mind, I knew he wanted me to breathe more visibly so that he could follow my singing accordingly.

But in my heart, he wanted me to stop breathing altogether so that I would drop dead and quit stealing air from those who are worthy of sweet sweet existence.

So I start the song over. But before I could even get to the chorus I feel something bubbling up in my throat. The emotions. The tears. The horror.

Oh. no.

And then before I knew it, one single cry escaped from my being and I was sobbing. Literally. Uncontrollably. Sobbing. Like picture the Big Bang, and then change it to a personification of tears, and you’ve got a pretty accurate description of me on Monday.

And anyone who knows me knows that once it begins, it doesn’t stop. The nature of my crying is like the thought of demon possession before going to sleep–once you invite those thoughts in you can’t get rid of them…and the more you tell yourself, This isn’t real, the more you find yourself thinking, This is it. This is the night i’m going to be possessed by the devil.

And the worst part is that both my voice coach and my accompanist are men, so they could only console me with their words. So just imagine me, standing in the middle of this room, face in my hands, sobbing, and having two grown men repeating, “It’s going to be okay” over and over again while remaining at the appropriate physical distance.

Bless it.

 

I think I made things worse because I kept telling them that I had no reason to cry. I literally didn’t. This semester has been wonderful. But all I could think was….

Why am I crying? 

Why am I wearing this outfit?

Why do they call this final a “jury” if my voice teacher keeps telling me the point isn’t to judge me? Isn’t a jury by definition designed to judge someone?

Ugh.

So anyways, I finally stopped crying. Thank God. And (surprise, surprise) my voice lesson ended early. I guess the moral of this story is to confront your emotions so they don’t hate you and make themselves known at the absolute worst of times.

Like John Lennon said, “The one thing you can’t hide is when you cripple inside.”

You speak to my soul, Mr. Lennon.

Xoxo,

Emma

Still Not Over It: The Day My Self Confidence Actually Died

Posted on by Emma Unedited

As mentioned in other blogs, I am currently pursuing a major in Musical Theater. In one of my acting classes recently, we have been doing a lot of character development work–exploring the physical and mental effects of allowing a character to truly become a part of you. One exercise we did was performing a common nursery rhyme as if we were an animal.

I was given an elephant, so my movements were large and my voice was low. My friend Cassidy was given a snail, so she curled up on the ground and spoke slowly. We discussed the essence of each animal and what distinguished characteristics allowed for development in their character.

At the end of that exercise, my teacher said that each person possesses certain qualities that make them like some type of animal. She then asked all of us to talk amongst ourselves and figure out which animal we were.

Ironically my friend Kat was labeled a cat. Like her name, she possesses a subtle mysterious and feline nature: so this made sense to me. My friend Bailey was labeled as a panther because of her  confidence and attention catching presence.

“What did my classmates label me?” You may be wondering. Well, after virtually no discussion whatsoever, my classmates decided that I was a monkey.

And not just any monkey. I guess one of my classmates must have noticed the look of genuine hopelessness on my face and tried to alleviate the situation by clarifying….

“Not just any monkey!” she said.

“One of those red monkeys you see at the zoo! (I guess she wanted me to ignore the fact that she was SAYING I LOOKED LIKE A MONKEY by bringing me back to some fond memories I had at the zoo as a child…)

So at this point I actually start to tear up because I’m hormonal  but also because IM JUST GIRL ALREADY STRUGGLING WITH WOMANHOOD AND THE MEANING OF LIFE AND THE POTENTIAL OF DYING ALONE AND NOW MY CLASSMATES TELL ME THAT I LOOK LIKE A RED MONKEY.

So naturally I google this “red monkey” and this is the first photo that pops up.


awwwwwwwwwwwdkdjkwdjjswhsjhdhhAHHHHHHHHHHHWWHHATT

Im not sure if my classmates noticed my misty eyes but I suspect that they did due to the fact that they changed their answer to a golden-doodle (which in my opinion is more accurate considering they have the smarts of a poodle and the fun-loving nature of a golden retriever).

I’m smart and fun, right?

Ugh. So that is my tragic tail.

I mean tale.

(Ew sorry I had to.)

So just remember, ladies. When you get a wicked zit or put on a few pounds, at least no one told you that you look like a monkey.

Oh sorry excuse me…a red monkey.

No one told you that you looked like a red monkey…the ugliest of all monkeys.

No one used your face as evidence for the claim that we did, in fact, descend from primates.

I hope you feel better about yourselves now.

Xoxo,

Emma

10 Things You Don’t Have To Do Before You Die 

Posted on by Emma Unedited

So I’m laying in my bed and it’s almost 1:00 am. If you know me at all, you are probably wondering why in the world your grandmother of a friend is still awake at this hour that greatly surpasses her usual sleepy time.

Well let me tell you.

I am awake because I am annoyed.

Why are you annoyed? You may wonder…

Well here’s why. I am sick of logging onto Facebook–excited to catch up on peoples’ lives and see cute baby pictures and watch videos of recipes that I know are much more complicated than the videos portray–and seeing blog articles that follow this type of formula…

15 (or any number) of (verbs) you HAVE TO DO BEFORE YOU (insert common life events)

I mean seriously, people.

Do I really HAVE TO?

No.

I don’t.

In fact, I really do believe that my life will turn out a-okay if I decide not to climb a bunch of mountains or eat a cronut.

So being the rebel that I am, I made a list of 10 things that you DON’T need to do before you die as a response to a recent blog that I read entitled, “Things You Need To Do Before You Die” published by PopSugar.com.

Get ready, folks. I am officially rebuttal-ing.

I have selected 10 of my favorites from the list and have written out my thoughts regarding each item. So without further ado…

10 things you DON’T need to do before you die (even though PopSugar.com said you do)

1.) Dance in the rain– LAAAMMMEEE. I’ve done this. It’s not romantic. Despite what “The Notebook” makes you think, you will not end up with true love and a nice make out sesh. You will end up with rachet hair and a serious need for some chaffing cream.

2.) Jump into a pool of jello- Just picture yourself rolling around in a pool of jello. Awk. 

3.) Make your mark on this world– Ah yes, of course. I will try and fit that in right between my trip to the store for jello and my hair appointment to fix my new nasty hair. 

4.) Bathe in Milk– So while Tim McGraw is “sky diving, rocky mountain climbing, and riding a bull for 3 seconds” at least I will be able to think to myself, well I didn’t do any of that, but I got to take a milk bath that one time. 

5.) Break a Guiness world record– Ah yes, of course. And while I am at it I will go ahead and win 17 olympic gold medals and become the President of the United States.

6.) Put vanilla pudding in a mayo jar and eat in public– Yes. This was on the list. A thing to do before you reach your demise.

7.) Meet grumpy cat– He’s a cat with a slightly negative expression. That is all. You don’t need to meet him. 

8.) Cook a 10 course meal– Because that’s necessary…

9.) Forgive people and let go of grudges– Ugh. Ok, fine.

10.) Cage dive with great white sharks-Probably smart to make that the last thing on your list chronologically if you catch my drift. 

Whoop, there it is people. Please know that my intention is not to bash PopSugar.com or to discredit the writer of that blog. It is only to encourage you that you can live your life without an 18 page bucket list full of crap.

xoxo,

Emma

Sources:

http://www.popsugar.com/smart-living/Things-Do-Before-You-Die-31147739#photo-33499580

 

An Open Letter to the Lady who Farted in Pilates Today

Posted on by Emma Unedited

Dear Lady who Farted in Pilates Today,

Don’t worry–I don’t know who you are. I have been a member of the YMCA for a whopping 72 hours so you can find rest in the fact that your name will remain unknown/undisclosed. And I can honestly say that I remember the distinct sound of your flatulence more than any easily identifiable facial features (good/bad thing?). Because your identity remains in the dark, I will unfortunately have to refer to you as pila-toots. Sorry, ma’am. I just wanted to write this letter for you and for everyone else who has suffered from a public booty cough. I feel that this issue needs to be addressed and it is important for you to hear what I am about to say. Pila-toots–

1.) Your Fart Does Not Define You- So other than the fact that this blog is written about you, a nameless/faceless farting Jane Doe, I know that THERE IS MORE TO YOU THAN YOUR CHEEK SQUEAK. You had the courage to scoot your gassy little butt into a YMCA pilates class–crawling with lululemon wearing, skinny soccer moms–and you made yourself known by serving them a nice fresh air biscuit. Do not let this make you feel insecure. Feel proud. Because despite what society tells you, farts come out of skinny butts too.

2.) You’re an Inspiration– When you let it rip today, we were in the middle of an ab exercise. My legs were shaking. I was losing hope. I didn’t know how I would finish the set. When you farted, however, I smiled. You broke wind and it shattered my insecurities. You cut the cheese and I straightened my knees. Your butt exercised its right to free speech and my butt found its way back to neutral center. And for that, I thank you.

3.) Your Fart Should be Celebrated- Guess what? Farting is healthy and normal. The average person farts over 14 times a day, and if we make the grave mistake of holding in our farts, we LITERALLY GET FART BREATH. I’m serious. That’s a thing. I read it on linkdin (eh?). ALSO, farts are made up of approximately 25% hydrogen. You know what else is made of hydrogen? STARS. So there. Your fart is basically a star. And so are you, Pila-toots. You are a star.

So thank you, Pila-toots, for reminding me that not everyone who takes pilates is a robot. I know you may never see this letter, but somehow I have confidence that my gratitude is sort of like your fart–even though you can’t see it, you know it’s there.

xoxo,

Emma