"Crank Up Your Chemistry" (SELF)
Excerpt
Adam and I are sitting across from each other, eating pastrami on rye. "Know what movie was filmed here?" he asks. He has taken me to his favorite deli. "Of course," I say. It was When Harry Met Sally..., the I'll-have-what-she's-having scene. I know this because there's a sign that says so. I sip my Dr. Brown's Diet Cream Soda and watch Adam, study him, really—the way he chews, sniffles, smiles. He reaches for a pickle and my hand intercepts his. Our fingers interlace.
Yes, we're that couple, the one given to gratuitous displays of affection in the deli and the dry cleaner, on the subway or the bus. We stay up until 2 A.M., talking, then not talking, talking some more, then not talking again. The next day, I'll doodle his name, encircling it in plump hearts. It's as if I'm 14 again.
Still, I worry that in six months or a year, maybe two, the novelty of our romance will wear off and I'll be annoyed, not amused, if Adam takes me to this very same deli. I'd rather have sushi, I'll tell him. When mustard drips onto his chin, I'll roll my eyes. And if, God forbid, he tries to kiss me after scarfing down a pastrami sandwich and three pickles, I'll turn my head. I dread this fate because that's exactly what happened with my last boyfriend, and the one before that.
I broke up with the guy before Adam because we didn't reach for each other in the middle of the night or kiss good-bye in the morning. We argued over the remote and who last replaced the toilet paper. And after three years, we finally both realized that we had grown apart, and we called it quits.
Adam finds my angst amusing. "How many months do we have left?" he teases. It's not funny, I say. Yet I know there are couples who survive the passage of time with passion intact. What are they doing that I'm not? I decide to investigate.
Month 1
In the beginning, Adam is infallible. We spend every spare moment together, our good-byes drawn-out productions. Initially, we skirt saying "I love you" until we've exhausted its precursors: I adore you, I heart you, I love everything about you. After two months, we say the real thing. Well, I say it, tentatively. "I love you, too," he interrupts.
"Why I hate taking selfies" (cosmopolitan)
Excerpt
I can count on one hand the number of selfies I've taken. It's not just because I think it's kind of ridiculous. It's also that I really don't like how I look in pictures. If someone points a camera in my direction, I hide my face, like TMZ is papping me outside Katsuya.
I don't think I'm unattractive. But when I see myself in pictures? Horrified. My eyes go beady, my mouth narrows, my nose expands. Those cheekbones I thought I had? Gone. I start to wonder if the photos are actually more accurate. You might say that I have good self-esteem but horrible selfie-esteem.
Around the time of my wedding, I was feeling particularly camera-shy. Would I love how I'd look on the big day, only to hate how I look in the photos?
Hoping to overcome my photo aversion, I Googled hate how I look in pictures. I landed on Nolan Feeney's article for TheAtlantic.com, "Why Selfies Sometimes Look Weird to Their Subjects." He writes about "mere-exposure hypothesis," which boils down to this: The more we see something, the more we like it. It's why I prefer my mirror image to my "true" image (how I look in photographs).
And what we see in the mirror is just a reversal of our features, not what people see when they look at us straight-on. Need proof? Try this trick: Take a selfie. As you're posing, it appears as a mirror image—what you're used to seeing. Once you snap it, the mirror "flips," showing you the image of yourself others see. Weird!
Feeney's article offers a solution to the problem—take more selfies. (Stay with me.) It makes sense, according to Pamela Rutledge, PhD, director of the Media Psychology Research Center.
"A photographer might shoot an entire roll of film to get one good picture," says Rutledge. In an interview with The Daily Mail, Kylie Jenner admitted she takes "like, 500 selfies" to get the right one. While this may seem narcissistic, Rutledge believes that taking more actually improves how we see ourselves. It becomes easier to dismiss a "bad" photo as just that—a bad photo and not a reflection of how you really look.
I decided to embark on a little selfie exploration.
"When Your best friend is hotter than You" (cosmopolitan)
Excerpt
I mean no offense to Karlie or Cara when I say, I wouldn't want to be your friend. I'm sure they're delightful. It's just that I'd always feel like the Judy Greer to their Jennifer Garner, Katherine Heigl, or J.Lo.
If you ask most women what they look for in a new friend, they'll likely describe someone down-to-earth, funny, and who they can be themselves in front of. That's only part of the story. Just like attractiveness plays a part in romantic relationships, research suggests it also plays a part in friendships—even if most of us are unaware or unwilling to admit it.
According to a study of college-age women in the journal Human Nature, women tend to have friends who are "similarly attractive."
One possible reason for this "birds of a feather" effect? It can help you attract "potential mates," says April Bleske-Rechek, PhD, professor of psychology at the University of Wisconsin at Eau Claire and the study's lead author. Meeting friends for drinks, for example, could up your chances of getting noticed by the group of guys across the bar.
But this presents a catch-22: Some of us subconsciously seek out friends who may help attract attention, but if they're too hot, they steal the spotlight. Now your friends aren't just your allies—they can also be your toughest competition, especially if you perceive yourself as the least attractive one in the group.
Like so much else, there is now an acronym for this feeling: DUFF, aka designated ugly fat friend. It's also the title of a recent movie starring Bella Thorne and Mae Whitman. Playing the titular DUFF onscreen is Whitman, who's neither fat nor ugly, proving that DUFF-ness doesn't have to be all about looks—it's just about feeling inadequate next to a pal.
I had my own brush with DUFF-ness during my last year of living in NYC. That's when I met Kate (not her real name). A former model, she bore a striking resemblance to Adriana Lima—olive skin, dark hair, blue-green eyes. The only celebrity I've ever been told I resemble is Chelsea Handler. Hardly ugly, but unlikely to be confused with a Victoria's Secret Angel. Kate and I eventually became friends, going out for girls' dinners and drinks, sharing stories about ex-boyfriends (and potential new ones).