And no, I don’t mean conventions– even though I think it’s rad that they exist and I think they should be more like Comic Con and we should all dress up as our favorite bloggers.

I mean cons as in the opposite of pros. Like, pros before hoes and all that.

Okay, first off people who don’t blog don’t understand some very essential things about bloggers (and this is by no means any fault of their own, it just comes along with the territory of not sharing intimate details of their daily lives on the internetz each day). They don’t understand the contradiction that is our very existence. The one where we write about our lives every day on a very public platform and cry into our diy chevron pillows when no one comments on our posts, and yet don’t actually want anyone we meet in real life to know it exists, let alone read it.

Don’t get me wrong, I love it when others enjoy this little space as much as I do and I get great satisfaction out of knowing that IRL people are interested in what I write when I already know them. Sure, every now and again we stress about getting lectured by Grandma about dropping the f-bomb or that priest from that one wedding that you’re not even sure how you became Facebook friends with reads about your tendencies to binge drink and run home from bars afterward, but all that pales in comparison to the issue I’ve been running into lately.

Apparently it’s not uncommon for non-blogger friends to bring up your internet hobby in front of others. Strangers, usually. And usually strangers who are trying to hit on you and in other words the exact strangers you want your blog to remain anonymous to forever and ever (because no one likes to censor their blog posts because some rando from that bar who makes a great story now knows your blog address).

It stems from interest, which really is flattering. But the problem is, non-bloggers who are interested in what we do (because there are many, of course, who couldn’t give two shits about what we got at Starbucks and how sweaty we are after our gym sessions) are this way for several reasons.

One. They are thinking about writing their own blog and want to see how we are doing it.

Two. They hate us and want fuel for the fire (I mean, we give them plenty of fuel).

Three. They don’t understand why we do it and they want to know why they are interested enough to keep typing that URL in there.

Four. They really enjoy our content.

Five. All the other reasons, like oh, that recipe looks delish. Or where did she get that necklace? Or how did her butt get so big? Or she moved where?!

And six. You’re a dude interested in a chick who happens to write about her entire little being on the internet, so you scroll through those archives gathering up information that either gives you the complete upper hand (provided you’re not a creep and most likely attractive) or scares the pants right off of your internet savvy bod and you go running for the hills.

All this to say, a lifestyle blog is by no means a first date convo piece and is not to be placed on a dating site profile. Ever. And if I know you and you read my blog, thank you. That’s awesome. But if we’re out in a bar and we’re chatting up some fellas, don’t mention my blog and I won’t mention your strange addiction to eating toilet paper. Sometimes they’re equally awkward.

My ovaries are doing weird, weird things to me. And yes, this post is going to, for the most part, describe the monthly shedding of my uterus, so feel free to click away, boys (apparently some of them actually read this stuff. Who knew?). Anywho, let’s talk about the weirdness revolving around those lady balls inside my pelvic region.

First there’s the cuddly, vom-worthy adorable stuff, like babies.

Holy cow. Just look at that pudgy little ball of cuteness. I can’t even handle it. I’ve come dangerously close to kidnapping other people’s children on several occasions lately. There was a perfectly perfect little blond boy at the festival on Sunday rolling around in the grass and smiling like it was the best thing in the universe. My heart exploded. It was disgusting. I might have even checked Etsy for one of those adorable baby hammocks that super fashionable mommy bloggers wear on the reg. I might be even more excited about the baby sling thingies than I am about the baby (note: I just Googled ‘baby hammock’ because I don’t know what they’re actually called and I found this–d’awwww). 

Clearly none of this is reasonable. Babies poop and whine way more than my mutt, they suck all your money away from things like concerts, clothes and booze, and I don’t even have a boyfriend. So CHILL OUT, OVARIES.

Then there’s the physical aspect.

My stomach is bloated and cramping while my legs are aching, my face is back to its high school pre-Proactiv days and I’m craving Chinese food, root beer floats and all the chocolate. I just want to lay down (and NOT drive all the way to the store for a box of tampons that costs more than the fancy specialty sushi rolls. What is the deal?! If I were a dude, I would buy an extra spicy tuna roll with baked scallops and 8 different types of row on top every month just because that’s how much I was saving by not having to buy tampons. D-bags.), but then I feel guilty because obviously I’m a fat cow and start hating on myself for not getting stuff done, which leads to the bigger problem that exists in the mind of the menstruating female.

I get weird. I distinctly remember being, like, 12 and making a huge bowl of oatmeal. It wasn’t that pre-made stuff, it was just disgusting mush at first but I made it epic by adding massive amounts of butter, brown sugar and just the right amount of love. I didn’t think I was particularly passionate about this oatmeal, though. That is until I dropped it. The bowl didn’t even break and there was a tub the size of my torso full of more oats, but I started bawling my eyes out. Life just wasn’t fair… because I dropped my oatmeal. I knew I was being ridiculous but that didn’t stop my body from reacting to the oatmeal debacle as if it were a real life tragedy.

Fast forward 12 years and I’m having a slightly different, yet just as dramatic, reaction to something that’s totally not even a big deal. I’m jamming out to Third Eye Blind and forget which road I’m on because, duh, I suck at directions, when I realized I need to get in the left lane to turn onto my road and this bish won’t let me over despite the fact that all the cars in front of her are stopped at the light anyway and all it would do is convenience me. Nope. Normal Kensie would say, “I mean, you make U-turns all the time anyway, you’ll be fine,” but hormonal Kensie screams, “F*** YOU!!!!!!!” as loud as she can followed by lots of other expletives directed at this woman complete with unnecessary jabs at her hair and facial expression. Then I made a U-turn and it was fine.

And apparently my hormones trick my brain into thinking it’s a good idea to write about them for all of the internetz to see. Whatever. I’m going to go make another root beer float.