I wish i actually wore the fashion taste i have
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I wish I could afford the fashion taste I have
I wish I had the body for the fashion taste I have
all of the above
Here are some activities that help you burn calories (some of them I bet you didn’t even know!):
This is based on a person that weights 132’3”lbs or 60kg during 30 minutes doing:
- Stretching (-90cal)
- Riding a horse (-31cal)
- Walking fast (-276cal)
- Walking on a treadmill (-156cal)
- Walking fast on a treadmill (-270cal)
- Walking on the beach (sand) (between -160—190cal)
- Walking on the seashore (with the water covering your feet) (-140cal)
- Setting your bed (-66cal)
- Packing bags (-60cal)
- Watching TV (-41cal)
- Typing (on the computer) (-43cal)
- Talking on the phone (-55cal)
- Kissing (-30cal)
- Singing (-55cal)
- Body Pump (-190cal)
- Body Combat (-300cal)
- Running 12km/hour (-445cal)
- Holding a newborn baby (-70cal)
- Riding a bike (-126cal)
- Skating (-196cal)
- Running on even ground (-310cal)
- Running on uneven grond (-330cal)
- Cooking (-90cal)
- Shaving yourself (-45cal)
- Drawing (-60cal)
- Sleeping (-30cal)
- Driving a car (-30cal)
- Riding a motorcycle (-95cal)
- Clapping your hands (-50cal)
- Shopping on the market (-70cal)
- Dancing (-200cal)
- Playing volleyball (-105cal)
- Playing volleyball on the beach (-150cal)
- Reading (-50cal)
- Meditating (-20cal)
- Fighting karate (-290cal)
- Fighting jiu-jitsu (-230cal)
- Fighting kung fu (-290cal)
- Taking your dog for a walk (-150cal)
- Swimming non-stop (-245cal)
Just some ideas… You’re burning calories all the time! Hope I have helped you picking some activities to do today :)
5 years ago i was a fucking mess & now i’m a fucking mess but at peace with it and with cooler fashion sense
Good days aren’t promised. Bad days are only temporary. Understand that life has two sides and your perspective will become whole.
(via fashion-in-ny13)
Girl Code 101, by Blythe Baird
We are the finaglers. The exceptions. The girls who have not run the mile in four years, who layer deep v-necks with excuses, eyelashes bat wiffle balls at the male gym teachers.
We are the girls taught to survive by using our bodies as Swiss army knives.
Calculated scrunched notes, giggles, and friendly forearm lingers. “You’re so funny. Please don’t touch me.”
We convince ourselves there is protection in being polite. “No, you can go first. Girls, we have to be nice.” Male kindness is so alien to us, we assume it is seduction every time.
We remember aged nine the first time we are cat-called.
Twelve, fraudulent bodies calling us women before we have the chance to.
Thirteen, the year dad says wearing short skirts in the city is like driving without a seat belt.
Fifteen, we are the unmarked tardies, waved attentions, honorable mentions, and lush floral dresses.
Sixteen, we are the public school mannequins.
Seventeen, we know the answer, but do not raise our hands.
Instead, we are answering to guidance counselors who ask us “Well, what were you wearing?” Their voices clink-less toasts, we are led off the hook from hall monitors, retired football coaches who blow kisses and whisper “Little Miss Lipstick” into our ears in the high school cafeteria.
We shiver, but hey, at least we still get away without wearing our student IDs.
This is not female privilege. This is survival of the prettiest. We are playing the first game we learned how to. We are the asses smacked by boys who made welcome mats of our yoga pants.
We are easily startled. Who wouldn’t be? We are barked at from the street, we are the girls petrified of the business school boys, who learn to manifest success by refusing to take “no” for an answer.
And I wonder what it says about me that I feel pretty in a dress, but powerful in a suit.
If misogyny has been coiled inside of me for so long, I forget I will not stand before an impatient judge with an Adam’s apple, hand grasping gavel, ready to pound a wooden mark.
Give me a god I can relate to. Commandments from a voice both soft and powerful. Give me one accomplishment of Mary’s that did not involve her vagina.
Give me decisions, a wordless wardrobe, and opinion list dress, give me a city where my body is not public property. Once my friend and I got cat-called on Michigan Avenue, and she said “Fuck you” while I said “Thank you,” like I was trained to.
“Not all men” I say, “there is but one who is purely good.” But which man am I referring to? In Iceland, deep in the woods and the snow, there lives a lad raised by wolves who feasts upon sunbeams and loves all of nature, unburdened by man’s sins. Tenderly, he strokes a hungry squirrel, sharing with her the last acorns of the autumn harvest. A tear rolls down his cheek. Who is he