Cosplay

My name is Jennifer Worick and I am a geek. A Coke-bottled, bookworm, comic book-reading, Nerdist-loving geek. But apparently, I’m not a cool one.

I have never been to Comic-Con. And I don’t have a closet filled with Logan’s Run, Xena, Zira, Bellatrix Lestrange, or Jem and the Holograms costumes. I’m just a run-of-the-mill geek who, sad to say, doesn’t own any wigs.

And I’m okay with that.

See, I’m also a grown-ass person. Everyday isn’t an opportunity to recreate Halloween and indulge in a flamboyant case of arrested development. I get it, Stormtrooper, I get it. You were a kid with Star Wars sheets who doesn’t currently have a girlfriend and wants to take out your agro-bro feelings under the guise of white plastic while trolling for a slave Leia who's DTF. And sexy Uhura with your skirt up to there, I know you had braces and crippling shyness as a teen so now you’re making up for lost time and looking for a Mr. Spock who will appreciate both your human and Vulcan sides. I bet you’d even settle for that Klingon over there, even though that goes against Starfleet regulations.

Take the lead from kids, who save the serious costuming for Halloween. Dressing up for every comic book, pinball, sci-fi, supermachiner, manga, Magic the Gathering, videogame, Trekkie conference co-opts what should be ONE special day and frankly, throws you into the same sorry bunch as Steampunkers and Ren Faire enthusiasts. You just have more interesting eyewear. 

So go away. Go to a galaxy far, far away. Wrap your knitted scarf around your neck and step into your TARDIS. Here's' hoping you run into some Daleks who are looking to exterminate a Time Lord. 

(photo: ogeeku.com)

Yoga pants

Ladies of the yoga-pants-as-streetwear persuasion: Don’t get it twisted.

You’re just as bad as the pajamas-as-outerwear People of Walmart, except you have a 401K and a will to live. In fact, you live the hell out of your life. You’ll sleep when you’re dead.

Meanwhile, you’re overscheduled and you don’t want anyone to forget it. You’re far too busy with carpools and important deadlines at your WFH consulting gig to bother changing out of your workout gear.

Because, oh yeah, you work out. The yoga pants say so.

You know your way around a Pilates Reformer and can stay in Crow pose for more than a minute in your hot yoga class. Yoga pants are your way of broadcasting that you—and your toned ass—are better than me.

Yoga pants, camel toe, and a messy topknot announce to the world that you’re fit, body and SoulCycle. On the flip side, however, you might be of the yoga pants subset who wears them despite having never stepped foot in a yoga studio. You don’t live the hell out of your life. You just live for an elastic waistband, bless your heart, and you’re not quite ready to make the leap to maternity pants, the ones with the stretchy panel.

Regardless, if you insist on wearing your Lululemon outside of the gym or yoga studio to go shopping or out to lunch or even to a business meeting, men should start wearing some OG David Lee Roth spandex action. Because, you know, everyone wants to see that, too.

(Photo: betabrand.com)

Women who play with their hair

You are amazing. Smart, stylish, a polished public speaker who demands attention with your passion, insight and—wait!—what were you were saying? I was distracted by your lustrous locks…and not in a good way.

You had me wrapped around your little finger, but I was swapped out for a lock of your hair. I see woman after woman playing with her hair like a nervous tic, tucking it repeatedly behind an hair, twirling it around a finger, pulling long locks from one shoulder to another, as if in an attempt to find a best side. You’re not Mariah Carey and your hair isn’t a binkie. If you continue to use your bob as a security blanket, I’m going to have to split…and you’re going to have a shitload of split ends. I speak the truth.

(photo: whatwomenlike.net)

Old guy facelifts

It’s hard to watch any of the Kardashian divorce coverage. It’s not because Kim’s stunt disgusts me or that I think there’s no there there. It’s because of Bruce Jenner. 

I remember the ’76 Olympics. I remember Jenner taking a victory lap after winning the decathalon, fitting during a Bicentennial Year. Proud to be an American, I ate a lot of Wheaties with Jenner on the box.

Now, I sort of want to throw up my breakfast when I see Jenner doddering around the Kardashian klan. He looks like the grim reaper, the skin of his face pulled tightly over cheekbones and implants. And he’s not alone. Michael Douglas, Paul McCartney, and Steven Tyler are also part of the cryptkeeper club, not content to leave well enough alone and age gracefully, let alone move their face. These dudes are starting to look like ladies, and not in a good way. I’d punch them in the face, but I might shatter them.

(photo: celebritysmackblog.com)

Adult acne

I gotta level with you: puberty was fucking rough. I was taller than the boys in my fifth-grade class, my boobs reached double-D status around the same time, and my piss-poor eyesight resulted in Coke-bottle-thick glasses that made my eyes look like tiny green specks somewhere back there.

But the gods showed mercy. I didn’t have to deal with acne. Occasionally I had a zit that I dotted with Clearasil, but for the most part, my skin was my best feature, creamy and smooth like my favorite ice cream.

Then I grew up and the universe decided to royally fuck me over. I take care of my skin better than ever. I pamper it, I eat well, I stay out of the sun. Washing my face is my favorite part of the day, sad as that sounds.

But regardless of my tender loving care, zits seem to pop up all over my face like a hormonal round of Whac-a-Mole. As soon as I hit one, another crops up on the other side of my nose, giving new meaning to “turn the other cheek.”

I’d lay waste to my epidermis with a Silkwood-grade spray of benzoyl peroxide but I’m pretty sure it would exacerbate the problem. So I’ll keep spackling away and trying not to look at the Fresnel lens on my forehead. Thankfully, my eyesight is holding steady at –11.5.

(And by the way, Proactiv is really, really bad for your skin.)

(photo: acneknower.com)

Bob Costas’s head

In recent years, I’ve made a sport out of studying celebutards and trying to detect if they’ve had work done. I grimace at Bruce Jenner’s frozen face, even if he can’t. I want to take a pin to Nicole Kidman’s and Meg Ryan’s oft-inflated lips. I can’t look Heidi Montag in the eye. I know my mythology; I might turn to stone.

Enter the Olympics. I’m watching men and women who have transformed their bodies and worked them towards a goal. Such as Bob Costas. Specifically, his face. In looking at the NBC commentator, I’m a little confused about his particular end goal. Is he going for the gold in the Look of Perpetual Surprise Freestyle? Was he replaced with a Madame Tussaud’s wax figure after he was stopped at the border with an expired passport? Did he get a makeover from a Real Housewife? What the hell is going on?

I don’t know, but I do know that he’s a real eyesore. High definition has not been kind to Bob.

If his dark hair wasn’t distracting enough (is it just me, or has his pelt gotten darker every Olympic Games?), he looks as if he’s had an eye lift, some Botox to a forehead that’s now as tight as Johnny Weir’s short program costume, and some sort of peel. I’m afraid that his waxy skin will melt off if he gets too close to the Olympic Torch. Remember Frankenbob: Fire bad.

Not only is this sports commentator out of medal contention, he’s out of his mind. You’re a 57-year-old sportscaster, dude—it’s okay to age gracefully. We’re not looking at you anyway; we’re watching the speedskating gods in their formfitting unitards. In this case, high definition, good.

(photo: stampedeblue.com)

Miley Cyrus’ cheeks

I know it’s not nice to pick on teenagers but when they straddle the pole, all bets are off. So here it is: Miley Cyrus has some big-ass cheeks, and I’m not talking about her ass cheeks.

Even accounting for baby fat, you've gotta admit that Hannah Mouthana has a freaky pair of pancakes on her pretty puss.

Sorry, Smiley, but the party isn’t in the U.S.A.: it’s in your mouth. In fact, I think a DJ is spinning in your left cheek right now. And sweetcheeks, with your bank account, there’s really no need to be storing nuts for winter.

I'm not going to punch you in the face, since I don't believe in hurting baby animals, but I'm trusting that the cheekiness subsides in a few years. If not, I know of a few Real Housewives who'd be happy to take your baby face off your hands to plump up their own.

(photo: dankando.wordpress.com)