INSIDER’S ONLY: the wild and wonderful #gallogrub

It is well known amongst my friends and fam that my eating habits are kinda.. quirky. Thousands of people* have asked me “What exactly do you eat during the day?” I think they suspect I go to some top-secret farmer’s market, buy some magic beans, and cackle all night as I stir a pot of stew. Very very close, but not quite. I just try to hit the Eternal Quatro of Grub Delight – healthy, fast, cheap, and tasty. Although really by ‘tasty’, sometimes I just mean ‘edible’.

So you are all in for a rare treat my friends – #galloblog is giving you an insider’s look at what your ol’ Galloswag noshes on all day. Get your pinterests READY!


This is Publix nonfat greek yogurt and chia seeds. They’re not just for pets anymore, folks, they’re for eating. And from what I understand, every chia seed you eat flattens your stomach by 1mm. I also added a devilish dollop of all natural** peanut butter, because life is meant to be enjoyed.

Don’t forget green tea! Two different kinds, because YOLO.

Breakfast 2


Wellll I was still hungry. So I whipped up a smooth and creamy bowl of oatus de branus, more commonly known as oat bran. On the top is a scoop of plain ol’ cocoa powder. Because milk, sugar, and fat in chocolate is for THE WEAK.

Pre-work snack


Every morn I add a scoop of this green superfood nonsense to my water. I like to imagine an epic battle going on in my body where these valiant green warriors fight off all my evil oxidants. Because I don’t want ANY oxidants left in my body. Not. One. Damn. Oxidant.

Post-arrive-at-work snack

To reward myself for making the grueling o.6 mile walk into my lab, I always roll up a sweet potato like a sweet little baby, nuke that sucker, and eat it plain, skin and all. Yes, like a frickin’ hot dog.

.. & some white tea, because I’m still tired, and quitting coffee was hard.

Pre-lunch hunger stave off

If I had zero self-control, I would eat my lunch every day by.. 10:15 a.m. So I drink a big ol’ water bottle with a splash of raw unfiltered apple cider vinegar. Does it help with hunger? Definitely. Does it cure the common cold, cleanse your arteries, and give you the gift of telepathy? I don’t know. I ain’t no scientist.***

Cinnamon gum is also great to chew on to distract my whiney stomach. I buy this super expensive crappy kind that lasts for 15 seconds because it’s xylitol only. And regular gum stays in your stomach and grows into aliens.


I had the delight of running home for lunch and constructing the most mouth watering omelette/frittata. It’s 2 eggs, half a bag of frozen spinach (pre-thawed in microwave), and a sprinkle of turmeric, black pepper****, and red crushed pepper. Stirred it all up and threw it in a pan coated with avocado oil.***** Then I finished it with an adorbs plop of hummus.

Post-lunch Snack

Sprouted corn flakes and cashew milk! Because it is like a crunchy festival in your mouth! And it was a ‘Woohoo!’ deal at Kroger! I literally woohoo’d when I saw it.


I got very distracted and had no time to keep on taking pics like some psycho woman. Will anyone ever know what a #gallodinner looks like…. ?!?!?!



*Ones of people

**PLEASE never eat peanut butter that’s not natural. It’s basically peanut flavored shortening. Hydrogenated oils are always, always, a no.

*** #gallolies

**** THIS is actually serious – turmeric and black pepper are supposed to be super anti-inflammatory

***** Apparently avacodo oil is (one of??) the only kind(s??) of oils that doesn’t turn into a carcinogen when heated up for pan-cooking. Use your EVOO for cold salad and antipasto, not cooking. Sowwy.


The only reason I haven’t roundhoused my trainer in the face


Imagine this scenario: A man is staring intently at a woman’s body. After a few seconds, he tells her, “Hey, squeeze your butt.” Should the woman –

  1. Ignore him
  2. Call the po-po
  3. Give him a roundhouse to the face
  4. Nod appreciatively and squeeze her butt

If you’re a fiery woman like myself (#gallofire), you probably immediately chose option c – roundhouse to the face. Especially if it’s the sort of situation where the woman was at work and the man was some leering co-worker. I might choose option b if the woman was walking to her car at night and the man reeked of alcohol or some illicit substance. Option a would probably be best if the woman is walking down the street, and the man is yelling out of his car window. Option d is clearly NEVER the appropriate response.. or is it??

Imagine now a very different environment from all the ones I mentioned above. The man and woman are at a gym, they know each other, and the woman is paying the man to train her to be a magnificent beast of lean, mean muscle. Part of his job involves watching her closely as she performs different exercises, and telling her when she really needs to rev up her glute activation to perform various exercises. Now, in this very different context, not only should she not be offended, fearful, or activate her ninja mode, she should be grateful that he is performing his job correctly.

So look over options a-d again. They are all very different actions, all appropriate at one time or another, to the exact same event. The main factor that determines the appropriateness of each action is the context of the situation.

What helps us use context flexibly, at the millisecond timescale, to figure out the most appropriate action?


Enter one of the most magnificent brain structures of all time, the hippocampus! You actually have two, each one close to your ears, a few millimeters deep in the brain. The hippocampus doesn’t just ‘do’* one thing – it is most known for its role in memory – but one function it is undisputedly crucial for is taking in info about single ‘items’ (the man) or events (the man telling the woman to squeeze her butt), and incorporating them into the context (the workplace, parking lot at night, street, gym). These item-context associations are super important to send along to other brain regions to use to select the appropriate action (roundhouse, call po-po, ignore, nod ‘n squeeze).

You should also appreciate that the brain does this automatically and instantly. When my trainer tells me to squeeze my glutes, I don’t have to pause for 30 seconds, ponder through all the possible range of responses, mindfully take in my context, and then select an action. Instead, I choose option d – nod appreciatively and squeeze my glutes. I’ve never come close to giving him a roundhouse to the face. Amazing.

The real, every-day importance of the hippocampus is especially visible when the hippocampus stops functioning properly, as in Alzheimer’s disease**.  Once the disease progresses so far, people with Alzheimer’s disease are no longer able to respond to individual items and events in a context appropriate way. That may be one reason why they make inappropro innuendo with the voluptuous waitress, or offend the ears of their innocent grand-chillin’ with a string of foul language. Their hippocampi are becoming dysfunctional, and are less able to help them take in the item/event with the context so they can act appropriately.

So don’t take your hippocampus for granted – protect it by eating less brownies, and exercise like a beast. You don’t want to be that person who attacks their trainer for just doing their job. How embarrassing.

Oh hippocampus, thank you for all that you do. ❤

TAKE NOTE: If anyone says anything about squeezing my butt outside of the trainer-at-the-gym context, you WILL get a roundhouse to the face!!!


*Practically no brain structure ‘does’ one thing, or does it by itself. If you cut out the hippocampus and set it on the table, it wouldn’t ‘remember’ anything. It’s crucially interconnected with a network of other brain regions that it receives info from and sends info to.

**Alzheimer’s disease affects many brain regions, and other brain regions are also involved in appropriate behavior (e.g. prefrontal cortex). But, the hippocampus is one of the first and most severely affected in Alzheimer’s disease, fo’ sho’, and it engages in intimate pillow talks with the other brain regions involved in appropriate behavior as well.


Harry was wrong, and here’s why.


In one of my favorite rom-coms of all time, When Harry Met Sally, Harry and Sally argue about whether or not men and women can be friends. Harry of course says no, although later he adds a stipulation that they can if one or both are involved in a serious relationship with someone else. Although I love the movie, I hate this answer. Thus, I offer you my own, better answer. (YOU ARE WRONG, HARRY!)

So, can single men and women be friends? I argue YES, but with several limitations.

  • Some women can never be friends with any men
    • This is the flirty, needy type who doesn’t see men as individuals, but as soulless tools of validation. They can’t go to a ball game, go on a hike, or watch a movie and be chill. They have to make sure that the focus is always on them and how adorable they are.
    • How to spot: Refusal to participate in activities that do not highlight their cuteness; confusingly wild laughter at their own ditzy behavior
  • Some men can never be friends with any women
    • This is the guy who constantly infuses romantic advances into every interaction. They can usually trick us women for a while by seeming like that sweet friend who just wants to be a shoulder to cry on, but if you give them an inch they will take a mile. They’re basically loitering around in the pretense of friendship, hoping that the woman will someday rise from her slumber and be filled with overwhelming love and affection for him.
    • How to spot: An overuse of emojis in text messages; awkwardly long hugs; usage of pet names
  • Some men and women can never be friends with each other
    • These are the people who really can generally be friends with the opposite sex, but when it comes to this one particular person, their friend skills wash away in an ocean of attraction. I see this a lot with people who date and then try to be friends afterward. I think it’s just more difficult after you’ve romanticized with someone to spend time and talk with them and not “go there” again. You’ll be laughing over some past experience with an angry waiter or something and then remember, ‘oh yeah, that was the same night we went on a romantic moonlit walk and he told me I was the most beautiful girl he had ever met’. It’s difficult to remember that, rally with a quick Anchorman quote, and proceed casually.
    • How to spot: If you’re ‘just friends’ with someone but would feel a little burned if they started dating someone; if you get irrationally angry with that person for relatively mild disagreements (don’t forget: indifference, not hate, is the opposite of love!)

BUT if you don’t fall into any of these categories, and neither does your friend of interest, REJOICE! My guy friends bring such amazing joy and rich perspective to my life. I hope that we can all stop over-sexualizing everything and just enjoy members of the opposite sex as the unique, beautiful unicorns of individuals that they are. ❤


White people, please stop making babies.

Sunburned woman at beach

No, I didn’t stutter. White-white child production needs to end.

This sentiment has no political, religious, or racist motivation. No – this is a sincere, heartfelt plea from yours truly, who is in fact the product of one of these white-white baby-making ventures.

On a recent trip to Florida, I went to the beach per usual. On said beach, I laid under the sun brazenly, like a normal human being. But I do not have the skin of a normal human being. I have the tortured, angsty skin that can only arise from generations upon generations of European love-making. If my skin was a musical genre, it would be 90s goth – super pale, forever stuck in pubescence, and tremendously angry at the world – particularly bright happy sunlight. Thus, it screeched with indignant rage that I dare enjoy my vacation like 100% of Americans like to enjoy their beach vacations – soaking in the sun with some of my favorites. My skin attacked me with every tool in its belt – it stung, itched, chafed, and peeled. If I exposed my skin to temperatures even one degree hotter than its ideal, it literally* caught on fire; one degree cooler and it literally sent my entire body into hypothermic shock. I have never taken so much naproxen and Benadryl just to keep from bursting into tears or running wildly around my vacay house in a crazed effort to distract myself. It was the second** most traumatic experience of my life.

That is why I stand before you now, with tears of sincerity glistening in my beautiful blue eyes: Please save the next generation of humans from this sunburn madness.

This has nothing to do with mixed-race children being beautiful (um, hello Shemar Moore). This is not an appeal rooted in white-hatred. Indeed, it is my tender love for the descendants of current white people that I beg you to give them a better life.  Neither is it somehow an appeal rooted in white-supremacy. Indeed, I hope that there are no 100% white people remaining by 2100.

Please, men and women du blanc – stop strengthening this debilitating genetic mutation that makes white people unfit for venturing outside for a full 60% of the year (at least in the south). Don’t be selfish. Lean in, and make a less sunburned world. A less painful world. A better world.


*By literally, I mean figuratively.. of course.

**#1:  being a true conservative in 2016.

THE FEATURED PICTURE IS NOT ME! I would never wear such an ugly bikini.

An analogy, if you will.


I’m running a marathon. Why? Well, many years ago I earned many accolades for a 5k that I ran, and I do love my accolades. So much so that I decided I should be an ultra-runner. I knew that to do an ultra-run I had to run a marathon first, and so I signed up with much rejoicing.

From mile 1 of this marathon, I started to panic. I wasn’t ready. I had barely trained, and I learned quickly that the strategies to run well in a 5k were not going to work well for a marathon. Even more unsettling, the other racers made it clear within the first mile that they had trained well and were in much better shape than I was. Somehow, I struggled through like a rubbery-legged fawn and made it through the first few miles. Around the halfway point, I even received a little confidence boost from realizing I was still more or less keeping pace with the other runners. Some runners had already dropped out, and I felt a little special that I had decided to stay in.

Miles 13-25 though, were a bit horrific. At several points, I stopped running completely. Once I even ran in the completely wrong direction, until my exasperated marathon trainer grasped me by the shoulders and set me back in the right direction.

Almost every marathon runner considers stopping at some point, but I have considered it multiple times within every mile. I tell you, it is psychological torture. What makes it worse is that some runners that began at the same time as me, or even one to two hours after me, have already joyously crossed the finish line. In the meantime, craggy seasoned runners keep on running up next to me and saying “You feel bad now? Just wait until you begin the ultra-run! This marathon will seem like a light jog to your mailbox!” Others have told me that no one cares how I run this marathon, as long as I cross the finish line. It’s how I run the ultra-run that matters. While I get their point, that’s hardly motivating for me while I’m still dragging myself through this marathon.

You may be thinking, “Poor thing, she probably has a crappy marathon trainer.” But that’s not true. My marathon trainer is amazing. Other runners envy me. He makes me feel guilty because the guy frickin’ loves to run so much, and he really wants me to share that joy. He never asks me to run faster, because he wants me to want to run faster – to experience the pure joy of running. He says he can’t imagine doing anything else besides running.

But I can see myself doing almost anything, including several things that don’t involve running at all. Running isn’t my passion anymore. I don’t know if it ever was. I’m starting to wonder if I just enjoyed winning trophies at the end of my 5k, but I’m not sure if I actually enjoyed the run. I always cringe a little bit when people automatically assume that, because I’m currently running a marathon, my all-consuming passion is running. They like to say stuff like, “But of course you’re an amazing runner! You’re in a marathon!” But that doesn’t really mean anything. You’d be surprised at how relatively easy it is to sign up for a marathon even if you’re not qualified. It really just comes down to who is willing to put themselves through that torture. So please – stop assuming that 1) I love running and 2) I’m good at running. It makes my bad mile-times that much worse. I’m not being modest – I’ve been running for a while and, trust me, I’m not someone for a newbie runner to model their training plan after.

Now I’m on the last mile. People are yelling “Sprint! You can do it!” but all I want to do is crawl to the side, curl up in a ball, and die. I’ve firmly decided I never want to even attempt an ultra-run. I’m happy for those that do, but it’s not for me. I like the general idea of people out there running, and I’m thankful for the fortitude this marathon has given me for whatever I attempt in the future. But, I don’t feel any compulsion whatsoever to be a part of any future runs. If my marathon is really all about the ultra-run anyway, why should I care about finishing this marathon at all? I don’t plan to use any fragment of cardio capacity that I gained through this marathon for anything else I take on. Is it for the trophy, then? I don’t even really want the trophy anymore, because so many other people with this trophy are actually runners who completed this marathon for the joy of running. They trained, they persevered, they deserve it, and they’re rightly an inspiration to others. If people see my trophy, they will assume that I’m one of them, but that’s not really fair. And when I insist otherwise, I’ll just seem demure.

Maybe I should forget about the ultra-run, forget about the trophy, forget about feeling guilty about having no joy in running, and just focus on reaching that next tree. When I get there, I will try to find some lovely rock in the distance to run towards. At this point, the finish line is less about accomplishment and more about looking forward to being done with running. So I WILL finish this damn race, if only for freedom from the race.


The Cray Aunt Theory

Be honest with yourself – we all* have an aunt that’s a little quirky. “My crazy aunt” just rolls of the tongue, yes? No further argument needed. But how did cray aunts become such a widespread phenomenon? Especially cray aunts like myself with few signs of starting their own little litter, our existence is indeed  a profound mystery that has troubled scientists** for centuries.
I’m assuming that because we cray aunts exist, there has to be some utility to our existence. Otherwise, we would have gone extinct long ago. According to the newly developed Cray Aunt Theory***, not to be confused with the Gay Uncle Theory,  cray aunts serve several important functions that can increase the likelihood of a fragment of our cray genes being propagated via our adorbs little nieces and nephews. Consider the following:
1) Cray aunts are very unlikely to have important  plans on weekend nights, and  therefore serve as excellent last minute baby-sitters for their sibs. Bo nus: because we are blood related and naturally adore our siblings’ little tikes, we are less likely to text bae while babe chokes on a lego.
2) Cray aunts can serve as potent motivation for their siblings children, girls especially, to not grow up cray. Their parents have a real life, familiar example to point to when their daughters are being ornery – “Aunt Claire didn’t wear sundresses either. You don’t want to end up like your cray Aunt Claire, do you?” *Point to a pic of cray aunt* *child gasps in horror* … And everyone knows sundresses are the key to mating success, at least for southern females.
3) Cray doesn’t preclude aunts from making moneyzzz. When I become a Cray Rich Aunt (CRA), I plan to take my nieces and nephews on fun adventures. Skiing, hiking, cow-tipping, and when my nieces are old enough, we will drive around in my classic ‘stang and holler out the window at young attractive men. Cat-calling with your cray aunt is guaranteed to increase the numbers of dates you will land, although I cannot comment on the quality. But either way, our genes will march on.
These are just the first three, but I’m hopeful this intro will instigate a tsunami of double blind, placebo controlled clinical trials to investigate this further, and truly really establish causality.****
* Besides me. All my aunts are exemplary aunts. If they are cray in any way, it’s crazy awesomeeeee
**Or a scientist (me). And by “centuries” I mean “several hours”
***Galloswag 2016, personal observations
****Because everyone knows you don’t know anything unless it was done with a DBPCCT

A sincere appeal for the widespread adoption of FIDO


FIDO – Forget* It and Drive On was introduced to me by my dear sister.. Danetté.. when I was in the throes of despair over some past event. I can’t remember the exact details, but I was upset about some interpersonal drama. Something like… “Why would he do that?” Or “Do you think she hates me now?” Or “Arrrggg I shouldn’t have said  that.” After listening to me with the patience of a serene gazelle, she told me flatly : “Clarice, let me introduce you to the concept of FIDO.”

Danetté then proceeded to explain a concept so shocking and revolutionary, it shook me to the #gallocore. And that is this – when something happens that’s negative, and there’s no clear action to take.. or you’ve already taken the action and it didn’t have the intended effect – instead of agonizing about it for days, weeks, months to come, Forget It and Drive On.

It’s so simple, but the simplicity is what makes it beautiful. Someone hurt your feels? FIDO. Worried that Bob overheard you telling Jim you don’t like Brenda? FIDO. Wished you hadn’t gone to grad school but went to acting school instead? FIDO.

I urge you all, in whatever walk of life with whatever anxieties you have (that you really can’t do anything about – I’m not talking about FIDOing your job tomorrow or FIDOing a friendship in which you need to ask forgiveness) to implement FIDO with the liberalism of a double Oreo fried in chocolate  sauce.

You’re welcome, world. But actually, thank Danetté. Or actually, thank whoever told Danetté. Or actually, I’m almost certain she heard it from someone in the  military,  SO THANK AMERICA!

— editorial note —
*I changed the actual acronym for the sake of propriety, but the core of the idea was maintained.

I like big guns and I cannot lie

What can I say, this is attractive *shrug emoji* jk.. kinda!

I’m tired of lying to myself and the world, and I will no longer live in a ratty dish cloth of guilt – I love me a man with musclezzzz.

 I know that to some, this confession seems ridiculous. Why would anyone feel guilty about  appreciating a good pair of latissimus dorsi? Well it seems to be a popular narrative among *some* communities that it’s a horrible thing to ever consider any feature of the opposite sex besides their personality. Bonus points if you can actually stand hanging out with them and enjoy the same food. But evaluate someone based on their looks?! *gasp* Be gone, you trollop!
  Even if you can’t relate to that, there’s another narrative among some people that goes something like this: On one hand, you have the beefy, unintelligent gym hounds who are obsessed with their bodies, and on the other hand, there are the intelligent, environmentally conscious, Prius-driving gentlemen who gravely dress their skinny bodies in worn leather and plaid, put on artsy hats, and discuss poetry at the local café. The choice:
1) A lumbering idiotic Neanderthal with six pack abs
2) A refined modern man who can loan you his pants in a pinch.
This my dear children, is a false dichotomy. Let me ‘splain.
For most of us, especially as we age, maintaining a really nice body is hard work. Letting your body deteriorate into limp noodles is easy. A consistently muscular body tells me that this stud has the discipline to set goals and live a consistent enough life to reach those goals. Discipline and drive are attractive. Hardly Neanderthal qualities.
–          If I care enough about someone to date or marry them, I want them to be around for a while. Exercising, unless taken to an excess, is healthy. A muscular man will be better able to protect me from bad guys and be useful (e.g. mow the lawn, chop wood shirtless (ow ow!), etc.) for a longer time, if he has muscles.
–          I have worked pretty hard and made sacrifices (oh the donuts that are still alive today because of my great discipline!) to be a lean mean machine. Yes, for shallow reasons – I like to oil my muscles and flex in front of a mirror for hours and hours – but it’s also just healthy (physically and mentally) and something I value in myself.  I would resent dating or marrying someone who couldn’t understand or support those goals. And the best situation would be someone who was an inspiration. We could spur each other on to better health and reaching new heights. Like literally, climb Mt. Everest together. Check out each other’s booties as we squat in unison at the gym. Make eyes at each other as we share a kale smoothie with two straws. Whatever.
So, now for the caveats.
–          Whether or not a guy has a nice body should not be the only or most important factor when you are considering whether or not to date him. All I’m saying is, it’s ok for it to be one factor of many.
–          To some weirdos, a muscular physique isn’t important at all. Fine, then WRITE YOUR OWN BLOG AND TELL US ALL ABOUT IT
–          There are many other things about a man’s looks aside from his degree of muscularity. Does he have dimples, a chiseled jaw, gleaming white teeth, eyes that sparkle only when they look at you, and a cleft chin? Oh, let us hope so. BUT, many of the points I’ve made only apply to physique, not genetic blessings of bone structure. So if you’re holding out for that cleft chin, you are shallow. Shame. Shame!!
–          Some men are strong and work out like beasts but don’t necessarily look very big, and some guys were just gifted with great bods. You know the type-  as long as they do two push-ups a week they look like Vin Diesel. Pfft okay. I’m talking in generalities. Again, a rockin’ bod shouldn’t necessarily be the first and foremost thing to consider. I just think it is worthy of factoring into an overall evaluation.
–          What I’m saying could apply to females too, although not for some of those features guys seem to value so dearly  — for example, a woman cannot do much naturally to change the size of her bosoms* while she is trying to stay healthy in other ways. The hour glass figure is just not something that all women can attain, sans plastic surgery. So if you’re a guy reading this, getting offended, and ready to angrily demand, “How would you like it if a guy had this attitude about female’s bodies?!” I’d say, “Calm down, Charlie Brown.” I think it would be perfectly reasonable for a strong muscular man to want a sleek tigress. To disqualify a woman because she’s not the right cup size… well that is indeed a bit shallow, because it has nothing to do with her character. Shame. Shame!!
In toto, I like men with muscles. Because I value health, drive, and self-discipline. And man bosoms are unseemly.
*#galloblog is safe for the whole family


My friends and I have spent an embarrassing amount of time* debating the true, deep meaning of the semi-colon-right-parenthesis, or as its better known, the simple and sassy ‘ 😉 ‘.

My friends.. Milo and Josiah**..  strongly contend that a wink is always a flirty thing. I contend – with the strength of a bear! – that winks are meant for teasing. Sometimes that teasing is flirting, and sometimes it’s just for funsies.

Even the names of winks give us a clue – the knowing wink, the conspiratorial wink…  Neither of these is supposed to convey “Hey gurl, I wanna get witchu.” They were designed to convey some light-hearted fun, some mischievous silly-sils if you will. I refuse to believe that every time a man engages in lively banter with me that he is flirting.

As a Woman Who Winks (WWW) I can say with firm certainty that my jokes and/or winks are not meant to convey my romantic or sexual interest. If they have been, I have put out an invitation to my Dad, my academic advisor, my undergraduate assistant, and everyone who lays eyes on my Facebook status updates. So.. no. Just stop.

One of my peripheral visions in life, that I’m nonetheless deeply committed to, is to make people lolz. I’m 100% sure that there are also men out there who share a similar commitment to inducing lolz on all sorts of people – some they may be attracted to, others they’re probably not. I WILL NOT over-interpret their jokes as some low key declaration of their personal attraction for me.

Yet we must deal with the Milo’s and Josiah’s in our life, who apparently think there is no such thing as innocent fun in the world. Therefore, I propose that the ambiguous wink be supplemented with extra emojis to clear the air. Please consider the following:

😉 + 😀  = [platonic] “Heehee”

😉 + 😥 = “I have a hot pepper in my eye”

😉 + ❤ = “Hey gurl/boi, I wanna get witchu”

So WWW and MWW, stand strong! Keep winking with wild abandon! And if you meet a Milo or Josiah.. just be prepared to supplement your winks so they don’t “get the wrong idea,” as some would say.


*Because any amount of time discussing this in detail is embarrassing.

**Real content, fake names. No one’s reputation should have to suffer through association with #galloblog.

Friend zoned, bro!

If you agreed to wear matching shirts, you def don’t have a chance romantically. AND THAT’S PERFECTLY OKAY


Recently I posed a question to my adoring facebook community :

“If someone is interested in you but you’re 90% sure you’re going to friend zone them, is it more considerate to go on at least one date-like activity to “give it a chance,” or tell them from the very beginning you’re not romantically interested so they don’t waste their time and $?”

Well, this initiated quite the flurry of comments. I was a little dismayed that several commenters ranged from pity to contempt toward the unnamed, potentially friend-zoned man in question. In my mind, friend-zoning should not be seen as some shameful insult. Short of marrying the person, I  see a good solid friend-zone as the best possible outcome to hope for.

Think about the scores of people that most single people will date before they find that special someone (if they ever do). We have to assume that there’s a very high likelihood that any given date is not going to be “the one.” If a date ends in “let’s just be friends,” it’s not a horrible failure. It’s an overwhelming success in ruling them out, and saving you precious hours of sad and angry interweb stalking. I’m probably going to be accused of being anti-marriage or a bitter old hag, but I’m totally serious about this: I think it’s almost as equally worthy of celebration to leave a person who is wrong for you than to stay with the person who is right for you.

Please consider this: less romance = less drama = less weirdness post break up = more real friend potential. So, if you become skilled at extracting yourself from cloying romance as quickly as possible, you greatly increase your chances at actually developing a wonderful, joyous, platonic relationship.

**Quick caveat: I’m assuming that friend-zoning actually means the friend-zoner actually does want to be your friend. If they say “let’s be friends,” and mean “please stop talking to me you disgusting creep,” then yes that’s a little shameful. Although still, not the end of the world really. Not everyone is going to be wildly attracted to you, and some people may actually be actively put off by you. Sure, it’s not pleasant – but why waste any more of your time creeping on them and being angry? Do you really wish that you had the secret code of charm and looks to snag someone who was turned off by your SOP? Have some dignity, and save your time for someone who truly appreciates your friendship… or even falls madly in love with you. Either one. (See, I’m not completely bitter.)