Commercial Easter: Anyone Else Just Realize How Weird It Is?

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I wanna talk about Easter.

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It’s a weird holiday. I’m not talking about the bigger, religious aspects of Easter here. I’m talking about the bunny who wants to be Santa Clause, plastic eggs filled with money, and Cadbury deliciousness. When you grow up, you contemplate this whole commercialized Easter thing and as you do, you realize just how much it really doesn’t belong anywhere in the realm of logical-ness. It’s maybe even a little “Alice in Wonderland Down the Wormhole”-y? Now don’t get me wrong–I cannot wait to have kids and totally play up the hallmark part of Easter to its fullest. But let’s all take a moment and really let it sink in as to how kooky commercial Easter is.

I’m not writing to educate you on where the commercial part of Easter came from, but here is a link to all the info on the odd, and somewhat chaotically nonsensical origins of where it supposedly may have come from: Easter Bunny Origins (Rabbits, fertility, and hermaphrodites all bundled up into one, colorful straw Easter basket—you’re welcome)

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 We will start on a positive note. Obviously the best thing about hallmark Easter that needs absolutely no explanation for where it came from or why it exists is REESE’S PEANUT BUTTER CUP EGGS.

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  Now, moving on to why commercial Easter can be pretty bizarre and even a tad bit creepy.

1.)    The Easter Bunny.

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He wants to be Santa Clause way too hard, but it’s just not panning out for him. There could be $100 bucks in that toy egg he’s trying to push on me, but it’ll never make him the reigning supreme of all holidays—Christmas. Nobody is stealing Santa’s spot—who do you think you are, Jack from The Nightmare Before Christmas?  You’re out of your league, bunny. Not to mention the most obvious, freakish detail about the Easter Bunny: he lays eggs? What? Anyone who has ever owned a pet rabbit knows that the only egg-ish shaped things a bunny is laying is its turds—and by the thousands. And guess what? No prizes inside those “eggs”.  And rabbits are the least kid-friendly animal! They hop around impregnating every thumper they can get their little paws on. AND the mall Easter Bunny is the scariest damn sight in the world—admit it, you still have nightmares about the 7-foot-tall hare that smells like soured Cadbury eggs and tries to sit you on his lap with those sweaty faux fur gloves.

 

So let’s face it: in reality, the Easter Bunny is really just an olympic running harlot who has irritable bowel syndrome.

 

2.)    Peeps. f1127481288fb74e271fb0836ed4df76 You’re eating a treat that is shaped like a baby animal. You can’t even use denial to your advantage like you can with scrambled eggs because it looks just like a little chick. The Peep even has these black eyes that have an infinite, unmoving stare on you as you debate whether to bite its head off first or stick it in the microwave to laugh at it when it blows up.

 

3.)    The Eggs.

If they are real, boiled eggs, it sucks because there is absolutely no chance that there is going to be anything awesome inside of them other than a yolk. However, if they are the colorful plastic eggs that open up to reveal treasure, this leads me to the next frightening commercial Easter tradition…

 

4.)    The Hunger Games (oh, I mean The Annual Easter Egg Hunt)

[Insert melodramatic music from the Heavens here]  It’s a cutthroat, bloodthirsty sport that is the annual Easter Egg Hunt. Children of all ages scour the countryside (or the house, backyard, wherever said Hunt has commenced) to find plastic eggs with the promise of something fantastic inside! Candy, money, toys, PRESENTS!!!!

While it’s full of excitement, it is a pretty odd addition to all the other strangeness that is commercial Easter traditions–mainly because it’s so full of an insatiable lust for violence and glory. Even the most kind-hearted little kid will go all apocalyptic survival fighter in the name of finding the most eggs in the Hunt. No one is your friend and everyone is a threat. It’s like you just jumped into Lord of the Flies and only one can emerge as the Mighty Holder of the Eggs.

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Soon, you’ve forgotten all about the prizes that await you in those little plastic oblong circles and healthy, fun competition is lost in a hazy afterthought. Your sights are focused on being the best, and capturing the most eggs of anyone there, which will make you the MASTER of the Hunt this year. There is no worthier title.

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You asked your mom for one of those nice “hand-weaved” Easter baskets this year—you know, the one with the solid handles: great for grip, and even better for splinter and slice. Last Easter, you had one of those typical pink and white baskets with the waxy plastic braided handles. But now…now you’ve wised up. Two scars on your right arm and a weird bone spur popping out on your knee from a violent downhill tumble that pigtailed-bitch Ashley B. caused 365 days ago has wisened you up. Little Bobby Smith isn’t going to walk away the Hunt Master again this year…

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Happy Easter to everyone: whether you are shelling out the chocolate, hiding the eggs, or on standby as the medic at the annual easter egg extravaganza, make sure you’re having an amazing time and enjoy this quirky holiday full of color.

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Healthy Lifestyle? Oh, do you mean, HELL?

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I’m 28 years old.

I’m not here to complain that I’m old, but I am here to complain about the natural, unpreventable truth that with age comes some serious physical change.

I was a chunky kid with a mullet who turned into a woman about 20 years into life that didn’t have to worry about physical anything. I could eat like a man, never work out, and still wear a size 2. I never needed more than 5 hours of sleep a night, could do a keg stand with the best of them, and if I ever felt bloated, I’d just skip a meal one day and be back to normal.

And then comes this cruel joke known as “The Late Twenties”.

Over the last year, my metabolism has decided to take a vacation—maybe even indefinitely. I moved up north with my hubs, so the year-long arctic winters don’t help with the whole scope of changes, either. Now, I’m ten pounds heavier, I’m wasted after one Yuengling Light, and I have to use grown up Olay brand firming cream for more than just my occasional pesky cellulite pop ups. And forget spray-tans to appear svelte—that stuff just makes acne and weird ailments materialize on the skin now… “What the hell—is that a pimple on my kneecap?”

Ten pounds doesn’t sound like a lot to you? I’m 5’2”—on a GOOD day. Even three pounds feels like twenty on me. Yes, I’m aware there are other people that have it way worse, but I’m complaining about my own woes today. #shortpeopleprobs

So after I watch 90’s teen movies and eat the last block of cheese and pack of popcorn in the house, I decide I have to change my lifestyle habits. This is tough. I’m prideful…I want to be able to say that I can do whatever I want and embrace myself as I am.

We all know that’s a lie. It’s not happening. I don’t hate myself, but my vanity is still important to me, so if that means I have to chug down poop green drinks and barely survive a Jillian Michaels workout video, I WILL DO IT!

 

We try to be positive about the idea of a healthy lifestyle, but for now, I’m gonna say out loud what we all secretly feel about it: HEALTHY SHIT SUCKS! Oh yeah, I would totally rather have this spinach smoothie than that slice of extra cheese pizza. Oh sure, I would absolutely love to go to the gym for an hour instead of taking a nap. LIES! You know it, just admit it to yourself, and then we can go back to pretending like we really enjoy gnawing on this acai berry root.

 

I try to start eating healthy and even that screws me. More fruit equals less teeth enamel so now I gotta start using the infomercial elderly people toothpaste. I try to start working out like a beast and that’s a total mindf*** because not only can I not walk for three days after, but the scale doesn’t go down—it goes up as the semblance of muscle that I’ve never had in my life begins to appear.

 

And man, the whole health kick really turns you into a crazy person, doesn’t it? Suddenly, you’re screaming at the tv, “NO, Jillian Michaels, I CAN’T do just one more set—I CAN’T FEEL MY LEGS ANYMORE!” and then, the juicer gets it, “THIS FISH OIL AND RHUBARB SMELLS LIKE ASS!”

*Jillian doesn’t play*

Sacrifice is a hard thing.

However, I’ll admit, it is working.

 

But I do—and always will—draw the line at sacrificing coffee, vodka, and pizza.

 

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a date with a beet-kale smoothie and Hip-Hop Abs.