by Grace Helbig
Also by Grace Helbig . . .
Grace’s Guide
First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2016
A CBS COMPANY
Copyright © 2016 by Grace Helbig
Certain names have been changed.
This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.
No reproduction without permission.
All rights reserved.
The right of Grace Helbig to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
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Simon & Schuster Australia, Sydney
Simon & Schuster India, New Delhi
The author and publishers have made all reasonable efforts to contact copyright-holders for permission, and apologise for any omissions or errors in the form of credits given. Corrections may be made to future printings.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN: 978-1-4711-5251-1
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-4711-5252-8
Interior design by Shawn Dahl, dahlimama inc
Photographs by Robin Roemer
Printed in Italy by L.E.G.O SpA
This book is dedicated to insecurity and fear.
Two of my best friends and closest enemies.
contents
introduction
A Few of My Favorite Things
clothing...clothing...clothing
Vintage Grace: Shopping Lessons from My Father
Basics: Work It
Basics: Going Out
The Sweatpants Diaries #1
Style Staples and Fashion Favorites: Frequent and Questionable (FAQs)
Outerwear and Underwear
Dear Miss Mess: How to Fake-Fix Your Fashion Faux Pas
Grace Expectations: What Does Your Denim Say About You?
Street Style: GPS—Grace Pretends Streets (Are Real People)
The Sweatpants Diaries #2
hair...makeup...accessories
Vintage Grace: I Was the Daughter of an Avon Lady
Basics: Makeup
Grace Expectations: Hair + Makeup
The Bad-Hair-Day Character Wheel
The Sweatpants Diaries #3
Choosing Glasses: How to Frame Your Meat Mask
My Jewelry MVPs
Vintage Grace: My Bag, My Body, Myself
Grace Expectations: The Six Bags of the Zodiac
The Sweatpants Diaries #4
My BFFs: Best Feet Friends
An Open Letter to Heels
life...style
Vintage Grace: Red-Carpet Ridiculousness
BLTs: Better-Looking T-Shirts
The Sweatpants Diaries #5
Do I Really Need This? Flowchart
How to Talk to Salespeople
The Ten Commandments of Online Shopping
Cleaning Out Your Closet Flowchart
The Seven Deadly Sins of Travel Style
The Sweatpants Diaries #6
Last Looks
Thank You to . . .
introduction
My eating disorder started during my senior year of high school.
wHOa. I KnOw. waY TO KIcK THInGs OFF On a Fun, LIGHTHearTeD nOTe, HeLBIG.
But let’s just go with it for a second. Because this book, this smattering of my thoughts on style and fashion and beauty, has been a really difficult thing for me to wrap my head around. I assumed it’d be easy to brain-barf some HILarIOus feelings about tank tops and tube socks onto paper, but every time I tried to sit down to do it, I hit a wall. And then another wall. And another. Any countries out there looking to send a message to their neighbors and need help? Turns out I’m really great at putting up walls. HaHaHaHa, depressing sigh.
Once I started investigating why I was having so much trouble writing, I realized that no matter how funny you try to make the concept of beauty, it can still be a personal and sensitive topic for a lot of people, myself included. And I didn’t want to pretend otherwise. And I definitely didn’t want anything in this book to come across as arrogant or preachy because I’ve been negatively affected by the people and the images and the concepts touted by the fashion industries, so the last thing I want to do is trigger any insecurities you might have.
I wanted to take a second at the beginning of this book to give you a quick overview of my history of insecurity before getting into my present-day reflections on style. This is one part selfish and one part hopefully helpful. Selfish, because one of the ways I got out of the darkest period of my eating disorder was by talking about it; and hopefully helpful, because another way I got out of feeling so alone was by reading a butt-ton of books written by women who had also struggled with their body image. You see, YouTube didn’t exist during that time; instead, I bought books hoping to hear someone else’s story of suffering so I might feel less alone . . . BOOKs, YOu GuYs. So, who knows, my hope is that sharing this pretty sad personal time in my life might allow one singular person to feel less alone. And that’s completely worth it.
Or maybe you’re just here to find out five great tips for avoiding camel toe.
Or maybe you’re just here to find out five great tips for avoiding camel toe. That’s great, too! And trust me, we’ll get to that!
I was a jock in high school. I was on the tennis team every fall, the indoor track team every winter, and the outdoor track team every spring. I grew up doing gymnastics and playing soccer and football with my brothers, so sports became my outlet. I also grew up socially awkward, so more individualized sports, like tennis and track, became mY Jam.
During the fall of my senior year of high school, I worked my way up to third singles on the tennis team (tennis teams have a hierarchy—you have to work your way up from playing doubles to playing singles—at least that’s how it worked in Jersey, maybe that’s completely wrong and when every other state decided how high school tennis teams worked, Jersey was too busy buying test-tube shots and it missed the general consensus). Though I mostly played singles matches that season, depending on the team we went up against I occasionally played doubles with my friend Maddy, who was a grade below me.
Everyone on the team loved Maddy, myself included. She was fun and outgoing and pretty and incredibly silly. The idea of “consequences” never seemed to exist in her mental filing cabinets. Every away match we had, she’d try to moon at least one car driving behind our bus, even if it was our sixty-year-old coach at the wheel. She had a great sense of humor and an effortlessly charming chaos about her that I envied. Maddy and I were both lanky, sloppy tennis players, so it was always fun playing doubles with her. She’d scream nonsensical things whenever she missed a shot and we’d spend most of our matches laughing at our dumb mistakes. She never took it too seriously, which was the best because at the end of the day, it was HIGH scHOOL tennis. She brought out a lot of the dumb, fun side of me that I wasn’t confident enough to bring out on my own. I could never understand how she seemed so free of insecurities and fear.
On top of all of that, everyone on the team used to say we looked “exactly alike” and that we could be “twins.” Which always made me feel good and slightly embarrassed because I thought Maddy was really pretty and I thought no one ever looked at me. Except one day someone casually tossed aside a comment that Maddy was “skinnier” than me.
Cue the record-player scratch.
Huh?
I knew it wasn’t said with malicious intent, but it was something I just couldn’t get myself to unhear. I had never really considered my body or its shape before. I had lean g
enes via my parents and I had always been active. I also didn’t get my period until my senior year, so my boobs and hips were nowhere to be found. I was tall and lanky and uncomfortable; I was like a walking stick bug.
Still, I couldn’t understand why skinniness was even a thing to remark on? Was it important? It must be important. Everyone loved Maddy. So if I want to be loved like Maddy, I should be more like Maddy. I should get skinnier (thank God for my high-school-level deductive-reasoning skills).
So that’s what I did. That winter I started focusing on my fitness. I started working out on my own after my winter and spring track practices and spent my free time looking up and making healthy, low-calorie recipes from food websites. My antisocial self loved having something to focus on other than a constant fear of human interaction. But my newfound healthy hobby quickly became my secret, obsessive game.
During the summer of 2003, after I graduated high school and before I started college, I occasionally joined my high school’s cross-country team on long-distance runs because my younger brother was on the team. One day one of my track coaches, who also coached this particular team, pulled me aside and asked me if I was okay. He thought I looked thin and was worried. I immediately felt weirded out and totally embarrassed. Someone was noticing me. Noticing my body. Noticing it change. I immediately deflected any of my coach’s concerns. In my head I was only doing normal teenage girl things. I read workout magazines like everyone else, I watched runway fashion shows on the Style Network like everyone else, I ran on a treadmill while watching the Food Network LIKe eVerYOne eLse. At that point I was limiting myself to twelve hundred calories a day and trying to exercise at least an hour a day because I had read that it was the ideal combo for losing weight. This was normal grown-up girl stuff, said all the glossy magazines with endless photos of fit ladies smiling while running in teeny-tiny workout shorts. Those ladies were clearly happy, and I was on my way to being happy, too. My coach doesn’t know what he’s talking about, I told myself. But secretly, after that interaction, I felt a sense of happiness that my weight loss had been acknowledged. It meant my plan was working. I was “winning” my game.
And with that twisted feeling, things got worse.
When I finally got to college, the combination of my social stiltedness and my oblivious ED went hand in hand. I kept myself from the painful awkwardness of socializing by focusing my free time on work and working out. Throughout my four years in college, I always had at least two jobs and spent upward of two hours a day in the gym. All while still restricting myself to a thousand to twelve hundred calories a day. Because I was alone so much, there was no one to tell me I was doing anything wrong. From my point of view, I was losing weight and gaining control. I hadn’t reached “happiness” just yet, but I kept thinking I was getting closer.
The other way I occupied my time was by emailing sh*ttily cropped photos of myself to modeling agencies in NYC. I know, it’s embarrassing even to type. I went to a small liberal-arts college in northern New Jersey about forty-five minutes outside of NYC. So, after watching hours of runway shows through high school and being five-nine and told more than a couple of times by randoms and family members that You should be a model, I sincerely thought I should try it. Finally, for who knows what reason, a tiny agency called Pretend Model Scouts (PMS for short) signed me. In hindsight, they were so small, there’s a chance they were a drug front, but at the time it was a sign that my hard work was paying off. They sent me on “go-sees”1 and casting calls and I was awful at all of it. But it turned out that the fashion industry itself was also pretty awful at it. I remember a man at Donald Trump’s modeling agency telling me that one of my eyelids was fatter than the other and that it was a big concern for them. Beauty is measured in symmetry and clearly my right eyelid didn’t get that memo. Did you know that eyelids could be fat? According to an unhappy forty-year-old man whose job it was to judge teenage bodies, they can! Clearly, I’m very over what he said.
I only booked two things in the year I was signed with PMS. One was a Tommy Hilfiger commercial with Christina Milian in which the director kept yelling at me to look less sad and scared, and where another model actually said to me with such pride during a lunch break that she hadn’t eaten a full meal all day, only snacks. The other job was a respectably amateur runway show in a hotel lobby on the Upper East Side where I watched three European models who didn’t speak English share six Thin Mints. The year was a whirlwind of culture and education.
My time with modeling and with PMS faded away a few months later. Between school and work, it was harder to get into the city at a moment’s notice for a casting. Also I hated it. And that was sort of important to consider in my decision-making process. It’s also possible PMS’s hypothetical drug fronting got busted and I just never found out and never had the desire or courage to follow up on it.
So I got back to my solo game bubble. The next couple years of college got pretty dark. I won’t go into all the details because it still feels uncomfortable and kind of humiliating, but I’ll give you some broad strokes.
All of my time outside of class and work (and all of my thoughts while in class and at work) became about working out and food. I got myself into a cycle of hiding and bingeing and purging. Never purging by vomiting, instead by intensely working out. Though I did try to make myself puke numerous times thinking it would be easier, but my body just couldn’t do it—present-day Grace thanks you, body. Things got obsessive. The weirder my behavior got, the more private I became. And the more private I became, the weirder my behavior got. One summer I was working at an Applebee’s in South Jersey and living at my dad’s house. That summer I got into a daily pattern of not eating during my restaurant shifts, but instead bingeing afterward on bags of Chex Mix and spending two to three hours on my stepmom’s elliptical at night after she and my dad fell asleep. And sTILL I thought this behavior was TOTaLLY nOrmaL. LOL. Cool job, self.
I was tired and repressed and sad all the time. I was losing weight and losing hair (surprise! That happens when your body loses too much weight! Fun discovery!). My relationships with friends and family were strained and superficial. I even had my first, real college boyfriend at the time, but we clearly weren’t a good match. He was preoccupied with himself and I was preoccupied with my ED. We were a match made in self-centered heaven.
Eventually he and I faded out and, by some weird miracle, I found myself in a new relationship with someone so wonderful and so important for me to be around at that exact moment of my life. He and I met organically and unexpectedly and before we knew it, we were dating. He was a huge part of breaking my destructive cycle. He was so fun, so free, so present and so nurturing. I felt like I finally had a safe space to acknowledge all the nonsense swirling in my brain. I could talk about the emotional pain I had been repressing in order to maintain my absurd secret lifestyle. And it wasn’t always a beautiful emotional release. It was hard and angry and sloppy and sad. But eventually I started to feel inspired.
The weirder my behavior got, the more private I became. And the more private I became, the weirder my behavior got.
Inspired by the world (in particular by comedy), inspired by life, and inspired to find out what would happen if I chose to think differently. (If you couldn’t guess, my significant other also happened to be a psychology student—THanK GOD.)
So I started to make some changes. I started talking to people. To real therapists. To my family. But it was slow. And there were hiccups and regressions and difficulties. But still, it was progress. This is where I started bingeing on the stories of other people’s struggles. I secretly bought books on Amazon about girls with EDs and I’d hide them under my mattress so my roommates wouldn’t know (though I had begun to talk to people about my feelings, the bubble of people I spoke to was limited). The more I read, the more I felt less alone and less afraid and less completely crazy. There was finally some light at the end of that bleak, tired tunnel. I started taking chances. I took improv classes, I
put together a sketch-comedy team on campus, I focused on other things that made me happy outside of the game.
Don’t get me wrong: trying to heal myself definitely hasn’t been an overnight process. It’s slooooow. And though I started to get a handle on my ED, it never completely leaves. It’s like a scar that’s faded but in a certain light becomes more visible.
After I graduated college, I moved to NYC and got more dedicated to pursuing comedy while auditioning for TV and film. The entertainment industry, just like modeling, has a tremendous focus on what you look like. And most of my auditions were for “sexy this” and “hot that,” and I hated it. I could feel myself being triggered in waiting rooms by looking around at all the confident, beautiful, skinny actresses around me wearing tight tank tops and heels. And I never dressed like that. What I really wanted to wear to these auditions—oversized sweaters and leggings and Uggs (HOLLa aT Ya, JerseY) because they made me feel the closest to “comfortable in my body”—would never get me cast. I remember wearing a slightly oversized, flowy button-down shirt and leggings to an audition for a really cool but of course sexy lead of a new ABC show and the casting lady (who was IncreDIBLY nice, to her credit) asked if I had a tank top with me that I could do the audition in instead. What I was wearing didn’t look sexy enough on camera (spoiler: Hollywood loves clavicles). I reluctantly agreed and tried to push through the audition, but I was so wildly uncomfortable. I couldn’t help feeling like I was exposing too much of myself and I was only wearing a tank top. I was so anxious I broke out in hives in the middle of it. I didn’t book that one. In those moments I could feel the ED scar becoming a little more visible and I would become a little more doubtful.
Then I started to dabble in Web videos. There were no casting ladies sitting with me in my apartment while I made videos for the Internet. In those, I could wear whatever I wanted. And style my hair and makeup however I felt most comfortable. And I did. The Internet allowed me to express my personality rather than my cleavage. In my journey to body acceptance, it’s become such an important and invaluable outlet for me.
