Winona Dimeo-Ediger

Instagram: Don’t eat it though, just hold it. With a stiff, outstretched arm in front of a whimsical mural on a decaying brick wall.

Half the fun (or maybe more than half? Maybe all the fun, actually) of going to the gym is getting decked out in cute workout clothes.

In light of the news that the GOP’s Affordable Care Act replacement

Career-wise, you’re the boss, or, if you’re not the boss yet (emphasis on YET), you’re the boss’s dream, going above and beyond in every way. You tend to define yourself by your job title, and the thought of letting go of that identity gives you hives (this might be something you want to work on, Group A). Your desk is so beautifully organized it could be part of a MOMA exhibit called, “The Artful Workspace: A Retrospective.”

Our resident aesthetic ace offers fashion advice to our writer Joni who's in a quandary about her distressed jeans and yoga pants.

Remember this one time in savasana that the teacher had us visualize all the negative energy in our lives being squeezed out the soles of our feet like a bad vibes garlic press. Imagine my boss’ words as a brown ooze squeezing out of my feet. Imagery is gross but deeply comforting.

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If you don’t have a pair of pixie pants, girl, you need to get a pair of pixie pants.

In 1897, a little girl named Virginia O’Hanlon wrote a letter to the editor of the Sun, asking if there was a Santa Claus.

There’s something that happens on social media every time a celebrity dies. After the initial shock and questions of “is it a hoax?” have abated, people start telling stories.