Fall has always been my favorite time of year. I love when the leaves change color, I love taking my scarves out of hiding, I love seeing beanies being used for functionality and not fashionability. But living in LA, I haven't experienced any of these things! I've spent the last three years without seasonal change or any indication of the passage of time in general. I just didn't think fall existed here. I missed the crispness in the air and wanting to curl up next to a space heater and pray for summer. But this fall was different. This fall I learned. All I need to do to feel the LA fall is get up before the sun!
When I was a nanny and unemployed (my two previous careers), I didn't have to interact with the outdoors until early afternoon. I missed any night-to-day transitional temperatures and only ever knew the monotonous sunny, warm, cloudless weather that's made Southern California famous. But now that I'm a trainer and have clients at 6am, I wake up before the sun can warm everything around me to a delightful 65 degrees. I'm finally up early enough to experience the chill of winter creeping in. To feel the fall. To live the fall! And I hate it.
My main problem with LA fall is that it's a sneaks up on you. We're distracted from seasons with a beach and constant selling of flip flops for MONTHS and then it hits you, bam! And out of nowhere you're searching for all your tank tops to layer/wrap around yourself at various angles as an interim jacket. No one is prepared. I imagine the thermometers used at the local news stations in LA are measured with smiling suns, the sunglasses it wears grow darker as the temperature increases and below 65 degrees is just a big question mark.
What happened to you fall? I used to love you. I used to talk about you to all my friends. 'what are you being for halloween?', 'let's get HOT apple cider!', 'Brrr' and 'are we wearing socks now?' But now I'm too cold to care. Maybe three years of mild temperatures and never ending 'beach days' has made me a wimp, or maybe, just maybe, everything sucks. I might also have learned that changes in weather really affect my mood.
I've learned I have a hard time recovering from an overcast morning. I wonder why God has cursed me with a cloudy day when there was a cloudy day ONLY FOUR MONTHS AGO. If the sun is not in my face I don't know what day it is, or time it is, or where I is. And daylight savings, or as I like to call it, fall's devil sidekick, does not help my confusion. Mere weeks ago I would wake up at 5am, in the pit of night, to train clients and now that pit of night feels like 11am. But we humans adapt. So I adapted myself right into coffee addiction. Sure, I can't feel the difference between 8am and 2:30pm, but there is no such thing as 'feeling' when you have that brown goodness coursing through your veins.
This blog post is brought to you at a very interesting time in my life. We, ALL OF US AS A UNIT, are nineteen days away from me being cut off from my parent's health insurance and I could not be more excited because there is nothing more fun than searching for the health coverage plan that is right for you when you don't even fully understand multivitamins. To cope with impending adulthood I rang in my birthday with a visit from my two of my best friends from college. It was the best. We went to the CU/UCLA football game and won! Just kidding we lost. But I consider it a victory if we aren't confused for the pee-wee football half-time show. Oh, wait, I did that. But in my defense, they were really bad too. If I can spend one day a year like I spent my 26th birthday, with beer bongs, party buses and CU pride then I think I can handle aging. But can aging handle me?!? GO BUFFS!
Tuesday, November 12, 2013
Friday, August 16, 2013
Flirt City, Population: Everyone Who Speaks To Me
I don't know whether this is something society has done to me or just another example of my internal overanalyzing, but I think anyone who is being nice to me is flirting with me. You would think I grew up surrounded by terrible, unloving and unfriendly people, who were more likely to greet you with a slap in the face than a smile or eye contact. But we all know I'm from Perfect Colorado so that's just not the case. Thinking that general friendliness is flirtation is not the worst way to look at it. I could be suspicious of everyone, preparing myself for whatever scam they are trying to lure me in to this time – I reserve that judgment for Coconut Water.
But this “everyone is flirting with me” paranoia yields two extreme reactions on my part. I either get a crush super easily on any guy who asks how my day is, immediately file him under “potential life long love” and become too distracted planning our lives together to listen to what he's saying. OR I will quickly zone out in a panic to focus on how I'm going to subtly tell a friendly woman that I'm straight. I say 'subtly' because nothing would be worse than shouting “I'm straight!” right into her face. What if this interaction was (definitely was) general human decency and not seduction? Then I come across as a person who takes a nice conversation as flirtation. Which is exactly who I am.
I don't envy people in relationships who have to reveal their 'taken' status in potentially flirty interactions. If you just blurt it out, you're a presumptuous ass and if you hold back and allow the flirting to continue you're a selfish ass. Either way you're an ass. It all has to be done subtly and organically. Recently I had an experience where a guy naturally, but purposefully told me he had a girlfriend. I really give this guy props because revealing that kind of information is important but is all dependent. I mean, what if I wasn't flirting with him?? I was, but it's amazing he picked up on it because I called him bro a few times and gave him a lot of high fives. Just goes to show you.... my flirting style is totally workingggg! Because what is a high five if not a hand hump?
He was telling me about all of his different jobs and I said, “whoa, you're really a jack of all trades” to which he responded “that's what my girlfriend calls me too.” It wasn't sly and it wasn't announced but it was clear. So good for him, the awkward part of the conversation was over for him. He had revealed the information he needed to reveal and now I had to react to it. Subtly. So without saying a word I turned around and walked away. I couldn't waste anymore of my single lady flirt on a taken man.
I suffer from the opposite problem. I want everyone to know that I do NOT have a boyfriend; another thing you can't just go screaming from the rooftops or whispering into guys' ears. It doesn't help that I'm always with my brother. And it really doesn't help that we look nothing alike. We've been confused for a couple too many times for it to not be a huge concern for us. I try to subtly reveal that we're related by raising my voice and inserting “have you talked to our parents today?” into our conversation and then looking around slyly to see see the look of intrigue on the face of all my potential suitors.
The ins and outs and subtleties of flirting are truly exhausting. And, honestly, I feel like I'm always flirting. I'm flirting with girls because I want, nay deserve, a large friend circle. I'm flirting with clients because I want them to know, nay need them to know, their journey to change their body is both of ours. I'm constantly flirting with the idea of moving back to Colorado. And don't even get me started on the amount of high fives I give out, bro. #flirtcity
But this “everyone is flirting with me” paranoia yields two extreme reactions on my part. I either get a crush super easily on any guy who asks how my day is, immediately file him under “potential life long love” and become too distracted planning our lives together to listen to what he's saying. OR I will quickly zone out in a panic to focus on how I'm going to subtly tell a friendly woman that I'm straight. I say 'subtly' because nothing would be worse than shouting “I'm straight!” right into her face. What if this interaction was (definitely was) general human decency and not seduction? Then I come across as a person who takes a nice conversation as flirtation. Which is exactly who I am.
I don't envy people in relationships who have to reveal their 'taken' status in potentially flirty interactions. If you just blurt it out, you're a presumptuous ass and if you hold back and allow the flirting to continue you're a selfish ass. Either way you're an ass. It all has to be done subtly and organically. Recently I had an experience where a guy naturally, but purposefully told me he had a girlfriend. I really give this guy props because revealing that kind of information is important but is all dependent. I mean, what if I wasn't flirting with him?? I was, but it's amazing he picked up on it because I called him bro a few times and gave him a lot of high fives. Just goes to show you.... my flirting style is totally workingggg! Because what is a high five if not a hand hump?
He was telling me about all of his different jobs and I said, “whoa, you're really a jack of all trades” to which he responded “that's what my girlfriend calls me too.” It wasn't sly and it wasn't announced but it was clear. So good for him, the awkward part of the conversation was over for him. He had revealed the information he needed to reveal and now I had to react to it. Subtly. So without saying a word I turned around and walked away. I couldn't waste anymore of my single lady flirt on a taken man.
I suffer from the opposite problem. I want everyone to know that I do NOT have a boyfriend; another thing you can't just go screaming from the rooftops or whispering into guys' ears. It doesn't help that I'm always with my brother. And it really doesn't help that we look nothing alike. We've been confused for a couple too many times for it to not be a huge concern for us. I try to subtly reveal that we're related by raising my voice and inserting “have you talked to our parents today?” into our conversation and then looking around slyly to see see the look of intrigue on the face of all my potential suitors.
The ins and outs and subtleties of flirting are truly exhausting. And, honestly, I feel like I'm always flirting. I'm flirting with girls because I want, nay deserve, a large friend circle. I'm flirting with clients because I want them to know, nay need them to know, their journey to change their body is both of ours. I'm constantly flirting with the idea of moving back to Colorado. And don't even get me started on the amount of high fives I give out, bro. #flirtcity
Thursday, July 11, 2013
Twerkin' Girl
I know the “I'm not a grown up and think it's ridiculous that I ever need to become one” is a pretty common theme for this blog. I mean, the picture for this site is still me in a graduation cap reading “Job Hunting for Dummies” with a six pack of beer sitting loyally by my side. But I can confidently say that picture is no longer an accurate depiction of my life. I can throw away that dumb old book because this girl has a job!
Yes, I have been a nanny previously, but this time I have one of those job where you fill out a W-9 and get taxed and all that good, cool, confusing but semi-grown up stuff. I got a job as a personal trainer at a gym in sunny Santa Monica! If you define a “real job” as one of those 9-5 office jobs, then no, this is not a real job. But if you define a “real job” as one that earns you enough money to support yourself and live a happy life then this is still not a real job. That's why I've also become a Lyft driver. That's right. TWO jobs that required me to fill out FORMS and get TAXED. So I'm officially on the grid, mother fuckers.
For those of you who don't know what Lyft is, it's kind of like a cab service that is used completely through an app on your phone. All the “cab drivers” are just cool people driving their own cars and the whole idea is that Lyft is “your friend with a car.” It takes away the weirdness of a cab, the grossness of a cab (they made me get my seats shampooed before I started - a whole different, terrible story) and strives to make the ride to your destination more fun and comfortable. You can google Lyft and get even more information if that's something you're in to. Right now Lyft is under some scrutiny but I am not one to stray away from a good controversy! That's not true, I have called my mom, dad and brother countless times to make sure that I won't find myself in any sort of confrontation because we all know how I do with confrontation.
But being a Lyft driver is a pretty sweet deal. It combines three of my favorite things: driving my car, listening to my music and being in control. I've met a couple of cool people who I'll always remember, a couple of drunk people who will never remember me and one fetish party host. Pretty decent ratio, I'd say. I used to be concerned that I would be driving around total weirdos, but even this fetish host was a really nice British guy. He mentioned the fetish party I would be driving him to so casually that I thought it must mean something different in the UK. It wasn't until his friend got into the car dressed in several different variations of leather with chains, straps, and fish nets that I realized it was the same fetish that we have in America. Honestly, kind of comforting to know our cultures aren't all that different after all! In the beginning I think my biggest fear was that someone would need to be dropped off at a secluded cabin with no cell reception but now my biggest fear is that I'll fart in my car right before I have to pick someone up. Kind of a toss up as to which would scar me forever.
For those of you who don't know what a personal trainer is, you probably need one and can call me anytime for a free session [this is my marketing tool]. Being a personal trainer is a lot like being a nanny. I think of exercises (games) that will teach my client (child) something and hope they enjoy it (don't cry) and at the end of the day I can always rely on a good high-five to keep them happy.
You know what they say, the more things change the more they stay the same.
Yes, I have been a nanny previously, but this time I have one of those job where you fill out a W-9 and get taxed and all that good, cool, confusing but semi-grown up stuff. I got a job as a personal trainer at a gym in sunny Santa Monica! If you define a “real job” as one of those 9-5 office jobs, then no, this is not a real job. But if you define a “real job” as one that earns you enough money to support yourself and live a happy life then this is still not a real job. That's why I've also become a Lyft driver. That's right. TWO jobs that required me to fill out FORMS and get TAXED. So I'm officially on the grid, mother fuckers.
For those of you who don't know what Lyft is, it's kind of like a cab service that is used completely through an app on your phone. All the “cab drivers” are just cool people driving their own cars and the whole idea is that Lyft is “your friend with a car.” It takes away the weirdness of a cab, the grossness of a cab (they made me get my seats shampooed before I started - a whole different, terrible story) and strives to make the ride to your destination more fun and comfortable. You can google Lyft and get even more information if that's something you're in to. Right now Lyft is under some scrutiny but I am not one to stray away from a good controversy! That's not true, I have called my mom, dad and brother countless times to make sure that I won't find myself in any sort of confrontation because we all know how I do with confrontation.
But being a Lyft driver is a pretty sweet deal. It combines three of my favorite things: driving my car, listening to my music and being in control. I've met a couple of cool people who I'll always remember, a couple of drunk people who will never remember me and one fetish party host. Pretty decent ratio, I'd say. I used to be concerned that I would be driving around total weirdos, but even this fetish host was a really nice British guy. He mentioned the fetish party I would be driving him to so casually that I thought it must mean something different in the UK. It wasn't until his friend got into the car dressed in several different variations of leather with chains, straps, and fish nets that I realized it was the same fetish that we have in America. Honestly, kind of comforting to know our cultures aren't all that different after all! In the beginning I think my biggest fear was that someone would need to be dropped off at a secluded cabin with no cell reception but now my biggest fear is that I'll fart in my car right before I have to pick someone up. Kind of a toss up as to which would scar me forever.
For those of you who don't know what a personal trainer is, you probably need one and can call me anytime for a free session [this is my marketing tool]. Being a personal trainer is a lot like being a nanny. I think of exercises (games) that will teach my client (child) something and hope they enjoy it (don't cry) and at the end of the day I can always rely on a good high-five to keep them happy.
You know what they say, the more things change the more they stay the same.
Thursday, June 6, 2013
Beginning "Pre-Adult Life"
I've been out of college for three years now, a fact that has been hard to come to terms with. For three years I've been describing myself as a “recent college graduate” in coverletters and in everyday get-to-know-yous (which is what I call conversations.) I've even been subconsciously using it as an excuse for being behind other people I meet in the world, career wise. I can look at someone and think, 'sure that 27-year-old has been promoted three times and has a company parking spot, I'll get there, afterall I am only a recent college graduate.' A RECENT one. That means I can still not know how to work a fax machine or use Dropbox because I am transitioning from the party/study/eat-non-stop phase to the be a real person phase.
To be honest, I don't feel like I did three years ago. The wound of moving away from my small, PERFECT college town of Boulder, CO is no longer fresh, but there is definitely a scab. The kind of scab that you could tear off and somehow find yourself sitting alone in your room clicking through a slideshow of college pictures, listening to Pitbull's “Go Girl” and brainstorming how to take a beer bong by yourself. You know, THOSE kind of scabs. But those traumatic days of reminiscing in my one-bedroom apartment that, unfortunately for my psyche, was part of a complex that served as an unofficial dorm to the local community college are behind me.
I no longer simmer in jealousy of everyone in Boulder whose biggest concern on any given day is which awesome party filled with all of their friends they were going to attend and which awesome sandwich shop they were going to stop by beforehand. Now I simmer in anticipation for my future concerns (marriage, children, providing, taxes, home renovations, finding a good cable plan, eternal happiness, etc.) I'm not ready for all that. So just like three years ago I find myself in a transition again, unsure of what to call this phase in my life.
In the famous words of one Britney Spears, “I'm not a girl, not yet a woman.” Except in my case replace 'girl' with 'recent college graduate' and 'woman' with 'grown up.' And you have my exact feelings on this point in my life that I am now going to call “pre-adult.” Look for it in my cover letters.
Aside from the three year post college milestone, the fact that I've attended two weddings in the last three weeks should be an eye opener to the fact that people are getting their lives together and people are getting their lives together FAST. This past weekend I went to another friend's wedding and it was my first super fancy event and considering I consistently referred to it as such things as “the nicest shit ever” or “classy as hell” it was probably be my last.
It was held at the Beverly Wilshire and while that is where “Pretty Woman” was filmed I felt much more like I was in “The Great Gatsby” (the movie, not the book) because everyone was dressed in black tie appropriate clothing, sashayed down a staircase to find their table which had THREE different drinks waiting; wine, water and champagne AND it was all in 3D. So I felt nothing like a cheap whore like Julia Roberts at the beginning of Pretty Woman, I felt much more like a well cared for whore, like Julia Roberts at the end of Pretty Woman.
The bride and groom weren't the only two that experienced a life changing event that evening. I was handed a sign that a step out of my “pre-adult life” phase was on the horizon. I accidentally caught the bouquet. I say accidentally because it's true. I didn't mean to and didn't necessarily want to, but I did. I tend to, especially after a few drinks, outwardly react to things in a very psyched manner but internally I am pretty neutral on the whole situation. I pose for pictures like I've just walked into my surprise birthday party, or won a car when I'm really just getting my gym membership card.
I think it is funny to act overly excited about everything. I guess on some level it is a cover for not ever having to show when I am genuinely excited about something because what is lamer than being genuinely excited? Anyway, being one of the only girls at the wedding not in a mild to serious relationship, I thought it was hilarious to treat the bouquet toss as a marriage proposal. My intention was to exaggerate a high jump, give the comedic effect of a woman taking the toss way too seriously and have the bouquet land, rightly so, in the hands of someone much more deserving. But when the flowers hit my enormous and outstretched hand I had no choice but to continue with the bit.
I jumped up and down, I fist pumped, I'm pretty sure I dropped the the ground and thanked the heavens above for my journey for love had finally come to an end. I could see the photographer taking pictures of me, prepared to document the lucky gal who would humbly take her bouquet and sit quietly and cutely in the corner with her boyfriend. Instead she got several candid pictures of me pelvic thrusting and raising the roof. Again, I said this was probably my last fancy event. I was genuinely surprised when I caught the bouquet and am going to retire the bit of the “overanxious marriage hungry wedding guest” for all future bouquet tosses. Which doesn't matter because thanks to my athleticism, I will be married by then anyway so, whatever.
Thursday, May 9, 2013
I Know Pronounce You Happy as Hell
This blog post comes to you while I am in the midst of processing several emotions. My best friend (whose bachelorette/bridal shower I posted about previously) just got married. This was my first friend wedding and I have to say they set the bar pretty high. Almost unattainably high. Like, I probably can't even get married now. I've already experienced the best day of my life and it was my best friend's wedding in San Antonio, Texas. The most I can hope for on my wedding day or for the birth of my child(ren) is the second best day of my life.
I was lucky enough to be a Co-Maid of Honor which made me privy to cool things like emotional breakdowns, crafting, sleepless nights and champagne in the bathroom. I've heard horror stories about being a bridesmaid and I don't know whether I have a really high tolerance for terribleness or whether this bride was the best ever, but I loved being part of this wedding. Considering that today I found a hole in my favorite pair of 9 dollar Target leggings and declared it “the worst day of my life,” I'd say my tolerance for terribleness is at an all time low, making Maya the best bride ever.
This being my first friend wedding and my first bridal party experience, I would be lying if I said I didn't have my struggles.
I wasn't always sure how to de-stress the bride. In times of high tension I get self conscious that my actions will introduce new stress as opposed to relieving already present stress. On the day of the wedding, when my brother accidentally brought the coffee I asked him to deliver to me all the way to Maya's floor instead of calling me in the lobby, I did what any neurotic weirdo would do: I intercepted him at the elevator and forced him to stand in the hallway.
I did take a risk by allowing my mom to come in and say hello and in an effort to prove my allegiance to de-stressing the bride I acted like a security guard trying to keep a starstruck fan from overstaying her welcome at a meet and greet with a huge and easily irritated pop star. I believe I even gave a “sorry these guys are so obsessed with you” eye roll to the bride as I ushered my mom out. After the groupies were gone, I decided my new role in the Bridal Party Prep Room would be eating triangles of bagels and standing in various places. I killed it.
Emotions are high at weddings. And when emotions are on the rise so are hugs. I love hugs, I used to be against them from people I had just met mostly because I can't stand the movements of uncertainty leading up to the embrace, are we shaking hands? Are we hugging? Is your right arm going over while mine goes under? Are both of your arms going over? I don't like feeling vulnerable by going for a hug and being met with an outstretched hand but I also don't like feeling unloving when my extended hand lands in an open, unreceived embrace. Hugs are sketchy, but cheek kisses are the worst. Cheek kisses are grounds for staying awake all night, reviewing the play-by-play and wondering where you went wrong.
It's hard to find that perfect angle that lands the kiss in a friendly manner on their cheek and not in a creeper manner on the side of their lip, or in a humiliating manner inside of their ear. I've come to expect a cheek kiss from an adult male because there is no pressure to reciprocate; it's a gentlemanly thing to do. But a cheek kiss from a female sends me straight to stress-town. I never know they're coming and once I've missed it, I can't shake the feeling that I let them down.
I like to keep a mental note of who does a cheek kiss greeting so that I can do a cheek kiss goodbye. I did that over this wedding weekend and when I put myself out there with a cheek kiss goodbye, MY cheek was untouched. She downgraded me from a cheek kiss hello to a simple hug goodbye. I have never felt so foolish. One time I greeted a, not quite friend, but close acquaintance with a hug but then hours later only high-fived him goodbye. I still think about how abrupt that change in physical contact must have seemed and how he must have been confused and/or totally crushed or completely unscathed and is off living life like a normal person who doesn't think about the proper, unwritten rules of high-five, to hug, to cheek kiss progressions.
Aside from stressing myself out trying to de-stress my bride and trying to predict who was going to kiss my cheeks, there was only one other difficult part about being a bridesmaid. And that was keeping it together while watching Maya walk down the aisle. I KNOW no eyes were on me and I KNOW the photographer was focusing on the bride because I KNOW the whole day wasn't about me, but I'm just very thankful it was like that because the still image of a face holding back tears is not super attractive. Some people look constipated. Some people look mad. I look like my eyes are going to pop out of my skull and my head retracts backwards into my neck folds and my mouth goes limp, allowing my brain to focus on containing the tears. So it was mad CUTE.
I didn't have much practice in holding back my tears because it was not until I saw Maya walking down the aisle, arm in arm with her parents that it all finally became real. There was no more planning, no more scheduling, no more last minute details to finalize. It was a wedding. It was my best friend, someone I have known, confided in, joked with, grown up with and loved for 25 years getting married.
I said at the beginning of this post that I am in the midst of processing a lot of different emotions. I was so unbelievably happy when these two got married. I mean I started KISSING people's CHEEKS for god's sake, my especially friendly and outgoing demeanor fueled by pure joy. But then the wedding ended and I hugged the newlyweds goodbye, again choking back my tears and allowing my neck to retract against my windpipe. I'm in a constant cycle of remembering the wedding, reliving it in my mind and being filled with happiness followed by facing the harsh sadness that it's over. Who knew one event could make you the happiest AND saddest you've ever been in your life?
It all boils down the fact that the wedding was so perfect. If I could go back in time and make one change it would be to have the DJ make an announcement when the tamales were being served because I missed that and it's a major contributing factor in the sadness portion of my current emotional cycle.
I have to get really REAL for a second here and make a very sappy comment about love and commitment and all the dumb, gross, marriage stuff. Being a child of divorce, I have a weird take on marriage. Not that I don't believe in it or think it's a sham or impossible to have, but more kind of like what is the point of marriage? I was lucky enough to grow up surrounded by amazing single parents and not being married still yields awesome kids, happy lives and everything like that.
But then I went to this wedding, and I saw the jittery excitement in my best friend as we hid in the bathroom before the ceremony. I saw the calm happiness in the groom's eyes as he read his vows, I signed the Ketubah (Jewish marriage license, basically) that these two wrote together so honestly and collectively. And then I got it, I got why people get married and I truly have them to thank. When the feeling surrounding a couple announcing their love to each other is so real, honest, and easy it is impossible not to be swallowed up in it.
I know it's cliché for the bridesmaids to have total life freak outs and start the hunt for their future husband right after the wedding but the truth is, I'm, like, suuuuuper busy right now.
I was lucky enough to be a Co-Maid of Honor which made me privy to cool things like emotional breakdowns, crafting, sleepless nights and champagne in the bathroom. I've heard horror stories about being a bridesmaid and I don't know whether I have a really high tolerance for terribleness or whether this bride was the best ever, but I loved being part of this wedding. Considering that today I found a hole in my favorite pair of 9 dollar Target leggings and declared it “the worst day of my life,” I'd say my tolerance for terribleness is at an all time low, making Maya the best bride ever.
This being my first friend wedding and my first bridal party experience, I would be lying if I said I didn't have my struggles.
I wasn't always sure how to de-stress the bride. In times of high tension I get self conscious that my actions will introduce new stress as opposed to relieving already present stress. On the day of the wedding, when my brother accidentally brought the coffee I asked him to deliver to me all the way to Maya's floor instead of calling me in the lobby, I did what any neurotic weirdo would do: I intercepted him at the elevator and forced him to stand in the hallway.
I did take a risk by allowing my mom to come in and say hello and in an effort to prove my allegiance to de-stressing the bride I acted like a security guard trying to keep a starstruck fan from overstaying her welcome at a meet and greet with a huge and easily irritated pop star. I believe I even gave a “sorry these guys are so obsessed with you” eye roll to the bride as I ushered my mom out. After the groupies were gone, I decided my new role in the Bridal Party Prep Room would be eating triangles of bagels and standing in various places. I killed it.
Emotions are high at weddings. And when emotions are on the rise so are hugs. I love hugs, I used to be against them from people I had just met mostly because I can't stand the movements of uncertainty leading up to the embrace, are we shaking hands? Are we hugging? Is your right arm going over while mine goes under? Are both of your arms going over? I don't like feeling vulnerable by going for a hug and being met with an outstretched hand but I also don't like feeling unloving when my extended hand lands in an open, unreceived embrace. Hugs are sketchy, but cheek kisses are the worst. Cheek kisses are grounds for staying awake all night, reviewing the play-by-play and wondering where you went wrong.
It's hard to find that perfect angle that lands the kiss in a friendly manner on their cheek and not in a creeper manner on the side of their lip, or in a humiliating manner inside of their ear. I've come to expect a cheek kiss from an adult male because there is no pressure to reciprocate; it's a gentlemanly thing to do. But a cheek kiss from a female sends me straight to stress-town. I never know they're coming and once I've missed it, I can't shake the feeling that I let them down.
I like to keep a mental note of who does a cheek kiss greeting so that I can do a cheek kiss goodbye. I did that over this wedding weekend and when I put myself out there with a cheek kiss goodbye, MY cheek was untouched. She downgraded me from a cheek kiss hello to a simple hug goodbye. I have never felt so foolish. One time I greeted a, not quite friend, but close acquaintance with a hug but then hours later only high-fived him goodbye. I still think about how abrupt that change in physical contact must have seemed and how he must have been confused and/or totally crushed or completely unscathed and is off living life like a normal person who doesn't think about the proper, unwritten rules of high-five, to hug, to cheek kiss progressions.
Aside from stressing myself out trying to de-stress my bride and trying to predict who was going to kiss my cheeks, there was only one other difficult part about being a bridesmaid. And that was keeping it together while watching Maya walk down the aisle. I KNOW no eyes were on me and I KNOW the photographer was focusing on the bride because I KNOW the whole day wasn't about me, but I'm just very thankful it was like that because the still image of a face holding back tears is not super attractive. Some people look constipated. Some people look mad. I look like my eyes are going to pop out of my skull and my head retracts backwards into my neck folds and my mouth goes limp, allowing my brain to focus on containing the tears. So it was mad CUTE.
I didn't have much practice in holding back my tears because it was not until I saw Maya walking down the aisle, arm in arm with her parents that it all finally became real. There was no more planning, no more scheduling, no more last minute details to finalize. It was a wedding. It was my best friend, someone I have known, confided in, joked with, grown up with and loved for 25 years getting married.
I said at the beginning of this post that I am in the midst of processing a lot of different emotions. I was so unbelievably happy when these two got married. I mean I started KISSING people's CHEEKS for god's sake, my especially friendly and outgoing demeanor fueled by pure joy. But then the wedding ended and I hugged the newlyweds goodbye, again choking back my tears and allowing my neck to retract against my windpipe. I'm in a constant cycle of remembering the wedding, reliving it in my mind and being filled with happiness followed by facing the harsh sadness that it's over. Who knew one event could make you the happiest AND saddest you've ever been in your life?
It all boils down the fact that the wedding was so perfect. If I could go back in time and make one change it would be to have the DJ make an announcement when the tamales were being served because I missed that and it's a major contributing factor in the sadness portion of my current emotional cycle.
I have to get really REAL for a second here and make a very sappy comment about love and commitment and all the dumb, gross, marriage stuff. Being a child of divorce, I have a weird take on marriage. Not that I don't believe in it or think it's a sham or impossible to have, but more kind of like what is the point of marriage? I was lucky enough to grow up surrounded by amazing single parents and not being married still yields awesome kids, happy lives and everything like that.
But then I went to this wedding, and I saw the jittery excitement in my best friend as we hid in the bathroom before the ceremony. I saw the calm happiness in the groom's eyes as he read his vows, I signed the Ketubah (Jewish marriage license, basically) that these two wrote together so honestly and collectively. And then I got it, I got why people get married and I truly have them to thank. When the feeling surrounding a couple announcing their love to each other is so real, honest, and easy it is impossible not to be swallowed up in it.
I know it's cliché for the bridesmaids to have total life freak outs and start the hunt for their future husband right after the wedding but the truth is, I'm, like, suuuuuper busy right now.
Monday, April 22, 2013
This Maid is 100% Honor
I recently returned from a trip to New York City for my childhood best friend's bridal shower and bachelorette party. I hadn't been to New York since I visited this same friend almost a year ago as a pit stop on my way to Israel and I couldn't wait to be reunited with the big city. I was ready for everything New York had offered me last year: the energizing hustle and bustle, the intoxicating freedom of public transportation and the sunshine! Oh, the sunshine! Really. Last year I was lucky enough to catch a weekend of golden skies and mild temperatures so the grey, cold misery everyone describes as New York's early spring was a myth to me. In fact, the energy, weather and ease of subways left me spending my flight back to California wracking my brain for one positive of LA and one negative of NY. That is how good the weather was.
I could not wait to rekindle my fascination with New York but alas, much like a lover who has overstayed their welcome, everything I once found endearing was truly the worst thing ever.
I took a red eye flight and after a long, smelly, sleepless flight, the last thing I was expecting to be/wanted to be welcomed by at 5am was a hustling and bustling sea of people, chit-chatting and gabbing over coffee like the sun was up. This was not energizing, it was offensive. Even later that morning when I tried to find a coffee shop in down town Brooklyn the number of people on the streets was so intimidating and confusing that I couldn't even make out basic landmarks or reference points for my walk. I had to stick to the 2 block by 1 block grid I had mentally made for myself, which unforuntaly only yielded one coffee shop result. A convenience store where the coffee was dispensed through what looked like a fountain soda machine and where the sugar had been dumped into a large party punch bowl with an oversized laddel for serving. So I left and did what any girl who was two blocks from her hotel but terrified to stray much further would do. I sat on a bus bench and used my Google map app to search directions from my current location to “food.”
I mentioned in my last New York City post that I hate to look like a tourist. So I would have preferred to spend hours pretending that walking up and down this two block stretch in downtown Brooklyn was my daily routine than ask anyone for help or directions and risk exposing myself as a visitor. I was not prepared for the number of people.
I was also not prepared for the weather. It was cold and dry, so, so dry. Either it was seriously dry or I was at the level of dehydration reserved for people who hadn't had water or fluids in their body in their lifetime. Not only was my leather jacket/sweatshirt combo not enough to weather these temperatures, the pockets of both the jacket and my jeans were too small to fit my large but TRULY elegant hands. The dryness, the coldness, my general attraction to the non-chalant look of hands in pockets, had me forcing my hands inside these teeny spaces. Which, if it did not look like shoving a wad of sandpaper into a small cashmere sock, it's what it felt like. I was lucky enough that my friend had an spare long, puffy winter jacket that I could borrow and just as I was coming around to how great – and I do mean GREAT – I looked in a long winter jacket, the temperature spiked to 80 degrees. I could barely walk around the city because my jeans were on my thighs with wetsuit-like tightness. So I did not luck out with the weather.
New York trip 2013 already had two strikes against it, but I was still totally onboard with the public transportation. Sure, I routinely swiped my subway pass incorrectly and would walk full force into an unmoving turnstyle. But I was not going to let that deter me, I was determined to love public transportation. That was until I had to carry a bag full of decorations for a bridal shower and bachelorette (that's right, that means penises) from Brooklyn to Manhattan. Taking this bag on the subway and through the busy city streets was not an option. But a cab was. As was a cab for the next 4 out of 5 trips between Manhattan and Brooklyn. Cabs are public transportation, right?
I did have the opportunity to prove to myself and others that I could handle a solo subway trip, which was nothing short of a complete disaster. After being lead to the wrong platform, and being left completely alone after watching everyone pile into one train (not the train I was specifically told to take) I got suspicious. I called my friend who had, up until this point, been coaching me through this adventure through text message. Between the mix of her not knowing where I was and me not knowing my cardinal directions (where is west without the ocean??) she could not tell me where to find a correct platform. She, her mother and my own mother who were all hunkered down in Brooklyn awaiting my Manhattan arrival, all agreed I should give up and take a cab. I resisted for a moment but agreed. Once in the cab I considered asking him to drop me off at a platform where I could catch the F train but it had started to drizzle and I've already addressed my fear of being a known tourist so NO THANK YOU!
By my last day I had successfully turned against the three aspects of New York I had obsessed about, dreamed about, pointed to as examples of why New York is a viable place for me to live. I don't know, call me spoiled but I just need constant sunshine, warm temperatures, weather that allows me to wear flip flops 80% of the year, chill vibes, my own space, a coffee shop that has sugar packets or shakers and a car. Lord knows I need a car.
Realizing New York and I might not be the best fit was an unforunate side note to an amazing weekend celebrating my oldest friend and her engagement to a pretty cool dude. Bridal showers are so silly, they're like birthdays on steroids. But instead of congraulating someone on NOT dying we congratulate them on not dying ALONE and pretend it's not awkward and weird for older relatives to gift lingerie.
But in all seriousness, the bridal shower was beautiful and it was very special to see all the people from various points in my friend's life come together to celebrate the happiness she has found. And she's my best friend, a truly great person and she and her future husband deserve nothing but the best and lucky them because that's exactly what they are getting.
In other news, I have been studying for my personal training certification. I have not studied for anything in years and I forgot how much more appealing EVERYTHING else seems when you have studying to do. I'll sit down to at my kitchen table, ready to crack open the ol' book and instead decide to clean the kitchen sink cuz that drain isn't going to unclog itself. I'll cut my studying short for things I would never usually care about. Like The MTV Movie Awards. And I'll think even the easiest tasks require double the amount of time, I'll give myself five minutes to walk to the kitchen from my bedroom to make lunch.
I also have had at least two dreams in which I sneak into the house of the family I used to nanny for to take care of their kid without their knowledge. I'm not sure what those subconscious thoughts mean but...
Speaking of my nanny life – I'll leave you with a sketch I made about my left over nanny tendencies surfacing in my daily interactions with my roommate:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=4feuVexBj9o
I could not wait to rekindle my fascination with New York but alas, much like a lover who has overstayed their welcome, everything I once found endearing was truly the worst thing ever.
I took a red eye flight and after a long, smelly, sleepless flight, the last thing I was expecting to be/wanted to be welcomed by at 5am was a hustling and bustling sea of people, chit-chatting and gabbing over coffee like the sun was up. This was not energizing, it was offensive. Even later that morning when I tried to find a coffee shop in down town Brooklyn the number of people on the streets was so intimidating and confusing that I couldn't even make out basic landmarks or reference points for my walk. I had to stick to the 2 block by 1 block grid I had mentally made for myself, which unforuntaly only yielded one coffee shop result. A convenience store where the coffee was dispensed through what looked like a fountain soda machine and where the sugar had been dumped into a large party punch bowl with an oversized laddel for serving. So I left and did what any girl who was two blocks from her hotel but terrified to stray much further would do. I sat on a bus bench and used my Google map app to search directions from my current location to “food.”
I mentioned in my last New York City post that I hate to look like a tourist. So I would have preferred to spend hours pretending that walking up and down this two block stretch in downtown Brooklyn was my daily routine than ask anyone for help or directions and risk exposing myself as a visitor. I was not prepared for the number of people.
I was also not prepared for the weather. It was cold and dry, so, so dry. Either it was seriously dry or I was at the level of dehydration reserved for people who hadn't had water or fluids in their body in their lifetime. Not only was my leather jacket/sweatshirt combo not enough to weather these temperatures, the pockets of both the jacket and my jeans were too small to fit my large but TRULY elegant hands. The dryness, the coldness, my general attraction to the non-chalant look of hands in pockets, had me forcing my hands inside these teeny spaces. Which, if it did not look like shoving a wad of sandpaper into a small cashmere sock, it's what it felt like. I was lucky enough that my friend had an spare long, puffy winter jacket that I could borrow and just as I was coming around to how great – and I do mean GREAT – I looked in a long winter jacket, the temperature spiked to 80 degrees. I could barely walk around the city because my jeans were on my thighs with wetsuit-like tightness. So I did not luck out with the weather.
New York trip 2013 already had two strikes against it, but I was still totally onboard with the public transportation. Sure, I routinely swiped my subway pass incorrectly and would walk full force into an unmoving turnstyle. But I was not going to let that deter me, I was determined to love public transportation. That was until I had to carry a bag full of decorations for a bridal shower and bachelorette (that's right, that means penises) from Brooklyn to Manhattan. Taking this bag on the subway and through the busy city streets was not an option. But a cab was. As was a cab for the next 4 out of 5 trips between Manhattan and Brooklyn. Cabs are public transportation, right?
I did have the opportunity to prove to myself and others that I could handle a solo subway trip, which was nothing short of a complete disaster. After being lead to the wrong platform, and being left completely alone after watching everyone pile into one train (not the train I was specifically told to take) I got suspicious. I called my friend who had, up until this point, been coaching me through this adventure through text message. Between the mix of her not knowing where I was and me not knowing my cardinal directions (where is west without the ocean??) she could not tell me where to find a correct platform. She, her mother and my own mother who were all hunkered down in Brooklyn awaiting my Manhattan arrival, all agreed I should give up and take a cab. I resisted for a moment but agreed. Once in the cab I considered asking him to drop me off at a platform where I could catch the F train but it had started to drizzle and I've already addressed my fear of being a known tourist so NO THANK YOU!
By my last day I had successfully turned against the three aspects of New York I had obsessed about, dreamed about, pointed to as examples of why New York is a viable place for me to live. I don't know, call me spoiled but I just need constant sunshine, warm temperatures, weather that allows me to wear flip flops 80% of the year, chill vibes, my own space, a coffee shop that has sugar packets or shakers and a car. Lord knows I need a car.
Realizing New York and I might not be the best fit was an unforunate side note to an amazing weekend celebrating my oldest friend and her engagement to a pretty cool dude. Bridal showers are so silly, they're like birthdays on steroids. But instead of congraulating someone on NOT dying we congratulate them on not dying ALONE and pretend it's not awkward and weird for older relatives to gift lingerie.
But in all seriousness, the bridal shower was beautiful and it was very special to see all the people from various points in my friend's life come together to celebrate the happiness she has found. And she's my best friend, a truly great person and she and her future husband deserve nothing but the best and lucky them because that's exactly what they are getting.
In other news, I have been studying for my personal training certification. I have not studied for anything in years and I forgot how much more appealing EVERYTHING else seems when you have studying to do. I'll sit down to at my kitchen table, ready to crack open the ol' book and instead decide to clean the kitchen sink cuz that drain isn't going to unclog itself. I'll cut my studying short for things I would never usually care about. Like The MTV Movie Awards. And I'll think even the easiest tasks require double the amount of time, I'll give myself five minutes to walk to the kitchen from my bedroom to make lunch.
I also have had at least two dreams in which I sneak into the house of the family I used to nanny for to take care of their kid without their knowledge. I'm not sure what those subconscious thoughts mean but...
Speaking of my nanny life – I'll leave you with a sketch I made about my left over nanny tendencies surfacing in my daily interactions with my roommate:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=4feuVexBj9o
Monday, March 11, 2013
Game Changer
My new years resolution for 2013 was to make big life changes. Changes that could put me on a new path, changes that could alter how I view the world, changes that would let me grow on a spiritual and emotional level. And last week I took the first step to following through on my big and scary 2013 plans. I got bangs.
This is HUGE for someone who has had roughly the same hairstyle at varying lengths since introduced to the (then very up-and-coming and trendy) side-part in high school. I've seen the side-part gain rapid popularity and then fall to a surge in the middle-part style, all the while remaining loyal and true. My hairstyle has been my rock. It has stuck with me through thick and thin. Everything has been easy with my side-part and I've never had to challenge myself with it. A simple five-minute run through with a blow dryer and my hair is, not runway ready, but nanny ready which has been pretty alright with me.
I wish I could say getting bangs was an independent, awesome and empowering 'life is too short to not have bangs!' kind of decision, but the truth is I realized my hair was becoming a metaphor for my life. Easy, stable, comfortable, adorable and always clean, but predictable. So I quit my job. This could be the beginning of a great new style and so much more OR the early indications of an emotional breakdown... only time will tell.
Yup, you heard it here, folks. I am throwing in the nannying towel again; retiring at an early age, while people will still remember me as the awesome, able-bodied, young, hip nanny who always ran around with the kids and molded sarcasm into their clay-like brains at an impressionable age. And NOT as the elderly woman in velcro shoes and an oversized bonnet who carries hard candies in her purse - which I'm terrified will happen if I don't get out soon.
It's been wonderful nannying this child, Mitsy, as I've referred to him in past posts. He is trendier and cooler than anyone I've ever met in my life. He is the only kid I've ever downloaded music to impress (he introduced me to Gotye's “Somebody That I Used to Know.”) And he prompted me to call a tank top I found in my closet while getting ready for my nannying day a “game-changer.” Looking back it's hard to remember if I was hoping he'd love the tank top or if it truly was a game-changer; a top that would alter my outlook on the nannying wardrobe forever. I was confused as his mother more times than not, which I think was only because we had the same haircut and both wore skinny jeans but I dunno, I don't know how DNA works. He is the sweetest little kid in the world and I'm sure when he does something big and important with his life he will thank me in his acceptance speech just like Quvenzhané Wallis from “Beasts of a Southern Wild” did with her nanny.
So what does this mean for me? It means no longer sitting at the park and deciding, based on looks and attitude alone, which 4-year-olds are going to grow up to be sluts, jocks and nerds in high school. It means the indentation on my car's backseat from constant pressure of a securely attached carseat can resurface to an even level. And it means not being demanded to look into someone's eyes as they poop. Yeah. Like I said, big changes.
But really this means that I will be actively supporting my writing in a new way. I'm getting my personal training certification! For those of you who didn't know, I was an all around athlete in high school. And by that I would say I was a mid-level basketball player who played with the enthusiasm and swagger (chest bumps in the middle of games) of an Olympic gold medal athlete. So athleticism, fitness and all around health have always been an important part of my life (except my freshman year of college when I apparently decided it didn't count as gaining weight if I could still make out my jawline when tilting my head back at unnatural angles.)
I'm really excited about the new change and to see what this world of fitness holds for me. This will bring so many new people and experiences into my life and therefore into this blog and therefore into all of your lives, which I am sure you then share with everyone you meet, which in return will lead to my eventual superstardom.
But right now I can't even focus on all the new things that will be brought into my life because I can't stop thinking of the return of one: I can finally swear again on a normal, uncensored basis and I could not be happier. Cuz god dammit. I've missed the shit out of swearing.
This is HUGE for someone who has had roughly the same hairstyle at varying lengths since introduced to the (then very up-and-coming and trendy) side-part in high school. I've seen the side-part gain rapid popularity and then fall to a surge in the middle-part style, all the while remaining loyal and true. My hairstyle has been my rock. It has stuck with me through thick and thin. Everything has been easy with my side-part and I've never had to challenge myself with it. A simple five-minute run through with a blow dryer and my hair is, not runway ready, but nanny ready which has been pretty alright with me.
I wish I could say getting bangs was an independent, awesome and empowering 'life is too short to not have bangs!' kind of decision, but the truth is I realized my hair was becoming a metaphor for my life. Easy, stable, comfortable, adorable and always clean, but predictable. So I quit my job. This could be the beginning of a great new style and so much more OR the early indications of an emotional breakdown... only time will tell.
Yup, you heard it here, folks. I am throwing in the nannying towel again; retiring at an early age, while people will still remember me as the awesome, able-bodied, young, hip nanny who always ran around with the kids and molded sarcasm into their clay-like brains at an impressionable age. And NOT as the elderly woman in velcro shoes and an oversized bonnet who carries hard candies in her purse - which I'm terrified will happen if I don't get out soon.
It's been wonderful nannying this child, Mitsy, as I've referred to him in past posts. He is trendier and cooler than anyone I've ever met in my life. He is the only kid I've ever downloaded music to impress (he introduced me to Gotye's “Somebody That I Used to Know.”) And he prompted me to call a tank top I found in my closet while getting ready for my nannying day a “game-changer.” Looking back it's hard to remember if I was hoping he'd love the tank top or if it truly was a game-changer; a top that would alter my outlook on the nannying wardrobe forever. I was confused as his mother more times than not, which I think was only because we had the same haircut and both wore skinny jeans but I dunno, I don't know how DNA works. He is the sweetest little kid in the world and I'm sure when he does something big and important with his life he will thank me in his acceptance speech just like Quvenzhané Wallis from “Beasts of a Southern Wild” did with her nanny.
So what does this mean for me? It means no longer sitting at the park and deciding, based on looks and attitude alone, which 4-year-olds are going to grow up to be sluts, jocks and nerds in high school. It means the indentation on my car's backseat from constant pressure of a securely attached carseat can resurface to an even level. And it means not being demanded to look into someone's eyes as they poop. Yeah. Like I said, big changes.
But really this means that I will be actively supporting my writing in a new way. I'm getting my personal training certification! For those of you who didn't know, I was an all around athlete in high school. And by that I would say I was a mid-level basketball player who played with the enthusiasm and swagger (chest bumps in the middle of games) of an Olympic gold medal athlete. So athleticism, fitness and all around health have always been an important part of my life (except my freshman year of college when I apparently decided it didn't count as gaining weight if I could still make out my jawline when tilting my head back at unnatural angles.)
I'm really excited about the new change and to see what this world of fitness holds for me. This will bring so many new people and experiences into my life and therefore into this blog and therefore into all of your lives, which I am sure you then share with everyone you meet, which in return will lead to my eventual superstardom.
But right now I can't even focus on all the new things that will be brought into my life because I can't stop thinking of the return of one: I can finally swear again on a normal, uncensored basis and I could not be happier. Cuz god dammit. I've missed the shit out of swearing.
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