Thank you, Seattle.

It’s official. The new driver’s license came and I can once again call myself a Michigander. 16-year-old-me is probably laughing somewhere. Thankfully, 32-year-old-me can take it.

I’m having a bit of a flashback to a book my aunt gave me nearly 10 years ago – The Alchemist by Paolo Coelho. If you haven’t read it, I highly recommend it. I don’t want to give anything away, but it’s an amazing story about following your dreams and the unexpected path it may lead you on. Obviously my dreams have changed over the years, but as I settle back in to life in my hometown, it’s been a really cool opportunity for reflection…

[It’s also crazy / scary how the book almost foreshadowed my recent life changes… go read it! Seriously!]

When I was 16, I couldn’t wait to get the hell outta dodge. I was shaking my ‘too small’ hometown off the moment I was free and I wasn’t looking back. I had always dreamed of living in a big city with my own little studio, adorably decorated a la Crate-and-Barrel-meets-Restoration-Hardware, grabbing my morning coffee on my way to my fancy high-rise office and flitting off to happy hours a few nights a week.

[I dreamed the opening sequence of “How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days” years before it came out. I honestly have NO idea where these ideas came from, but I can still see it so clearly in my mind it’s almost scary. Also, if I had to pick someone to play me, Kate Hudson could, like, totally make the short list.]

When I was 23, I realized that the real world was like, really hard. And I had no idea what the hell I was going to do with my life. I was in a serious relationship, and pretending to be an adult. But NO ONE EVER TELLS YOU THERE ARE FIFTY BAJILLION PATHS YOU CAN TAKE WITH A DEGREE IN MARKETING. Honestly, looking back, I was so lost.

I always had said I wanted to move away, but between said serious relationship and really great career opportunities, and then the end of the relationship and trying to get back on my feet…the timing just never seemed right. And I didn’t want to run. I had reached an age of wisdom that told me if I run, my problems will follow me. So when I hit my late 20’s, I knew I was only going to leave for the right reason.

When the opportunity of Seattle presented itself three and a half years ago, my gut and my heart told me it was right. Literally pieces just started to fall in to place. It was a career goal to work for a children’s non-profit organization. It was an opportunity to scratch that big-city itch. And if I’m being honest, I needed a swift kick in the arse. I was in a rut personally and professionally and while some people turn to yoga, picking up and moving across the country was more my style [go big or go home?] and seemed like the swiftest kick I could possibly get. I knew it would be hard, but it was time.

Hard it was, but as I reflect, I want to take a moment to say: Seattle, thank you. Thank you for pushing me for three and a half years. For supporting me. For throwing me some curve balls but giving me the tools to hit them as they came. Thank you for the amazing opportunities you provided me. For the forever-friends [ya’ll know who you are!] that welcomed me in and made it feel a little more like home. For your VIEWS – the mountains, the water, and the space needle that brought me comfort when I felt homesick. For helping me step outside my comfort zone, and showing me there’s actually a lot of things i like to do that I would have never tried otherwise. Thank you for challenging my thinking and making me see the world through a different lens. For the time with my parents and friends who visited, and gave me the chance to show you off. For your delicious coffee and unbelievable restaurants. For letting me live out my big city dream, complete with a small studio [even if it wasn’t exactly the Crate-and-Barrel-meets-Restoration-Hardware thing I had in mind]. And for giving me the confidence – both personally and professionally – that I so desperately needed.

Lastly, but most importantly, thank you for showing me that there is truly no place like HOME. When I moved, I thought that Seattle was where I was going to be for a very, very long time.

But when it came down to it, Seattle let me know it was time to head back. [A few times, actually. In case I hadn’t gotten the memo.] And just as the pieces fell in to place as I left Michigan, so have they fallen in to place to welcome me home. I am so thankful for the open arms of all of those that have accepted me back, and reminded me how truly lucky I am.

I’m proud to say I’m a Michigander and be a part of the exciting growth and change happening here. I’ve got a lot to look forward to and while I’m still trying to find my footing, I’m excited to be able to point to my hand and say “I’m from right here.” It’s Pure Michigan nerdiness at it’s finest.

Here’s to the next adventure!

I’m Feeling 32…

I posted this video awhile back – a little T. Swift parody highlighting the amazingness of being 32. And you know what? I’m not ashamed to say I can relate to a whole bunch of it. [Especially the 8p.m. bed-thing. Who can stay up much later?!?] But I also cannot lie and say that 32 hasn’t been pretty dang awesome so far and that I’m not excited for the year to come.

At the risk of sounding ridiculously cheesy, I got exactly what I didn’t know I wanted for my birthday, and the exact opposite of what most people might associate with marking another year on the calendar: time.

The past several months have been crazy. [That’s perhaps an understatement. But it’s the best word I can come up with right now.] I had several complete meltdown moments as I packed up my life [again] and let a few hippies put it on a truck across the country. [Honestly. I think they did a few too many drugs in the 70’s. Or March of 2014. But my stuff made it, so… if it’s working for you, keep doing what you’re doing, guys.] At the end of all the back and forth and living out of a suitcase, my birthday was a perfect reminder of why I did it…and that it was worth every moment of “what-the-eff-am-I-doing-with-my-life?!?” meltdown.

While I’d been panicked about work and settling in back home, I now see that I was given the best gift of all.

From the birthday-Trifecta reunion to dinner downtown with my parents, from a spontaneous trip to Houston complete with beach, deep friend avocados (!), the most amazingly thoughtful birthday brunch and my first crawfish experience to hanging with my nephew and from drinks with a dear friend to phone calls from those near and far…with each moment over the last few weeks, the anxiety and craziness slowly faded. I still have a long ways to go, but each day was a reminder that it was worth it. And that I am so. so. [so.] blessed.

I’ll be honest, I’m feeling 32 in the most amazing way. I’m so thankful for each and every person that went in on my gift… it truly meant the world and I can’t seem to come up with just the right words to say thank you. I sincerely heart you to the moon and back.

Here’s to another year filled with opportunities to make mistakes and learn, and reasons to smile, laugh, and dance like a fool. Cheers, ya’ll.

Are YOU My Home?

[Written on a flight back from a girls getaway to Houston, Tx.]

As I leave Houston for the second time in less than 8 months, in so many ways, I feel like I’m once again leaving home. After having three apartments in three years in Seattle, I sometimes feel like a version of the famous P.D. Eastman book “Are You My Mother?”  – because I often find myself asking “are you my home?”

When someone asks me where home is, Michigan is still my natural response. I meet people from all over the world in my job, and Michigan is what comes out naturally whenever the question comes up.  No matter how long I’ve been in Seattle, I still say I’m going “home for the holidays” or “home to see family.” [See: My Pure Michigan for more on why I love the mitten. I brag about it. A lot. To anyone and everyone.]

While I love Seattle, it still frequently feels like a ‘house.’ The Super Bowl is a wonderful example: while it’s exciting to be in a city with a team heading to the big game for the second year in a row, it almost makes me feel like an outsider in Seattle because I still haven’t caught the Seahawks-fever that seems to be making it’s way around town. It feels like I’m betraying my beloved Lions and wrong in so many ways. [Yes, I know how silly that sounds.]

Walking out of my friend’s house in Houston on Monday helped me to understand that home truly is wherever the heart is.

I’ve been blessed with some of the most glorious friends and family. [How many times can I say how awesome my family is?  Sick of it yet? #sorrynotsorry.] And a several of these friends are like family to me. The group of girls from this past weekend have known me for more years than I care to admit. They’ve seen me through ups, downs and every in between. Awkward phase after awkward phase. Broken hearts and broken careers. Since high school graduation, we’ve found ourselves spread all across the country – and at times, even the globe. But without question, no matter the miles, they have always been there. We are all so different and yet so similar. When we are all together, shenanigans, laughter, [happy] tears and a dance party are guaranteed.

As life unfolds for each of us, it’s been harder and harder to ensure all five of us can spend time together. Even our once-sacred holiday gathering has become difficult as families and relationships change and grow.

So when some cheap flights, ‘spontaneous planning’ and the stars aligned so we could all be in Houston for a long weekend, it seemed too good to be true. Leaving family – especially my adorable, handsome new nephew – at Christmas was HARD. But having something to look forward to immediately after the holidays was a Godsend. As the weekend approached, I was practically jumping out of my skin with excitement.

From the moment I landed, I felt like I could be authentically…me. E, the hostess with the mos-test, has a glass of wine and a home-cooked meal upon arrival, and it just got more wonderful from there. Just like being at my parents or my sister’s, I could open a cupboard, grab a beverage and snuggle in on the couch – relaxing and chatting for hours. [Or in my case, my own chair that seems to be my seat when I’m there.] They humored me and danced with me at a charity washer tournament in the middle of nowhere. [literally. no. where.] We ate three-hour breakfasts in our pjs. We beached it, reading and chatting in the sunshine. They hugged me when my heart was a little broken, and laughed with [or at?] me during my first-ever game of Cards Against Humanity. We took turns soaking up baby snuggles, ate our weight in pita chips and pretzels, and basically spent the weekend being fabulously, ridiculously…us.

If that isn’t a little bit of home, I don’t know what is. As I leave Houston, it occurs to me that my home is really where ever YOU are – my family and my friends. Michigan, Seattle, Los Angeles, Houston, a beach in FL or a flat in London – wherever the road leads us, you are always in my heart, and the piece of home I take with me wherever I go.

It doesn’t make the answer to the question any easier when someone asks, “where’s home?,” but in my mind, it doesn’t matter. I was never really very good at geography anyways.

Family, Meet Family

When I got back from Germany and Ireland, it was a little bit of a whirlwind. Work went nuts, personal life got cray. [Excuses, excuses]. I don’t think I took a moment to revel in both what an amazing experience the whole thing was…or what some of it truly meant.

As I wrote a while back, I had one heck of a family take me in when I landed as a solo traveler in the summer of 2004. Seriously, words cannot express the way they opened their homes and their hearts. That summer held a lot of growth for me, and they put up with all of it.

Fast forward 10 years: my parents have heard stories. I’ve kept in touch with my second family. I’ve watched the kiddos grow through pictures. I got to spend some time with them while they vacationed in California a few years ago. But my parents had never met these strangers who took their daughter in. So when we started to talk about a European vacation, I knew that if we were headed that direction, it had to involve a meet and greet between my two families.

Family, please meet family.

I was so worried before the trip…would they get along? Would they have anything to talk about? Would everyone feel comfortable? It was my parents first trip to Europe, would they be okay? Would the language barriers bother them?

Silly, silly me.

I will never forget the moment that we stepped out of customs, and my entire second family stood there with yellow roses in their hands and open arms. My host mom’s beautiful smile and tears that stood in the corner of her eyes. My host dad’s familiar laughter. And the “children” who were now teenagers and nearly eye-to-eye with me [how do they grow that fast?!?].

We had four days in Germany, and my second family went above and beyond. They had a whole itinerary thoughtfully planned out. They took my parents through the town they lived in. I got to show my parents spots that I had sat out or grabbed a bite to eat, trails I had run, and the bedroom I stayed in. They made reservations at a beautiful castle, and showed them all the sites.

And while re-visiting some of my favorite spots was beyond wonderful, some of the best moments were just sitting around the breakfast or dinner table, enjoying each other’s company.

Within hours, the guys were talking politics, the ladies laughing over life observations and challenges, and we already had inside jokes that carried throughout our visit. We cheers-ed  over ouzo, gorged on bread, beer and black licorice, bonded over stories of life’s difficulties, and compared notes on cultural differences. My host mom’s familiar “alles, klar?” when I got quiet. The noise in the family room in the morning as everyone got ready. The smell of fresh bread and sound of water “with gas” being poured. All reminders and feelings of coming home, 5,000 miles away from home.

And being able to finally share it all with my parents…words fail me.

As I sat at dinner one night, I looked around and was overwhelmed with gratitude. This family didn’t have to do any of this for me, or my parents. They once again opened their home and their hearts to a few strangers. In that moment, I realized I wanted to do the same. The children are learning English [and speak beautifully, I might add]. My goal is to have a place with enough space that they can visit and stay awhile. Share in the laughs and sites, culture and conversation.

And hopefully feel right at home… with family.

Ridin’ Solo + Remembering to Enjoy the Journey

“And she will be free,
Like the leaves floating in the wind, and the stream.
She will not be bound, by anything that tries to drag her down.
Oh, and all that girl wants to be is loved.”

– Josh Abbott Band “She Will be Free”

I’ve always loved songs that have a “run” theme to them…Keith Urban’s “Stupid Boy,” Dierks Bentley’s “Lotta Leaving Left to Do,” and the like. Songs that talk about freedom and exploring have always appealed to my “Miss Independent” side, and, perhaps a side of me that desperately wants to be more carefree and not try to plan as much.

Lately, I’ve been feeling anything but “free.” In a lot of ways, I’ve felt like Seattle has been closing in on me. There have literally been times between my teeny parking space, my apartment and sitting in traffic, it’s like it is all getting smaller and smaller and I’m pushing the walls with all my might to keep them from crushing me. So, naturally in my mind: I need to run. And not stop running for a very long time. And if I can’t run, how can I put a band-aid on the situation by booking as many trips to get outta dodge as possible? After all – running at full tilt is always easier than actually facing a problem, right?? [Unwillingness to show vulnerability. Wrong. I know.]

The thing is, I couldn’t figure out why I was feeling this way. Sure, I could blame it on all the change that’s been going on to me and around me. But there was something else that I couldn’t put my finger on…

For the first time in weeks, I let myself relax a bit on Saturday. I forgot how amazing it is. I had woken up at the butt crack of dawn [not to an alarm. it’s just my mojo nowadays], got some miscellaneous tasks done and then I walked down to the coffee shop a few blocks from my place. The same coffee shop that I’ve been to the last several weeks.

Being someone who always needs to feel productive, I brought my laptop, with every intention of working on the meal plan for Thanksgiving. Instead, I pulled out a piece of paper and began to write, but what came out wasn’t much of a menu.

[Actually, not much other than “turkey, gravy and stuffing” made it once pencil-hit-the-paper.]

I found I just kept getting lost in thought and reflection in the most amazing way. And as I sat there thinking, I realized I wasn’t totally mad at Seattle. I was placing blame because I was more-than-a-little frustrated with myself. 

As much as I am a planner [read: moderately-OCD], I love to explore and discover. And I love just walking around without always having an end in mind. Some of my favorite days in Europe were spent just wandering the streets taking it all in. Basically, taking the time to live out the lyrics that I love.

And over the past several months: I stopped.

When I first moved to Seattle, I made a rule: you can’t say no. So I ended up in some very random situations [a bar called the Morgue south of town with no windows? Terrifying, but hilarious looking back. Dance clubs on Capital Hill? You can’t un-see things, people. Playing on a flag football team? Holla! Salsa lessons? Sign me up!] And when I didn’t get an invite or people weren’t available, I forced myself to go explore. Perhaps a jaunt through a new neighborhood on a Sunday. Or  a new local watering hole. Bumming around Ballard. Frolicking around Fremont. PBR in Everett. George Strait and Chris Young in Tacoma. Whatever I hadn’t seen yet, I tried to get out there and fall in love with my home all over again, even if I was flyin’ solo.

As I sat back and reflected Saturday afternoon, I realized the simple reason I stopped: I got sick of doing it alone. So as the city started to wear on me, it slowly got smaller and I stopped seeing the beauty in it. When I am ridin’ solo, it sometimes feels like it’s more about the destination than the journey.

After all this ‘realizing’ Saturday, I texted one of my nearest and dearest who is never afraid to tell it like it is, and asked ‘okay, but I’ve done it solo for years and it’s never stopped me. Why stop now??’

Her simple response brought tears to my eyes: “Cause it’s tiring.”

Nailed it.

I realized that while I love meeting new people and exploring and discovering and pushing myself outside my comfort zone, when you’re doing it alone a significant portion of the time and trying to get to know new people, and build a community…it takes a LOT [a lot] of energy. Especially for someone with some serious introvert tendencies in a city not known for it’s warmness. [Deny it all you want, Seattleites: the freeze exists.] I often need someone to give me that extra push to get out, toss the plan out the window and go. And I don’t always have that here.

Simply: it’s tiring.

When I look back on a few of my favorite days in Seattle, one was an August afternoon with someone I had met only a few weeks before. This person = not totally a planner. So I did my best to go with the flow. [My guess, if I could ask this person now, is that they’d say I asked too many questions in advance. I did my best, people.]

What started as lunch and box car races [a first for me], turned in to a tour of rooftop bars in downtown that I’d never been to, overlooking the city, the water, and randomness that often is Seattle…and I saw the city in a whole new light.

I remember smiling that day in a way that I hadn’t smiled in a really, really, really long. time: big, openly and often. And feeling freer than I’d felt in a really, really, really long time.

It wasn’t grandiose. Or spectacular. But I cannot lie…it re-energized me and I would have never done it solo. And having a partner in crime, experiencing parts of the city through their eyes, in that moment, meant everything.

There’s a lot of the PNW I haven’t explored yet. Leavenworth for Christmas. Whistler. Mount Rainier.  Friday Harbor. And so many more. And yes, sometimes it’s tiring doing it solo, but with a huge list of journey’s waiting for me, seems like it’s ’bout time to lose the excuses and run free for a bit, eh?

Darn you, Target.

This evening, I went to Target. Always dangerous, but I was armed with a clear list: face wash, parchment paper and some travel sizes for upcoming, well… travels.

 

I meandered through the store. Paused every now and then. Browsed the card section. Giggled at a few and added them to my cart for some September and October birthdays. [Happy early birthday, fall-birthday-peeps!] Discovered some new kettle corn that looked amazing. [Darn you, kettle corn]. Managed to avoid any new clothing items. [Win!] And no new books [Didn’t even let myself go to the entertainment section, thankyouverymuch. Apparently I occasionally have self control.]

I got to the register and cashed out. $140. Meh. Not great, but honestly, not bad for a LB-Target-run.

I get lost in thought on my ride home. [Ohhh, look at the pretty view of the city! Nice work, Seattle.] Sing along to some tunes. [Country, obviously.] Ate some popcorn. [Yea, like THAT was going to make it home without getting opened.]

…you know where this is going.

As I am two minutes from my apartment, it hits me:

I JUST SPENT $140 AND I DIDN’T BUY FACE WASH.

Darn you, Target. Darn. You. You. Win. AGAIN. 

You know what, I take that back. Kudos to the psychologist that Target has on staff. Whatever you’re doing, it’s obviously working. And I hope you’re getting paid a whole lotta money. 

[andpsihateyou.] 

 

I Roasted a Chicken.

It’s been a year, give or take a few days, since the Transformation Challenge. That time where I revamped my approach to eating, gained a whole lotta confidence and a whole lotta strength, and thanks to my gym and Simply Real Health, I learned how to, like, actually cook.

Looking back, what I ate pre-challenge was kind of pathetic. I thought I was being healthy, and I knew my body well enough to know that it didn’t like certain things. But I was eating a heckuva lot more processed sugar and salt and junk than I ever realized. And perhaps partaking in a few more evenings “out” than I realized, which meant a lot of french fries and wine with a side of salad.

[True story. I love me some salad and I love me some french fries. Why not just order both??]

I won’t go in to the reflections from the challenge, cause I’ve already done that. All I’ll say is that it has literally changed my whole life. No exaggeration. It forced me to learn a skill that terrified me previously, but with a little nudge, support, and guidance, I learned this whole cooking thing. Trust me, I’m no Ina or Emeril, and I won’t be appearing on Top Chef anytime soon. But after a year, I know I can hold my own and have learned a lot of the basics.

I now LOVE meal planning [hello Friday night relaxation!]. I read the Family Circle, Rachel Ray and Redbook magazines my grandma sends me for recipes. I search websites like goop.com [yes, I read GP’s website.], food52.com, paleomg.com and Martha Stewart for new ideas. I love discovering new meals that are super delicious and easy to make. I love sharing recipes with friends. And I love cooking on Sunday afternoons. I love taste-testing along the way, and learning about ways to make recipes more healthy. It’s me-time that I carve out each week, and even though it is sometimes a little rushed between activities, it has become very, very important to me.

My friends were skilled cooks long before me, and were seemingly never really afraid of the kitchen. When one of my besties caught wind of my new-found interest, she immediately sent me some of her favorite recipes…including one that terrified me: a roasted chicken.

Her instructions were simple and straightforward. But I was paralyzed. Roasting a chicken!? That’s fancy. And hard. And scary.

Fast forward several months: I travel down to Texas to see said friend and her adorable-beautiful-little-baby and she says “by the way, while you are here, we are roasting a chicken.”

[She knows me all too well, and knew I wouldn’t jump this hurdle solo and without a hand to hold.]

Okay. This was happening. No turning away now. Facing a challenge head-on was way cheaper than changing flights. So here goes nothing…

In my mind, this was an all day task. I was rather anxious on Saturday thinking “shouldn’t we start the chicken? how long does this chicken take? is this like a turkey where I need to baste it all day?”

[Yea, these thoughts actually happened.]

When the time came, I did the appropriate cleaning (ew.), strategically placed a few items in the poor chicken’s rump, and set it in the oven, all to her perfect and patient instructions. We set the timer for 90 minutes and she said “okay, that’s it! Want to go for a walk with baby?”

[Walk? We can’t go for a walk! We have a chicken in the oven! This is a big deal! How can you go for a walk with a chicken in the oven?!? Can M watch the chicken? Does he need to do anything while we are gone?! THERESACHICKENINTHEOVEN!!!]

So we went for a walk.

And when we got back and the timer went off, she handed me the meat thermometer and said “stab between the thigh and end of the breast. If it’s not at 180, we’ll give it a little more time.”

Huh. That’s it?

So I stabbed. I read. And I pulled the chicken out.

Ladies and gentleman, not to toot my own horn, but TOOTFREAKINGTOOT: it was awesome.

I learned how to cut the chicken, save the leftovers for broth at a later date, and we stuffed our faces. This may sound ridiculous, but it was one of the highlights of my vacation, and a moment  I will not soon forget.

As soon as I got home that Sunday, I went out and bought me a chicken. And then I roasted me a chicken:

[Had to take the picture for proof. See, mom? That’s my kitchen! And my delicious chicken!]

It was so empowering, and so yummy. And without a little nudge, and taking some baby steps to learn the basics, I’m not sure I would have ever, ever have done it. But it was so worth it, and it’s opened up a whole new world of recipe options.

Whodda thunk a little challenge a year ago could open do many doors?!?

Now I need to get up the courage to make the “broth” part of this whole equation…stat. Cause those ‘leftovers’ in my freezer are a little creepy.

*xo. LB

ps. Special thanks to EH for encouraging me and her patience.

pps. For those of you who know how to roast a chicken, and how easy it can be, feel free to laugh.

ppps. I cannot lie. Whenever I read “I roasted a chicken,” I think of the scene from Dirty Dancing where she’s all like “I carried a watermelon” and I say it in that same nerdy voice in my head. And I giggle. Perhaps it’s a sign that I’ve watched that movie a few too many times…

Hey, 23-Year-Old-Me: Listen Up!

Hindsight is always 20/20 right? So it’s easy to look back and say, ‘gosh golly gee, I wish I would have done XYZ differently.’

Someone once told me something that has stuck with me for years. I’d like to share their words of wisdom with you today. Ready?

“Nobody likes a 23 year old.”

Ha. What??

At the time I thought it was hilarious. I think I was 25 or 26, so my sister was just entering that ripe ‘ol age of 23, and I’m sure we had just fought about something ridiculous [as sisters never do, right?].

I asked him to explain his theory. It went something along the lines of this:

At 23, you think you’ve got it all figured out. Or at least you think you’re supposed to. You’re a year or so out of college, getting on your feet. And you’ve got this “I’m going to take over the world/I can do no wrong/I’m a smart college grad attitude.” You’re scared to admit you’re terrified because the real world isn’t what you thought it would be. You’re on your own, without all your friends down the hall or in the apartment one block over and you don’t know what the heck you’re doing. But  you don’t want anyone to KNOW you’re clueless, so you either put up walls or pretend like you know it all to hide that fear. It comes across as ignorant and annoying. Therefore, no one likes a 23 year old.

Huh. Looking back on my 23rd year, he’s probably not far off.

I remember having an attitude. I remember being lonely. And terrified. And thinking “why the heck don’t I have my WHOLELIFETOGETHER?!?!” But he was right: I didn’t want anyone to know. So I played it off the best I could and probably came off as a total bi-otch. Oops.

So, 23-year-old-LB: listen up. I’ve got a few words of wisdom I want to impart on you several years after the fact. I’m imparting these on you now, because you know what? You’ve still got a lot of learning and growing to do. And when you think you’ve got it all figured out, the world’s going to chuckle and remind you that you don’t. Take heed and remember the following:

1. Stop worrying so much. [This one’s self explanatory. Just stop, okay?]

2. Along that same line, specifically stop worrying about ‘being an adult’ so soon. When I turned 23, I was living in an adorable house that my parents and I were fixing up. As a newly minted adult, I thought that meant I needed to have the perfect yard, all of my finances lined up, [including a retirement account chock-full], a Costco card, and apparently a mom hair cut. It was bad, people. Bad. [Shame on my friends for letting me wear it that way for longer than one DAY.] 23 is a time to figure it out and HAVE FUN. Stop trying to be so grown up. Trust me, it will happen in time. [And you’ll regret that hair cut…]

3. Be proud and be confident. I’ve spent a lot of my life struggling with confidence – around my intelligence, personality and looks. [It’s like a trifecta of doom.] But at 23, I could eat almost anything and it would barely show the next day. Sister, enjoy that now because that whole “moment-on-the-lips-forever-on-the-hips-thing” comes true one day and you’re going to have to work really hard for it in the future. Be proud of who you are. Be proud of where you came from. And be confident in your decisions, even if they may not turn out the best in the end. You learned from it, right? Good. That’s all you can ask of yourself.

4. Things aren’t going to work out the way you want or expect. But remember: you aren’t worrying about being an adult yet, so just chill. Sometimes the bigger plan is just saying “not now, child.” Have some patience. Don’t fight it.

5. You will slowly turn in to your parents. It’s inevitable. One day you will grab a cup of coffee and read the news over breakfast. Or be an early-to-bed-early-to-rise person. Or you’ll enjoy oldies music. [Or heaven forbid, Jimmy Buffet.] Or you’ll go home for a summer holiday and realize you and your mom bought the EXACT SAME PAIR OF PANTS at White House Black Market. But you know what? Your parents are pretty freaking amazing. So just got with it.

6.Running away won’t solve your problems. [Neither will running really long distances when you have knee problems, for that matter.] But when the time is right, moving away may help/force you to deal with them. You’ll know when it’s right. Trust your gut.

7. You’re NEVER going to have it all figured out. But as long as you know that, it’s okay to keep trying as long as your willing to enjoy the adventure along the way.

8. You’re not going to be financially stable for a long time. But nevereverever stop busting your *ss to follow your dreams. At some point, it will click.

9. No one else has it figured out either. Do your best. Stay true to yourself. Take a deep breathe. And in the brilliant words of Dori: “just keep swimming.”

I say this to you, 23-year-old self, because 31-year-old self needs a friendly reminder every now and then. And even though you weren’t always enjoyable to be around at 23, you’ve got the opportunity to change that every day moving forward if you just keep smiling. And swimming.

 

 

Writer’s Block.

There’s a gap of a month from my last entry that I’m not okay with…

I’ve got stories and theories and great ideas and creativity on my mind. Thoughts running like crazy the last month or so. But I can’t get them out.

They’re stuck. I’ve tried the ear-shake-right-when-you-get-out-of-a-pool-thingy and they just sit. Tough little buggers.

I’m not sure why they don’t want to come out, but I think it’s cause they are [read: I am] scared. I have done so much lately. Grown so much. Experienced so much…from elation to sadness and everything in between. I have been reminded of what a community feels like. Been at the peak of confidence and the depths of insecurity. And I am sharing because I’m sure at some point in your life, you have felt the same.

For me, whenever I start to feel a little insecure, the 14-year-old with a headgear comes out sometimes. Or the 18-year-old with her mouth bound shut. You may remember her? The one who couldn’t get a date to prom? Perhaps for you, she (or he) was acne covered. Or not grown in to his/her new figure yet. Or just downright awkward in his/her own right. Regardless, we all have had those moments and whenever our world goes a little awry, they come back to remind us of our insecurities.

Yes, headgear-brace-face is long, long, long [long] gone. Thankfully I’ve got people to call me on my bull*ish. The one person outside of my family who saw me bandaged and wrapped and swollen less than two days post-surgery said to me the other day something along the lines of: ‘you know, it was way worse in your mind than it was to any of us. You were still you…’

Fact. I was still me. [And that? Is what friends of 20+ years are for.] The real slim shady didn’t go anywhere. I just hid her for a little while.

I started this blog because I had stories I wanted to share. Because I didn’t want to hide ‘her’ anymore. I always manage to find myself in the middle of awkward situations and people always say “how does this stuff happen to you?!?” or “is that seriously what dating now is like?!?” or “you need to share that story because you cannot be alone in this!” So this was a way to find my voice and my love for writing.

But I’m scared of showing weakness or admitting mistakes [probably shouldn’t have included ‘imperfections’ in the title, eh?]. I have a friend who started a blog [here] and who introduced me to this whole new world of fashion and lifestyle bloggers. Damsel in Dior. Cupcakes and Cashmere. Saucy Glossie. I was fascinated by them because of their willingness to be photographed. Their ability to share their style so clearly. Hell, I admired they HAD style since it’s something I’ve never felt I had. And to that point: their confidence. It’s just one I don’t possess.

In starting this blog, my hope was that if I could touch one person with a story – be it a boost of confidence, a ‘you’re not alone’, a kick in the pants to pursue something, or the opportunity to let go of something in the past based on my life lessons. If I have done that, than it has served it’s purpose.

But that’s not enough. [Is it ever? I’m so high maintenance.] I want to continue to do that. I want to be inspired. And inspire others. Release insecurities. To let the good, bad, ugly and drop-dead-gorgeous shine through.

Thank you friends and family for your continued patience as I forge my path and thank you for reading about my imperfections. Most of all, thanks for letting me be….me. By letting me ramble about what’s going on in my world for a few moments.

*xo

Sometimes I Don’t Listen

Imperfection confession: sometimes, I just. don’t. listen.

My mom often shares stories of my childhood that usually go something like this: as soon as I was able to move, I’d go towards the shiniest [read: most dangerous] object in the room…apparently usually a light socket, with my finger out. They would pick me up, place me across the room, and no more than five seconds later, I’d be heading towards the light socket again.

While I’m not 100% confident that story isn’t mildly exaggerated, the gist is probably spot on. I believe Einstein said that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again expecting different results. I’ve done some things over and over without paying attention to the results or realizing I’m going in a circle. Sometimes, its worked out okay. Other times, I’ve gotten burnt. Bad.

I’d like to think I’ve gotten smarter over the years. Or perhaps a little less stubborn. [Stop snickering, mom.] But I am still one that has to learn the lessons in my own time. [Can I blame it on being a Taurus??]

Thank God my parents are patient, because over the years they’ve had plenty of opportunities to say “I told you so.” Instead, they provide advice when asked and may nudge me in one direction or another, but at the end of the day, always allow me to make my decisions – good or not-so-brilliant.

Maybe it’s age. Maybe it’s those who have stuck by me over the years and called me on my *ish when I needed it. Whatever it is, I’d like to think that I’ve started to listen to my gut more when it tells me something is ‘off.’ That I’ve started to listen to my brain when it tells me ‘you need a break.’ Or that I’ve started listening to my heart more when it screams ‘RUN!’ in a variety of relationship settings.

Unfortunately, a few weeks ago, I didn’t listen. I was having a bit of a woe-is-me moment, and instead of listening to my body or my mind, I pushed through it. After all, working out is one of my happy places. And I had paid for my gym for the month (needed to use my sessions, right?!) and I had paid for the race I signed up for (waste not to run in it, right?!). So I pushed it. I woke up the morning of the race, feeling tight in my legs from a bootcamp workout the day before, and mentally and emotionally tired and knew I was playing softball that evening. But I got to the starting line, and the adrenaline-happiness kicked in.

Honestly, it was probably the best race I’ve run in terms of time. I got in a zone and just let it all go:  the things that had been bothering me that week, the disappointment I’d felt or the homesickness that had been nagging at me. I just ran. I had forgotten how much I loved running – music in my ears providing a little distraction and road beneath my feet. And I felt like I needed to prove something….maybe to myself. Maybe to someone else. I don’t know. But there was nothing going to stop me.

Unfortunately, by the end of the race, my knees let me know: they. were. not. happy. And my body was all like “dude, WTF? You’re not like, 24 anymore.’

So I went and played softball that night. And then went to bootcamp Monday. [You see where this is going, right?]

And now I’m in pain. And limping like an ol’ fool. And unable to do some of the things I love [long walks, boot camp, etc.] until my knees stop being so angry with me.

If I had advice to give to my younger self, it would be: stop, collaborate, and listen. [Vanilla was a smart man.]

In all seriousness: this was a good reminder that my mind and body are smarter than I usually give them credit for, I don’t need to prove anything to anyone, and the ‘shoulds‘ get you no where. You can save yourself a whole ‘lotta trouble and pain in the end if you just LISTEN.

[Also, since I was the dumb*ss that did this to myself, please feel free to laugh when you see me hobbling down the street. I kind of deserve it and can totally take it.]

*xo.