Whiskers in the Sink

For years I have prided myself on keeping a tidy house, making sure all dishes are drying on the rack before bed, not leaving for work with clutter strewn about, and never letting the laundry hamper overflow.  I've been used to a schedule of refrigerator cleaning on Monday, dusting on Tuesday, sweeping on Wednesdays and Saturdays, and so on.  In addition to the cleanliness, I've spent a number of years priding myself on the concept of "my space is my space and no one else's...except maybe Indy's...on a really good day".

 
I've been trepidatious for this month to come around for awhile -- dreading the reminders from Novembers past, worrying about slip-ups in my eating and workout glory, turning 35 without achieving "x" goals or "y" accomplishments, and replacing human contact with that of Pine-Sol, Swiffer, Lysol, and Mr. Clean himself.  So this morning when I began my usual routine of stumbling out of bed and into the bathroom through a bleary-eyed haze, I was momentarily taken aback at the whiskers in the sink.

The guy I've been seeing, no... the man who has completely captured my heart stayed the night in Astoria last night so he could be picked up more easily to head out to his annual college reunion for the weekend.  His pick-up time scheduled for much earlier than my eyes deign to open (6am), he clearly showered and shaved in a too-early rush leaving behind a few traces in my sink.  Without knowing, he brought to the forefront of my mind NOT stressful memories of 2012 trying to get back to NYC in the wake of Hurricane Sandy, NOT chilly autumn evenings spent ordering takeout and watching "La Vie En Rose," NOT frustrations of being told I need to put my running sneakers in the back of my closet.  No, this morning's vestiges brought back a conversation I had with my best friend in November 2006 when I broke out on my own and began making a life for myself.  I distinctly remember saying, "being alone will mean no more whiskers in the sink."  At the time that was my half-joke/half-realization way of saying my bathroom will be clean because no one else will be there.  But over the years, it's something I've actually missed.  It's a sign that I'm not doing this alone.

I've dated guys (Lord have mercy have I dated more than my fair share...), and none had the interest, the comfort, or certainly the familiarity to shave in my bathroom.  And now not only did this perfect complement complete a basic grooming ritual, but he did it with ease, while I slept in the next room.  Most importantly... I let him.  I happily let him.

French memoirist Francois de La Rochefoucauld (say that 10 times...) said, "The greatest of all gifts is the power to estimate things at their true worth."  Pretty sure I got an incredible but unexpected gift this morning in the form of those little whiskers.  This month is gonna be pretty great.

Francois de La Rochefoucauld -- super hot mustachioed wig wearer

*Note A: Today (November 1st) is Author's Day.  Maybe it's a sign I should dabble again in my love of writing.  Yeah, I think it is...

**Note B:  Below is a picture of me and my Andrew.  For those of you not connected to me on Facebook, pretty sure it's time to show him off.  I think he's gonna be around for awhile.

If you're happy and you know it, write a blogpost

When your parents name you Joy, you are imbued with a powerful emotion.  You're one of those few words that falls into the fourth definition of noun -- person, place, thing, or IDEA.  You're the very ideal idea that people strive for.  Every report card states, "Joy is a joy to have in class."  Every professional you meet initially wants to work with you to have that sense of contentment on a given project.  Every guy you date anticipates bliss from the outset.  How can you have down days when you're the very definition of happiness?

Well, gentle readers, shocking though it may be, even gals named "Joy" have down seasons.  September through January were pretty tough on me.  I have no desire to vent all my grievances on the worldwide web or be a Debbie Downer, but I've had a few queries about where I've been so I wanted to share.

That Ain't Me

To roll on through this (yep, I'm quoting "Alabama"), I'll make this quick:

• I don't like when friends are sad.
• I don't like when friends are sick.
• I don't like when mothers are sick.
• I don't like when dogs lose their hearing.
• I don't like when jobs pass over people for promotions.
• I don't like when my country doesn't have standardized healthcare.
• I don't like when bigots hurt people I love.
• I don't like when I can't run to defend against said bigots
• I don't like when my physical limitations... well, limit me.
• I don't like when break ups occur (even when they're necessary).

So there's my season of down in a bulleted list o'ten.  Also I started a new job, signed up for Mark Fisher Fitness Snatched (watch out for updates on this), and got a sweet new tattoo (complete with Eagle #2).  None of those were downers... just wanted to throw them out there!!

In the end I love my name.  I love that it's hard to be sad for long when people are shouting synonyms for happiness at you all the day long.  Why I think people are shouting at me is a whole other issue...

"Joy comes from that connection to others."

That's a line from the documentary "Happy".  I dig it.  Thanks for connecting with me, gentle readers.

Joyous Anniversary

Today's that day.  Ya know... that one I used to hate.  The one that used to cause panic attacks.  The one that I deemed a year ago today to be a celebration rather than a downer.  Yeah, that one.

November 6, 2006, changed my life forever.  It's the first act break in my story.  And November 6, 2011, was the second act break.  We'll just call this a Shakespearean type of play with multiple arcs and scenes... the kind that seems to go on forever but each new section only makes the ones before it make sense.

A lot has happened in the section we're sitting in right now.  A lot I haven't known how to share outside of my private journal.  A lot that seemed vulnerable and scary, yet amazing and perfect.  A year ago I embraced the Joy I met 5 years prior.  And I'm proud to say that she and I (with the help of some pretty awesome outside forces) have created one heck of a surprisingly healthy 3rd act so far.

November 6th is also Election Day this year.  I was out at 6am to be #7 in line to vote.  I love this day.  It's so emotionally charged, and it never fails to take me back to elections past and where I was, who I voted for, why I voted that way, etc.  It's like a big day of nostalgia.

My voter card this morning

1996 Clinton victory speech in Little Rock... I was about 100 feet from this stage.  One of the best nights of my life.

To celebrate this new relationship I've learned to develop with myself, I'll be heading down to Florida this weekend to run a race.  Don't expect too much out of the race because I've screwed my knee up.  It'll definitely be a walk/run, but I'll have a kickin' run mix and will be crossing the finish line with amazing friends.  Then I plan on spending a few days in the Florida sun, grazing my way through the Food & Wine Festival, wearing a birthday button (which is just next week, people), and getting teary over the Wishes Fireworks show that never fails to remind me that all my wishes will come true.  Dramatic?  Oh, absolutely.  Am I ok with that?  More than you know.

Best Fireworks Show EVER.  Bring it, Blue Fairy.

Happy Pakistani Independence Day

August 14th

Rust proof paint is invented.  Oregon is organized by Congress.  Gustave Whitehead takes the first powered flight.  Social Security goes into effect.  The last US public execution takes place in Kentucky.  Not one, but three blackouts occur in the Northeast.  And Pakistan gains independence from Britain.

Oh yeah... and the cutest law-abiding Astorian I know was born.  In fact, on my calendar (which was clearly hi-jacked) it reads "My Birthday, Fool."

Yes, indeed.  The boyfriend turns 35 today, and while he's not a big birthday kinda fella, I'm certainly glad this Leo was squeezed into the world -- much like Alana's older sister Chick-a-Dee will squeeze her new best friiiiieeeeend out hopefully on next week's episode of "Here Comes Honey Boo Boo" (if you haven't watched this, you must... it's a glorious trainwreck).

Birthday Boy, you make me smile.  You make me laugh.  You push my buttons.  You keep me in check.  You're incredibly good to me and even better for me.  And I can't wait to use your birthday presents I got you... (do I know how to think things through or what, gentle readers??)

These guys were also born on August 14th (the most famous gambler/gunfighter/dentist and our favorite Christian who went on vacation with us)

(I only put the pic including me to show the muddy mess this birthday boy created... totally worth it and amazing day)

Stressful Summer

Summer is half over and needless to say it's been a little stressful.  Some things at work changed and change is always awkward.  My health has been... well, it's been stupid.  I had a little setback on the neuro front, and now I'm on some dumb new meds that are taking some getting used to.  Being in a romantic relationship is definitely challenging when dealing with summer schedules.  Heat waves suck.

HOWEVER...

Here are some awesome things about the summer of 2012 that allow for de-stressing:

Including a Hantz, a Boogie, a Jani, a Razorback, a Coach, and a Chen-Bot

Including Mia Michaels, which is sure to produce tears

Including an Altar Boy, a Greek goddess, 2 Taylors, and John Carter

Sun flares at the Frying Pan (and their signature sangria)

Including a Phelps, a Lochte, and 2.5 weeks of awesome

And a beautiful city

When those de-stressors take hold, I realize that I have a great job that I truly love.  I have amazing progressive doctors who give me meds that suck just to make me better.  Being in love is wonderful (who knew?!) especially when the dude is pretty awesome (and hilarious to boot).  And the heat wave has periodic breaks...like the upcoming weekend.

Here's the rest of the summer being all downhill, less stressful, and just all around easier.

What a Lady

A year ago I had just returned from a trip to Arkansas, where I was so fortunate to be able to spend some time with my great grandmother, my Mamaw B. My dad had forewarned me that she may not recognize me, but when I got to 36th Street, it was as if nothing was wrong at all -- family in and out of the kitchen, on and off the porch, and back and forth between boisterous and thoughtful. At one point Mamaw got tired and said she was ready for a nap but told us to not let her departure keep us from visiting. I helped walk her into the bedroom where she took my face in her hands and said, "I pray for you and your happiness every day. I just want you to know that." These are words that I have cherished for the past year more than you can fathom.

(Remember when I was blonde??)

There was a moment at her funeral that hit me hard. She never really traveled, she was never loaded with money, she was never defined by her career, she only loved one man, but her legacy was extraordinary. The overflowing room where her life was celebrated, filled with flowers and laughter and friends, was beautiful. And I wondered, will I have that? Am I on a track to touch that many lives for the good? Is my playful life really making a difference? Or am I just flitting about from moment to moment as life hits me? And I realized that’s what she meant… “I pray for your happiness every day.” An unsettled life can be loads of fun, but it’s not truly and deeply happy.

Her presence in my life, even from 1200 miles away, through the hustle and bustle of NYC is profoundly missed. It's funny. After I returned from her funeral (which was a trip I debated whether to make and am so glad I did... those few days were some of my best memories), I kept thinking about just how lucky I am to have had such a force to follow. I'll never be a mother to 4, grandmother to 16, great grandmother to 32, or great-great grandmother to 26. I’ll never be a pillar in a small community. I'll never be able to say I lived in the same house for 73 years. I'll never sit on my porch swing while telling my granddaughter from NYC that I've figured out the drug-dealers’ signs across the street (plant on the porch = open for business; no plant = keep driving). I can, however, show care for my family and friends the way she did. I can strive to make the world a better place and hope to succeed if only a fraction of the way she did. I can stand up for what I believe in while never making people with differing opinions feel bad or stupid or less. I can sing at a moment's notice just because the mood strikes me. I can make peanut butter cookies. I can wear fun hats and endless smiles. I can love.

One year ago the world lost the best person I ever knew, but we’re somehow still celebrating her life. I went on Facebook this morning, and was taken aback at just how many people had written about their love for this woman, funny stories about her, and just how much they miss having her in their lives day-to-day. What a life! What a lady…

(One of my favorite places with one of my favorite people)

**Click here for a copy of her obituary.  And here for my thoughts last year.**

Welcomed Predicament

I’ve been in a predicament. Granted it’s a predicament that I am not remotely complaining about. The past few months my calendar has been full of guests, opening nights, and RuPaul’s Drag Race (yay, Sharon!!), but a decent chunk of my down time has been occupied by a new and unexpected adventure as well. This blog is entitled “EnJOYing Life, Love, and Adventures in NYC,” but I’ve been in a quandary about sharing any of those three for fear of jinxing things, for fear of over-thinking things, for fear of pushing this adventure to its limit, for fear of "Being Alive."

I mentioned him here. He’s a version of George Bailey meets Roger Sterling (and I do so need a Roger in my efforts to morph into Joan Holloway). He cheered me on at a race in the snow.  He created a dessert based on my favorite foods with no recipe. He had food delivered the day after I had to make a trip to the ER for over-swollen tonsils (I know, I know, I need to have those removed). He takes me to the opera. He buys me macarons and braves Times Square to bring me coffee. He lassoed the moon. He makes me laugh.

So I’m ending this predicament today. I’m choosing to share this unplanned, exciting, and whole new portion of my adventures with you, gentle readers.

Like… next week. We’re going to this little piece of paradise, and I can’t wait to tell you all about it:

Welcome to the next chapter…

Cracking Wrists

There’s a preacher in North Carolina who gave a sermon this past Sunday admonishing his congregation to crack the wrists of their male toddlers who might show signs of too much femininity. He gives them a special dispensation to punch the boys in order to man them up. He also allows for girls to play sports as long as they are pretty some of time too.

Those who know me well know I’m no fighter. In fact I lean toward pacifism more often than not. I will make an exception in the case of Mr. Sean Harris. My prayer for him is that this fear provoking his hatred and violence be personified and paid back to him ten-fold.  I'll provide a special dispensation... because apparently we can just do that.

The rage that is surging within me is fueled by a mixture of fury that in 2012 we still deal with this, disgust that the congregation heard in the above clip finds it both funny and agreeable, and mostly intense sadness. I’m terribly sad that close personal friends of mine had to hear this kind of tripe growing up. I’m heavy-hearted knowing that this clip might send them back into painful memories of families who don’t accept the way God or the Universe or whatever you believe in made them. I’m tearful at the plausibility that these people who have changed my life for the better just by being amazing don’t get to share that with their families fully, if at all.

And with that, I share this. I’m putting my southern, lady-like sensibilities to the side for 3 minutes, 36 seconds. To Sean Harris and all the other hateful, sad, disillusioned, so-called Christians, this is for you.  Sometimes a girl just has to let the bluntness of music speak for her.

Hey. I Did It.

I finished a half marathon.

I’m not sure where to begin or how many details to give you, gentle readers.  So I’ll start from the beginning.

Remember this?  That was the day I wanted to run away, but I had no idea where to go.  So I dug into the back of my closet and found some sneakers.  I put on a winter hat to keep out the cold.  I gave myself some pigtails, and I went out in the heart of Washington Heights.  I disregarded doctors who said I couldn’t do too much cardio.  I didn’t care that medical professionals said I should constantly mind my heart rate and blood pressure to avoid having seizures.  I had to run.  So I did.  I ran until I couldn’t breathe.  I ran until I didn’t feel anger or pain or anything.  I just ran.  I got about a mile and thoughts started creeping in,

(This was me that first run back in 2006.  My tweezers were clearly packed away...)

“Maybe the doctors are right.  Maybe I shouldn’t do this.”

I turned around and walked home.  On that mile walk back down Fort Washington Avenue from Fort Tryon Park, those thoughts changed,

“Stop it.  You can do anything you want.  If you want to run, then run.  You are in control for once.  Don’t let that go.”

This became my motto:

I decided I was going to eventually work up to running a half marathon.  I had no idea how long it would take.  I didn’t care.  I needed a long-term goal in the back of my mind.  I needed something just for me that only I could work toward.  I knew I would have a number of impediments along the way, and I didn’t care.

I went to the doctor for one of my many check-ups.  Dr. Rein is a former runner herself.  She was supportive but echoed my realistic fears that this just might be too much.  She gave me signs to watch for, and gave me words of caution that unlike 100% healthy people, I would need to hold off on overly stressful days.  When life caved in, I wouldn’t be able to relieve the stress with a nice run in the park.  I would have to take those days off and keep my heart and brain in check.  My other two doctors were not completely in agreement with Dr. Rein.  The neurologist (who I find to be a imbecile with a God complex anyway… and I subsequently no longer see) said I needed to stay on the meds I was on which would not work with a training schedule necessary to complete a goal of running a half marathon.  My gynecologist said it would be ok on some fronts but that overall it might not be a great idea on others that I won’t go into here… (TMI, Joy)

I went online and downloaded the Chubby Jones podcast for Couch-to-5K runners from iTunes.  I can’t say enough what a believer I am in this system.  If any of you want to run a 5k, or a 10k, or just get your butt off the couch, do.this.program.  Start tomorrow.  Start next weekend.  But do it.  It’s a 9-week to prep you for a 5k. 

My 9-week program took 9 months.  And I still had to walk some of the race.  There were days of stress I had to take off… in fact there were weeks here and there of stress.  There were days of seizures as I weaned off the meds.  There were also days of frustration at my progress, or lack thereof.

Shortly after I did that first 5k in Central Park, I had a gyno check-up like I too often do.  I didn’t get great news.  She (and her horrific bedside manner) told me I’d need to stop running for awhile while I went through a little treatment plan to rid my bizness of some bad cells and polyps and cysts.  I was disheartened.  She saw my face fall and assured me I’d be able to pick it up again once we got this taken care of.  Of course she also told me that my lacking sex life was not helping the situation and I needed to get a boyfriend.  (See? Horrific bedside manner... again, TMI, Joy)

I left her office upset on a number of levels.  But the biggest disappointment was that I had become accustomed to running in the evenings.  I felt good about doing something for myself for the first time ever.  So I planned a trip to Paris in the meantime.

A few months later I was able to resume the running.  However, I was nearly back to square one.  So I picked up my trusty ipod and downloaded Chubby’s newest C25K podcast.  This time it only took about 4 months to get back to a 5k status.

Fast forward to the summer of 2011.

I started training for a half marathon scheduled for the end of September.  I used Jeff Galloway’s program.  Then I got an awful case of strep throat.  I lost some training time and went to the doctor in August.  She said I couldn’t do the half.  It was going to be just a bit too much to push in the coming weeks.

Trying to do what I was told, Katie and I ran a 5k through Animal Kingdom, and I vowed to myself to continue the half training.

Needless to say, when I posted this, I was more than a little terrified.  And in the two months following, my life was consumed with running.  When I went to Arkansas in January, I ran.  When I had opportunities to go see Oscar nominated double-features with my peeps, I ran.  When I had the chance to go out on dates (which I'll fill you all in on that area of the ole life soon), I ran.  I ran when I hurt, I ran when I was tired, I ran when I had fever.  I even hurt my back in December and ran against the pain with the help of my physical therapist.

And on February 26th, I finished a half marathon.  It was hard.  I was in a lot of pain throughout.  I wanted to quit a couple of times.  But when I crossed that finish line, I said "Hey.  I did it."  And then I cried.  With Selby and Sal on the sidelines, Katie at my side, and a number of you in my ears through my iPod playlist, I finished a half marathon.  Me.  The girl who's sometimes physically broken.  I finished 13.1 miles.  If I can do it, anyone can.

Seriously.  I have the best friends on the planet.

*To read Katie's take on the weekend and see a few more pics, go here

2011 And All That That Implies

I gotta admit, folks, when I think about 2011, my initial reaction is to say it wasn't the best.  Work was tough.  Dating was dumb.  Running was hard.  Indy was expensive.  Theatre was boring.  Fashion was just ok.  Food was an enemy.  And my body tried to rebel a few times more than I'd like.

Then I went back over my calendar when putting the birthdays and anniversaries onto the new 2012 one (which btdubs is an Arkansas calendar from the fabulous Roberta Sims showing a different glorious Arkansonian scene each month... yes, I just made that word up).  After that, I scanned this blog and other writings done in 2011.  And I realized that I learned more in 2011 than a lot of my other years combined.  So here's my list:

1.  Work is what you make it.  When I have a bad attitude, or more importantly when I let others' bad attitudes around me set in, of course work days are longer and less productive.  Work is also just that - a job.  My career could change with the next flick of my pen or stroke on my MacBook.  I found this quote on a blog I try to read somewhat regularly.

Don’t lament so much about how your career is going to turn out. You don’t have a career. You have a life. Do the work. Keep the faith. Be true blue. You are a writer because you write. Keep writing and quit your bitching. Your book has a birthday. You don’t know what it is yet.

Until then I need to just go with it and realize that without this current job, pics and memories like these and so many more would not have happened...

And even this one.  At least I make myself laugh, right?  (Look how ANGRY she is!)

2. Dumb dating gets you to a point that you look for good dating. It makes you reevaluate what you want, what you don't want, and the level of vulnerability required. Lord knows I don't have this one figured out, but I can't say the experiences in 2011 didn't help in my journey. Because they did. The year I spent not completely sitting back, but not completely hunting actually did me a world of good. Remember THIS, gentle readers? Yeah. Still true. And remember THIS, Mr. Right? Yep. Pretty much the same. Although I would add that bringing small gifts to dates earns you major points. Just sayin'...

The same blog from above provided this thought-provoking piece of advice:

When you meet a man in the doorway of a Mexican restaurant who later kisses you while explaining that this kiss doesn’t “mean anything” because, much as he likes you, he is not interested in having a relationship with you or anyone right now, just laugh and kiss him back. Your daughter will have his sense of humor. Your son will have his eyes.

Insightful, Sugar.  Very insightful. 

3.  Hard running leads to things like THIS.  The other night I ran half of the half at a great pace for me.  I'm less than five weeks out, and I'm terrified.  But I'm excited.  A year ago I couldn't have done this.  And five years ago??  I can't even go there.

*The compromise I made with myself to stop running from important things led to running toward a healthy life.

**And if you run hard enough, a cute guy might treat you to the below for use on your aches... fo sho.

4. Indy was expensive, but seriously... look at her.  Even when she's being bad like she is here, she's worth every penny.  Her undying love and affection absolutely makes my day nearly every day.  Period.

5.  Theatre and fashion were just so-so.  However, we had these 2 things which kinda blows that theory out of the water...

*"Book of Mormon" is one of the best shows I've ever had the pleasure of paying $155 for.  And I'd do it again tomorrow

*Need I go over the glory that was the McQueen Exhibit at The Met?? 

 In search of the coffee table book if anyone is looking to get me a gift :)

2011 showed as most years have that I can't say enough (I'm sure you guys get sick of hearing it but it's my personal blog about my life and adventures so deal) about just how freakin' incredible my friends are.  Not generally overly emotional, this is the one area of my life that just brings tears to my eyes at the sheer fortune I've hit with these people.  I can't even list them all here, but you know who you are.  From helping me with computer problems when I do dumb things, to joining me for random concerts and chain restaurants, to requiring a bulleted list of the highlights of a great date, to drinking Sangria whilst watching trash tv, to insisting I stop yelling for no reason when I get mad at myself for not being Superwoman, I have a stupid awesome group of people surrounding me.

All that to say (and imply) 2011 had some great lessons, some great art, and some great memories.  And now 2012... here we go.

Life Blew Up

It does that sometimes around these parts.  But I'm here.  And I'll write soon.  Like tonight.  Stay tuned, loving gentle readers...

Meeting Joy

It's always funny to me how dates stick out in my mind.  I know they do with everyone, but for me it's an area of fixation.  I can remember exactly where I was, what I was wearing, who I was with, who I was dating, if I was dating, what color hair I had, et cetera on many of the most random days of the year.  Call it a good memory.  Call it being nostalgic.  Call it being "Rain Man" for all I care.  That's who I am.  I'm the girl who remembers dates on the calendar.

November 6, 2006.  A day that has plagued me for the past five years.  A day that I rarely, if ever, discuss. But starting today I'm going to remember it as the day that I met Joy.

It's the first day I lived alone.  It was my first day as a single adult.  I was terrified.  I was panicky.  I ate a whole pizza and later threw most of it up.  It was the most hopeless and confused I'd ever felt.  It was my rock-bottom.

With the TV off, Indy at my side, and a nearly empty pizza box next to me, I thought about the events that had led me to that moment.  It was as if I were replaying a movie in my mind - one that I knew all the parts and scenes, all the costumes and lighting, all the emotions and dialogue.  I knew it by heart, but there was no way that it was real.  It must be a movie, right?  As I sat there feeling the real feelings of pain and confusion and frustration and irritation and so much more, I realized I was playing my own life and the choices I'd made, the choices I'd allowed to be made for me, and the reality that got me to November 6, 2006.

And I met Joy.  I didn't know her.  I didn't like her.  I didn't want to be introduced.  I certainly didn't want the stranger in the mirror to try and infiltrate life as I knew it.  At that point in time, "change" was a naughty word.  I much preferred my comforts, my salary, my closed heart, my closed brain, my stoic attitude, my solitude, my privacy, my control over something that wasn't mine to control.

Five years have gone by.  Each year on November 6th, I've shut everything down.  It's almost like I've clung to that day to relive something bad that happened to me.  I've allowed myself to be the victim in a movie where I should be the heroine.

No more.  Starting today - Sunday, November 6, 2011 - I will celebrate the fact that I FINALLY met me.  Yeah... it took me five years to learn me (and I'm still learning more every day).  For five years I've found things to be sad about.  And that's just dumb.

I have the most incredible friends.  I live in the most amazing city.  I am blessed with a ridiculously supportive and loving family.  I have a job I'm proud of.  I finally have red hair.  I'm the owner of the most hysterical and well-behaved dog.  I'm independent and girly at the same time (I totally moved 3 big pieces of furniture today while wearing a dress), and I actually like that about me.

Does that mean that I've declared every day to be awesome from here out?  Well, of course not.  I didn't fall off the truck yesterday.  It just means that November 6th is no longer a day of sadness.  In fact, as hard as it is to admit it sometimes, I'm happy for that day.  It's the day I took control of my own life.  For the first time.  I said "no more" to inauthenticity and not knowing, or wanting to know, myself.  I ripped off the band-aid and exposed a wound that took a long time to heal.  Now the scar is a semi-hidden piece of my character, yet part of what makes me the November 6, 2011 version.

Ya know, the authentic one.  The one with the nosering, the limited tattoos, the sometimes-weird clothing combos, and the insomnia.  The wanna-be runner.  The laidback one who should sometimes demand more from people but doesn't know how.  But also the one who carries her dog home in a pink blanket in an October snowstorm but fights against treating the dog like a human.  The one who cries at "50/50" because the main character has an awesome best friend.  The one who is insanely proud of her own friends including but certainly not limited to the two running in the NYC Marathon, the two who moved in together this month, the one building houses in Nepal for the needy, the one who's caring for a friend who lost a parent, the one whose life is a perfect balance of gorgeous wife/mom/friend/runner, and the one who took out-of-towners to a Brooklyn Burlesque tonight.

That one.  And she's awesome.  In fact, she might be the most awesome girl you'll ever meet (at least that's what she tells the boys...)

Babies of the Carb Variety

I joke a lot about the hated addition to my midsection by calling it my Carb Baby.  This came about when I started seeing a nutritionist a couple of years ago.  I started losing weight, feeling better, and beginning to understand about the fuel I put in.  Through some testing we found extremely high cortisol levels.  That combined with refined carbs, which are the foods I have a sometimes love affair with, created a super sexy tummy pooch.  Thus, the Carb Baby.

This is also an ironic send-up to a couple of things.  1) I can't physically have human babies without a lot of outside help and money, anguish and pain, and probable disappointment in the end anyway.  So theoretically no different from those of you who can, right?  2) My biggest fear in life as some of you know, Gentle Readers, is having someone give up his/her seat on the subway for me assuming I'm preggers.  This hasn't happened, but it's a constant fear and yet another reason to hate the Carb Baby.

Fast forward to 2011.

I've thrown out the bathroom scale as it only leads to more detrimental results with food.  I've tossed processed foods out of much of my diet (although not when I'm on vacay with the fam as my loving cousin Russ would be quick to point out).  I've been running like a fiend (btdubs... did the Wine & Dine at Disney October 1st with a great friend)...

...look at those awesome kicks I designed!  But I digress...

Pointless boy issues, The Suzz moving across the continent, random health woes that just proved irritating, Indy having surgery, and some work hiccups (including a tough fiscal year end) haven't stopped me.  In fact, they've somehow made me reevaluate what's important - spending time with friends, writing because it makes me calm, running because it makes me happy, finding boys without drama, having a good attitude at work, getting a good manicure, and enjoying the occasional French macaron.

And apparently that's working.  I had my annual biometric screening at the ole workplace, and I've lost 17 pounds without really even trying.  I knew the clothes weren't fitting, but I just looked at that as a reason to go shopping.  I guess running in Astoria Park and really focusing on that in addition to limiting those processed foods really does pay off!

Also I have a booty.  For the first time in my life, I have a bit o'tush.  I'm certainly no Nicki Minaj, but I'm a-ok with that.  I'm gonna thank the new running shoes for that (yes, they have my name on them)!

Let's do this, Carb Baby.  Let's see if we can part ways once and for all.  Maybe if I don't waste so much time hating you, I can make you end... or at least shrink.  I'm ok taking it slow.  It's kinda how I do.  No pressure.  Just know you won't be with me forever.