Return of the Bookworm

I forgot how much I love to read.

When I was younger, I remember being such a bookworm.  If I wasn’t reading a book, I was attempting to write one.  During summer vacations, mom would take us to the library to get our summer reading books, and I’d always take out a few extra.  I remember one summer, the West Boylston library offered raffle tickets to kids for every book they read.  The walls were plastered with the great prizes like a Skip It and a bunch of other crap I’m sure my parents didn’t want hanging around.  I read so much that summer, I think I earned around 20 raffle tickets (we all know how easy it is to bribe me with things).   I wanted to win one of those damn prizes so badly– but I didn’t win a single thing! (Tiny disclosure: I do remember a few books being awful, so after a few chapters I skipped to the last one and read it until the end so I knew what happened.  Seeing I cheated a couple times, it’s probably best I didn’t win. You know, cheater cheater never beater.. or however it goes).

Although I didn’t get the Skip It, I was still a winner because the sneaky promotion only fed my love of reading. Sadly, somewhere along the line, my passion for the pages faded.  High school book reports became chores and I began to favor journalism over literature, which carried over into college. Nothing turned me off more from reading than my British Literature class and my three-hour long Shakespeare lecture. I hated it so much I tried to drop my English major senior year, but my advisor wouldn’t let me (Thank you, Fern Johnson!).  Once I graduated, I pretty much read nothing but magazines, save for the occasional book or two (and whatever was forced upon me in grad school).

Until yesterday.  I decided that after four years in this city, it was time to get a Chicago Public Library card. The first time I tried getting one, they asked me for a photo ID, some mail that was recently postmarked and a DNA sample. Ok, not a DNA sample but I was scarred by the experience and never went back.

Until yesterday.  It was much more pleasant experience this time. Maybe it was because I went to one of the branches in my neighborhood instead of the enormous, albeit gorgeous, building downtown with the gargoyles on top of it.  Within five minutes of arriving, I showed my proof of residency, signed a paper and was allowed access to the books upstairs.

It wasn’t until then that I realized I hadn’t been in a library for so long, I forgot how to use it!  I highly doubted that they had a card catalog, so I just walked up and down the aisles of books, grateful that it was well-lit with natural sunlight and didn’t smell like an old tomb.

After grabbing a couple books, I headed to get checked out.  I waited to get my card stamped with the due date, but everything is electronic now.  They scanned my books and printed me a receipt like I had just bought jeans and a t-shirt at the Gap.

I walked out the door proud because I had finally gotten my green (library) card.  And I kind of felt a little smarter, too.  As soon as I got home, I curled up on my big chair and started reading one of the books – and I didn’t put it down until way past my bedtime.  Although the book I was reading isn’t exactly War and Peace, it felt great to read instead of watch re-runs of Chopped and Castle like I usually do after work.

At this rate, I’ll be back to the library this weekend to get some more books.  Suggestions for good books are more than welcome!

Four Years ... Let's Celebrate with Pepto!

I’ve been in Chicago for four years this week.  Crazy how time flies.

I would have done something fun like toasted with some champagne except I spent the afternoon in the doctor’s office and was under strict orders not to drink alcohol or coffee.  No, I’m not pregnant – that would actually be impossible – I've just got severe acid reflux.

Monday night I woke up with severe chest pains and an intense burning in my throat.  I honestly thought I was having a heart attack. If there was pain in my left arm, I would have gone straight to the hospital.  After popping Pepto and three hours of wanting to cry, I was able to catch a few hours of sleep, sitting upright.  It’s hard to describe the feeling (I think I blocked it out), but it was one of the worst nights ever.  I’ve been lucky enough to never have acid reflux or heartburn before, so this sudden, intense pain was alarming.

I called the doctor as soon as they opened and made an appointment for that afternoon. I was still having the chest pressure, but not nearly as bad.  I started feeling a little stupid and that I might be overreacting about something lots of people get, but then I remember reading in my magazines that it’s better to be safe than sorry.  I didn’t want to be one of those girls on the pages who said she ignored the warning signs of a heart attack because it was only “acid reflux.” (The doctor told me later that severe acid reflux and a heart attack are often confused for each other, so I didn’t feel as dumb).

My “strong heart” passed all of her tests with flying colors, and I was sent away with a prescription.  I also left with an incredible peace of mind that was worth the entire visit. The pain has gone away, but the memory of how scary that episode was hasn’t.  Although I ended up with “just acid reflux,” I’m glad I followed up with a doctor so the next time it happens, I won’t panic. I’m just a 30-year-old woman with back pain, high cholesterol, dairy and corn intolerances and now acid reflux.  

Maybe on my fourth anniversary here, my heart was trying to send me a message -- life's short, where and what do you really want to be doing with your life? Guess that's something I have to think about, just not stress about, you know, so the acid doesn't come back to remind me to relax. 

To be continued ... 

I Got it from my Mamma

I always joke that as the middle child, I am a mix of my parents’ bad qualities – their high cholesterol (times two!); my dad’s impatience and competitiveness and sometimes unsportsmanlike conduct; as well as his fair Irish, burn-prone skin; my mom’s love for chocolate, dessert and anything containing a carb; her loud Italian family side; and her fine, thin hair.

But some of the best parts of me are also from them— my unique greenish eyes are a mix of my dad’s crystal blue peepers and my mom’s stubborn brown-eyed genes.  I also inherited my dad’s quick wit and love of sports and my mom’s ability to cook a delicious meal without following a recipe.

Although my dad used to work in a restaurant, I have yet to witness him cook anything more gourmet than hot dogs or microwaveable chicken wings (aside from his wicked grilling skills – which I did NOT inherit). So, I credit my mom and her Italian heritage for knowing my way around the kitchen.

Last week, I created some pretty sweet dinners using some Pinterest recipes as a base, and my inherited improvised cooking skills to make them my own.  The fact that I can’t eat dairy products also forces me to be creative when cooking – until you can’t have dairy, you have no idea how many things it is really in! 

Here are a few I'm pretty proud of: 

1. Homemade pulled pork in the crock pot and coleslaw from scratch

Last Thursday I took a mental health day and made the most of it by making some homemade pulled pork in the crock pot.  Most recipes call for a rump roast or a loin, but I only had boneless pork chops. I used this recipe, but improvised. I used four pieces of pork, half an onion and probably a quarter of a bottle of a sweet BBQ sauce. After seven hours, I pulled the pork and then let it cook in the juices for another hour. Definitely worth the wait!  I also used this recipe for coleslaw, which tastes so yummy! I slapped them both between two pieces of bread and had the best sandwich ever. 

2. Eggplant bake 

I had an eggplant to use up before it went bad so I decided to make an eggplant bake, without the cheese.  I found this recipe on Pinterest, but changed it around. I subtracted the cheese, and replaced it with a few sprinkles of grated Parmesan cheese in between the layers. Instead of following the directions of dipping it in flour and then egg, I dipped it in egg and then crushed up croutons and breadcrumbs mixed (I got that idea genius from my mother!) and then baked them until golden brown. I then layered them in a pie plate with homemade sauce mixture using tomato puree (the red pepper flakes really add an awesome kick so don't skip them). I didn't have all of the spices so I improvised a little (without measuring.. whoops).  It might be my new favorite way to make sauce. I don't know if it was this new sauce or the fact that it was missing cheese, but it really tasted like a nice, light eggplant dinner. I didn't take a picture of this, but it looked just as good as it tasted!

3.  Pizza with peppers and vegan cheese

I have been craving pizza so bad lately I couldn't take it anymore. I walked to the store, got the Pillsbury pizza crust and had at it. I cut up a green pepper and onion I needed to use before it went bad (I sauteed them in a pan with a bit of oil beforehand, another idea from my mom!), some leftover jar sauce and covered it with vegan cheese from Trader Joe's (soy cheese is gross and vegan cheese actually has the consistency of real cheese, but it's a little too liquid-y when it melts, but beggars can't be choosers). It did the trick.

4. Double chocolate chip cookies from scratch

Now this one I am especially proud of-- I've never made cookies from scratch on my own until last night when I whipped these up while watching my favorite TV show.  MY friend asked me to bring a dessert over to our "Bachelorette" finale party tonight and I wouldn't be caught dead bringing a store-bought dessert (thanks again, mom). I made half a batch and managed to make them without a hand mixer. I used a masher and some elbow grease to combine the butter and sugar and the rest of the ingredients. Of course, I added extra chocolate chips and rolled the dough balls in Christmas sprinkles (because I didn't have other ones and wanted to use these up). I made them smaller than recommended and cooked them for 16 minutes.  I managed to burn myself on the over, but the cookies tasted so good they were worth it! If you make these, don't be alarmed by how sticky they are. I baked them on a cookie sheet with some cooking spray (no parchment paper in the house) and they did not stick!

Hope I made you drool! I didn't write this post to brag, I just wanted to share some awesome recipes that are pretty easy to make and totally worth the investment! And if you know my parents, you know I've inherited their ability to pinpoint a good value :)

Going Postal

Dear US Postal Service,

I moved nearly a month ago and haven’t been receiving any forwarded mail.  Neither has my new roommate. We think you might be holding it hostage.  In my attempt to investigate the issue, I have come to realize why people favor online bill pay, Kindles/iPads and FedEx over the USPS.  Here are ten reasons why I am not surprised you are bankrupt or close to it:  

1. I have been to and/or called five different USPS numbers and locations in order to track down where my mail might be.  Everyone points me to someone else.

2. Several of you keep telling me it takes at least three weeks to start getting forwarded mail. Well, it’s been three weeks. 

3. And why the hell does it take three weeks anyway? I moved not even two miles away!

4.  I had to pay $1 to change my address on your website. 

5. I’m still waiting for the Easter card my mom mailed me in 2010. You’re the reason she no longer sends me things in the mail because she’s afraid you’ll lose them.

6. The person who answered your customer service line yesterday sounded drunk or like he just woke up and was sitting on his couch eating donuts or playing video games. I’d at least expect the person who answers the USPS 1-800 number to sound like they’re not distracted by something else when I ask my questions.

7. When I tried to call my old post office – which closes at 5 p.m. probably on purpose so normal people can’t go in and ask questions – the phone was off the hook and giving me a busy signal at 4:51 p.m. yesterday.

8. The post office I ultimately needed to call is not even listed on your website.  I got the number from a friendly (gasp) USPS worker at a different USPS location.  

9.  I know I’m just one of many millions of people that receive mail every day, but my mail is important and I would appreciate a little compassion.

10.   All I really want is new issue of Runner’s World (it’s the Boston Marathon memorial issue). If you can deliver this to me before June 16 so I can read it on the plane to Lisbon, I will reconsider this list.

Benjamin Franklin would be so disappointed.  Maybe it’s time to enlist Miss Cleo’s help to find my mail.   

Movin' on up and out

A couple weeks ago, I changed area codes.  I said good-bye to the only place I’ve ever called “home” in Chicago and moved to greener pastures with lots of rainbows.  Really, there are rainbows everywhere.  I moved to Boystown.

It was a very surreal period, packing up my belongings and getting ready to move. Mostly because I hadn’t had to do that in nearly four years, but I also always thought the next time I put my life into cardboard boxes, I would be moving back to Boston. This apartment was my longest residential relationship since college (I moves eight times in the four years after graduation and before moving to Chicago).

It’s crazy how time flies.  When I boarded my United flight that August night in 2009, I thought I’d be coming back a year later (even though two days later I was crying to come home). Ever since deciding to stick it out in Chicago, I’ve always played my life by ear, sometimes month by month (I guess that came with the territory being a poor grad student and then an intern for more than a year counting on false promises of a job). 

I’ve never really settled here or really put down roots deep enough that couldn’t be dug out with a month’s notice. I still don’t and won’t because I know I’ll end up back on the East Coast someday.  That’s not an if but a matter of when.  As I start to settle into my new place, I wonder if it is time to let go and just plan my life as if I will be here for a while – or at least for the next year. 

As I packed up the last of my stuff and taped the box shut, I stood in the middle of my empty room and closed my eyes (OK, I didn’t really but it sounds more dramatic).  I remember how bright and white the freshly-painted walls were when I moved in as my mom helped me stack the U-Haul boxes in the closet to get them out of the way as I unpacked – the same boxes I was stacking in the living room for the movers. 

When I bade farewell to my room, my voice echoed the same way it did when I said hello all those years ago.  We had some good, cramped times me and that room.

While it's weird to say goodbye and start over in a new place, I'm really looking forward to my in-unit washer and dryer and walk-in closet. 

I'm movin' on up. 

Just Keep Swimming...

Now that I’m officially 30, I found that it is high time I start acting my age.  Which is why I decided to do a water aerobics class at the gym on Saturday.  

Kidding.

I did the class because my injured back continues to permit me from doing any other exercise. This would be my first real workout activity other than walking on the treadmill in more than a month, which I celebrated as a victory.

I brought a friend with me as a metaphorical flotation device—maybe it’s a girl thing, or a me thing, but when I try something new and unfamiliar for the first time, I like to have someone there with me so we can support each other, a.k.a. laugh at each other or curse the instructor under our breaths.

Now, water aerobics classes have a certain stigma attached to them — they’re filled with old people, they’re not that hard, etc.  Well, I am here to tell you that everything you’ve heard about water aerobics is true:  

·        *       I am pretty sure we were the youngest in the class… by at least 30 years.

·        *       It was filled with older women (one woman was serious… she had hand wraps) and a few hairy old men.

·         *      Every time the instructor announced the next exercise, a choir of groans echoed throughout the pool.  The groans got even louder when she announced that we’d be doing said exercise for 45 seconds… apparently that is WAY too long. When we had to do one for a minute, some woman exclaimed that this was the longest minute of her life.

·        *      At one point the instructor got so irritated that people weren’t following the proper instructions or taking the class seriously, she slammed a water noodle on the floor and yelled at us.  Honestly, if I was the instructor I’d be annoyed, too.  The old ladies seemed to use this time as a social hour in the pool rather than a serious workout.  

The class wasn’t too bad until we had to do an exercise where, while straddling our water noodles, we had to grab on to the back of someone else’s noodle and form a chain.  Not only did I feel like a 10-year-old, but I was forced to partner with one of the hairy old men – let’s just say I grabbed back hair before his noodle.  That is the moment I mentally checked out of class and vowed never to return.  

To be fair, I didn’t put in 100 percent effort because I didn’t exactly get permission from my physical therapist to do this class. So maybe it is a really good workout, I just didn't get to experience it this time.  I’ve also never really been a fan of over-chlorinated pools filled with strangers. 

And most importantly, I really miss running. I think I’ll stick to walking on the treadmill – my water aerobics class days are over.  At least for the next couple decades. 

Getting Pants'ed

Most people wouldn't be psyched about fitting into their sister’s pregnancy pants.  Those people are not me.

When I was home last weekend, my sister approached me timidly and said: “I mean this in the nicest possible way, but I have some dress pants I wore when I was pregnant that don’t fit me anymore." She has shrunk since giving birth and asked if I wanted to try them on.

I said yes, because her pregnancy pants are a size 8.  I haven’t spent much time in size 8 pants since middle school, and even with my recent weight loss I’m still hovering on average around a size 10.  My size 12 dress pants have gotten a little baggy and saggy, so I didn't want to pass up the chance for free pants and the opportunity to skip the entire “shopping for dress pants” process, which is almost as bad as the “shopping for bathing suits” nightmare thanks to fluorescent lighting in three-way mirrors.

I tried them on — THEY FIT!  All four pairs fit like a glove, OK maybe a glove that’s a little tight, but I saw it as something to work towards. A slight muffin top reminds me to eat a salad instead of pasta or French fries for lunch, whereas the extra room in baggy pants seems to grant permission for me to eat with a little leeway.  

The funny thing is that one of the pairs of pants my sister gave me was the exact same pair I already own, but two sizes smaller than the ones hanging in my closet.  When I got back to my apartment and unpacked from my trip, the first thing I did was throw the older, larger pants in the Goodwill pile. It was a great feeling.   

Even better (for my waistline) -- my bags were so packed with new pants that I couldn't fit my cannoli in my carry on! Maybe I'll start aiming for my sister's pre-pregnancy pants next. 

A Real Heartbreak Hill

I've never wanted to run more than I do right at this moment.

I am still in shock after what happened at the Boston Marathon yesterday.  Patriot’s Day is the best day of the year in Boston— morning baseball at Fenway combined with the marathon and its throngs of supporters make for an electric atmosphere. Unless you've been there, it’s hard to explain.  Even though I've moved away, I still woke up on Marathon Monday excited to follow the day’s festivities online.

Four hours after the marathon began, the jubilation turned to terror. After hearing the news of the bombings at the finish line, the only thing I could think of to honor my city from a thousand miles away was to run a few myself. But I can’t because I have a back injury (which feels pretty minuscule in light of yesterday’s events).  So I read the news all night, changed my Facebook profile picture and wore my Red Sox hat.  It brought me a little comfort, as did the friends in Chicago who checked in with me to see if my family was safe.  This morning, the Chicago Tribune ran a touching tribute in its sports section.  I realized that if I can’t be in my home city, I am glad I live here.


Now that 24 hours has passed, the shock has turned to anger— anger that nothing is sacred anymore, not even a 117-year-old road race.  The innocence of this day has been snatched up from Bostonians and the running community.  People came to run— but some didn't walk away, while others may not be able to ever run again.  One of my friends, Mike, said it best when he said: “the day after a marathon your legs are supposed to hurt, not your heart.”

Another friend, Samantha, said it perfectly in a Facebook post this morning:  

“I know it's late, but finally I've thought of words I want to say. The finish line of a race is sacred. It's a place where dreams are both made and accomplished. Where you witness loved ones and complete strangers achieve their goals, with tears in your eyes. And I just feel how dare that sacred ground be attacked so brutally. This was definitely personal. Thinking of you Boston.”

All I could say after the bombs went off was “why would someone do this” but she said everything I have been feeling.  If you've ever run a race, you know the sense of community you get when you pin on your number.  The camaraderie is outstanding.  As is the freedom you feel as your feet hit the pavement and the wind tickles your face as you cruise along the course. 

It makes me sad to think that maybe I’ll never feel that way again. It made me feel even worse when I heard that the second confirmed victim who died in the blast was a 29-year-old woman.

But in the 24 hours after the attack, I have seen nothing but perseverance, fortitude and incredible spirit. The same spirit that lines the streets of Boston on Patriot’s Day. 

While our community has been infiltrated with evil, the moment will be fleeting and the good will far outlast the bad.  There is strength in numbers -- something I have seen at every road race I have ever been a part of.  Even in Chicago, halfway across the country from the attacks, impromptu runs have been organized to honor the Boston victims. It breaks my heart that I can't be a part of it or mourn with the city I love. But I do know this: like all injuries, our great city will heal and bounce back stronger than before. 

We will all run again.  

Light Bulb Moment

I recently read an article written by Harley Pasternak—trainer to the stars—that kind of made me stop and say “I get it!”  The article basically said that if you’re working out and not losing weight, there is a reason.  He wrote that 45 minutes of activity at the gym is not enough to make up for 23 hours and 15 minutes of lying and sitting around. 

For some reason, a light bulb went off in my head and I finally got why magazines and trainers and the like encourage you to get a pedometer and track your steps.   Maybe it was the way Harley outlined the reasons that I finally understood it.  I am one of those people who think that because I work out, I’m going to lose weight and can watch TV all night.

According to Livestrong.com, an individual should walk at least 5,000 steps a day (anything less is considered sedentary and inactive). Someone who walks 10,000 steps can burn up to an extra 3,500 calories a week—the equivalent of one pound.  According to this article, the surgeon general recommends taking 10,000 steps a day.

So I got a pedometer.  How hard could it be, I thought. I consider myself an active person so I assumed I was at least around the recommended steps per day.

I was wrong.

My walks to and from the train and home and work help boost my steps, but only to about 2,500 total for the day. So I needed to figure out how I was going to fill the rest.

-I started pacing around the L platform while waiting for the train to squeeze in some extra steps instead of just standing there.

-The walk from my desk to the bathroom is 100 steps, so I started drinking more water so I would have to get up and use the bathroom more.

-I started walked down to the cafeteria to fill my water bottle instead of filling it at the bubbler ten steps from my desk.  It probably adds at least 300 steps there.

-I have forced myself to take a break at work and walk outside at least once a day—whether it be for lunch or an afternoon stroll. 

-I used to allow myself to take the bus or L to a place if it was more than two stops away. Last week I walked everywhere, like when I went grocery shopping and met a friend for brunch.

All of these things I have done to increase my steps have also added to my quality of life. They’re also things I should already be doing, but somehow I have allowed myself to just get lazy.  I never considered myself a lazy person until I discovered that I was barely reaching the minimum amount of steps required each day.   I usually walk to run errands and take public transportation, so I can’t imagine how people who drive everywhere must be doing with this.

There has been only one day when I have gotten over 10,000 steps, but I am making it my goal to try as hard as I can to get there at least a couple times a week.  Fitting in that many steps is hard!  I’ve turned it into a game, and love to see the numbers go up as I walk.  I am a very goal-oriented person, so when I have a number I need to hit, I operate better.  

Once I get better at increasing my steps, I’m going to treat myself to a Fitbit pedometer (they’re pretty pricey but very intuitive) as a reward—right now I have a $19 one I got on Amazon (they have cheaper ones as well).  Something else for me to work for, and a reward that isn’t food related!

I encourage you all to get a pedometer and start tracking your steps to see how you’re doing. Or at least read Harley’s article to see why you should if I haven’t convinced you! 

FINALLY Winning the War

Kelly Clarkson’s song “The War is Over” is all I can think of to describe how I am feeling right now.  While this song is about a breakup, my elation pertains to my long battle with high cholesterol: the war is finally (almost) over.   

Last Friday I participated in a health assessment at work, and while a chunk of the results haven’t come back, the ones I was interested in did — cholesterol.  And I am more than happy to report that my cholesterol is now 201 (normal is less than 200)!

I've had high cholesterol since I can remember. When I had it tested for the first time at age 22, I sat vulnerable in my barely-there, raggedy patient gown as the doctor told me I was fat. When I started to cry, she shoved antidepressant samples into my purse and handed me glossy brochures of cholesterol medications. I refused to take medication despite my cholesterol being upwards of 260.

Six years later, in March 2011, I was lectured again (minus the tears).  My cholesterol was 241 and my doctor told me to lose ten pounds before she threatened medication.  I began chronicling my battle with high cholesterol and struggle to lose weight on this blog.  Despite best efforts and seven months of trying, my cholesterol didn't change much.  

It wasn't until this past fall spring when my number began to budge, dropping to somewhere in the 220s. There was still work to do.  I stopped eating processed foods and began cooking more because I enjoyed it and felt better about myself when I did.  I began running and working out for the fun of it, not to lose weight.  My pants started feeling baggier, but the scale didn't budge, so I put it away for a while. 

When I decided to check it a couple weeks ago, I had reached around 160 pounds (depending on the day, between 162.5 or 160.7) — a weight I haven’t seen since probably high school. And now, as I continue to stare at my test results from Friday, I still can’t believe I’m seeing numbers I never thought I would — 201, thisclose to the normal cholesterol zone.

In my post from March 2011, I wrote:  “Here I am, a month before my 28th birthday, and my cholesterol is still on the move... upwards. I needed to listen and obey, do whatever I could to fix it.” 

Now, here I am a month before my 30th birthday, my confidence is the only thing on the rise.  Although I still face daily battles — like slightly high LDL cholesterol — I am winning the war. FINALLY.  I guess this is proof that hard work and determination can pay off (and that it really does take a while if you aren't a celebrity).

Tim McGraw has a song called “My Next 30 Years,” which is about celebrating his age and focusing on the future. That’s what I’m going to do.  My next 30 years are going to be great, and what a better way to start than with semi-normal cholesterol.  

P.S. Thanks to everyone who has been so supportive and encouraging during this time -- and always. Love you long time. 

Baby Love and True Love

I have the most adorable nephew ever.  Life just always seems so much better whenever I am around him.  

This past weekend when I was home for a visit, poor little nephew was sick. But like the trooper he is, Baby D was in good spirits whenever the Motrin kicked in. On Sunday morning he was feeling a little better and woke up early. My sister didn't hear him, but I did, so I tiptoed into my old bedroom—his nursery—to hang out with him, excited to steal some Baby D and Auntie Kim alone time. I tickled his belly and made some funny faces until his whimpers turned into soft giggles. The best part was when I bent down to pick something off the ground, disappearing out of his sight, he started to cry. Once I stood up and was back in his sight, he looked at me and flashed me his infectious little (but big) baby smile. 

It melted my heart. I can still picture it in my head, and the memory never fails to bring a smile to my face. It made me so happy to think that maybe he really likes me, and that he loves me back, even though I only pop into his life once every six to eight weeks.

Although Baby D’s four months of existence has been short, he has made a huge impact on everyone’s lives—especially mine.  Thanks to him, I am now certain of one thing: I definitely want kids someday.  Having children of my own one day was always something I assumed I wanted and would eventually happen after I got married. But I was never 100 percent sure like I am now after hanging out with him. 

Although I'm sure I want kids, some days I'm not so sure I'll ever get married. I joked the other day that I was saving money for a sperm donor instead of for a wedding.  Of course there is a part of me that certainly hopes it doesn't come to that, but, hey, you never know. As I learned in college, the only way to fail is to fail to plan!  

I've come to terms with the fact that I might never meet Prince Charming—trust is a huge part of a relationship and I’m not sure I’ll ever find someone who is worth the sacrifice of handing over the little bit of faith and self-preservation that I have left. It’s not pathetic; it’s reality for those who know what I’m talking about. 

I’m a jaded, nearly 30-year-old woman with trust issues. My heart has been broken and betrayed so many times I don’t even know if it still looks like one anymore. Sometimes I envision it looking like a lump of play dough that’s been mutilated by a five-year-old—a traumatized clump of misshaped mass that might resemble one of those hearts Hallmark sells on Valentine's Day, imprinted with dozens of little finger marks from all the touching and squeezing and manipulating it's been through.

Please don’t confuse me for someone who is looking for sympathy or whining about being single and alone. I am miraculously OK with this (on most days). I take solace in what one of my Chicago friends--who is 34--told me during her wedding reception last December. She said she learned to accept that she might have to find happiness elsewhere in life rather than in a marriage she so badly wanted.  And she did.  And a few short months later, she met the man of her dreams and her future husband.  

  

Like my friend, I've gotten to a point in my life where I’d rather be in love with myself (in a non-egotistic sense) than put up with anyone else’s crap and waste my valuable time. Since giving myself permission to just be happy no matter what, I'm the happiest I've been maybe ever in my adult life. 

Happiness can be defined by many things—for some it’s a white wedding; for others it’s a night out with friends drinking too much wine, or completing a half marathon, or the look in the eyes of a baby when he smiles at you. That is an unconditional love I can get behind. The love between friends, the love I have for myself and the love I have for a tiny person.

My mom might cringe while reading this, but she has to know by now that marriage and men are not like they were when she found honest and lasting love with my dad nearly four decades ago. I want what they have someday but I’m not sure that exists anymore. I've kissed way too many frogs.

  

And while I might not ultimately find my Prince Charming, I will most certainly live happily ever after. Even if it's just enjoying the moments I get to have with my adorable nephew. But hopefully, one day, I'll have some with my own child.   

Thirty Life Crisis

It’s official … I’m having a Thirty Life Crisis. Although I’m still three months away from the Big 3-0, I’m beginning to recognize that I am entering a different, more adult stage of my life and need to start acting like and appreciating it.

It’s not that I drink and party like a 22-year-old or engage in irresponsible behavior, I just have been living like I’m stuck in my mid-twenties for a while and it’s time to graduate and move on. This phase involves scrimping and saving every penny, often forgoing guilty pleasures and splurges, a.k.a. treating myself right. Maybe it was the way I was raised—by fiscally-responsible and frugal parents— or perhaps I am still living like the poor grad student I was when I first moved here making nothing, and then a mere $10 an hour for more than a year.

However, even after I got my job last March, I continued to save and not treat myself to that pair of shoes or that shirt-- the only fun I allowed myself was spent on plane tickets home and the occasional night out on the weekends (when drinks are like nine bucks a pop, that’s a big night out for the bank account!). I guess it didn't help that I now had two degrees for which I had to repay the government, and that monthly number scared me a little.

But two weeks ago, I tore through my tiny closet and overflowing drawers and got rid of half of my clothes. Some of these things I had been wearing for more than five years. I also decided that anything I moved to Chicago with—when I was a tender 26-year-old—and was still wearing now needed to go. My fashionable roommates sat with me, rolling their eyes in disbelief at some of the stuff I had been holding on to. Some of my favorite comments included “that is way too young for you”, “that looks like something a mom would wear” (and not a cool mom), and “is that a shirt from Aero from 2006?!” (my roommate who is a manager at Aeropostale called me out and threw it out faster than I could explain why I had kept it and wore it as recently as September).

Since then, I’ve spent some money on more grown-up, yet fashionable clothes that a 30-year-old would wear. OK, so I got them for 60 percent off the sale price at LOFT, but it’s still a big step for me to buy a basic top for $14.



Something to rememebr and strive for.



I also decided that as part of my New Year’s Resolution I was going to start treating myself like the most important person in my life. This goes hand-in-hand with my Thirty Life Crisis, as I need to spend money on more grown-up things and act my age. For example, on Monday I got my hair trimmed and followed the “every six to eight weeks” rule for the first time ever (I was a more of every six to eight months kind of girl). And I quit my cheap ass gym and spent some extra money to join a really nice gym with more classes and fewer creeps.

These changes have already boosted my confidence more than I had expected they would. When my ex-boyfriend texted me that he missed me, I didn’t even feel the need to write back or give it a second thought. I love and respect myself more now than to do that. Something I would not have had done a couple months ago. Now whether or not these things are all connected, who knows. But I'm going with it.

I am looking forward to everything 2013 and the age of 30 will bring me. I just have to make sure I keep making the changes and acting my age. And embrace them as good changes and not a scary life crisis.

A New Year, a New Resolution

New Year’s resolutions are just like New Year’s Eve plans—there is so much pressure to do something great and make it count.  As I get older, I am happier each year to sit on my couch and eat homemade appetizers and shrimp while watching movies with my family like I did when I was five (but instead of juice boxes I drink wine). 

Last year was the first year I decided to give up the generic “lose weight” or “be a better person” wishes and made a practical resolution that was fun and trackable and fulfilling, both physically and emotionally. 

And it was the first and only New Year’s resolution I have ever kept: running 500 miles in 2012.  I reached 500.10 miles on December 11, 2012 and it felt great.  It didn’t really hit me what a cool accomplishment it was until the weeks after, when people told me how impressed they were and two people even made it their resolution for this year (including my roommate).  I finished 2012 with 506.66 miles under my belt, or I should say laces.

I want to do the same again for this year.  However, it’s now January 16^th and I am struggling to come up with the next great resolution. I feel a little empty—and unmotivated—without my Run-500-miles goal and my notebook I logged all of my workouts and runs in.  I want to do something similar but different for 2013. I’d push it up to 550 or 600, but consider it might be a cop out because I can’t think of something better.  I’m also a little concerned that I have been sick for a chunk of 2013 and unable to run at all this year. By this time last year, I had run a good 25 miles already.  Now that I am feeling better, it’s become a motivation factor, and I keep putting it off until I figure out what my next resolution will be.  I’m also afraid of failure or quitting because I'm bored--you know, been there done that kind of thing.

In other news, as a result of my running, I am now at a weight I haven’t seen in more than a decade.  It’s an amazing feeling.  And I didn’t get it by counting every calorie or writing down every piece of food I put in my mouth in a journal—those were too restricting for me and always backfired.  Instead, I focused on my goal of running and working out hard to fulfill my resolution and losing the weight (and continuing to eat right and experiment with home-cooking) was a happy consequence.

Although I am not sure what my new goal will be, I know I need one in order to stay motivated.  My resolution, whatever it may be, will also include blogging more often. Knowing that someone might be reading this holds me accountable for my actions and reporting progress.  

In the meantime, let me know if you have any ideas about what my resolution should be!   Happy 2013 everyone!