working for this...

december 14

i sat in tom's office yesterday morning weeping gently.

my hands tucked between my legs. sitting on the unforgiving brown couch, next to the worn velvet pillow.

tom sat somewhere between to-the-side-of and behind the large three-sided desk.

we were in the room i don't care for. it's too large--the room--with a mammoth, faux-wood-panneled desk, over-saturated light, and a scent of ketchup that's sometimes-there, sometimes-not.

but there i sat. weeping. gently.

i feel like i'm banging my head against a glass wall, i told tom. i feel like things can't continue on this way. something has to change. my life is stagnant and i'm so filled with the need for change that i might just explode. but i can't imagine that anything will change. ever. 


it's near then, tom calmly said.

his words hung in the air for a moment. buoyant and light. tangible almost. i wanted to reach out and pocket them. but there was no need. because they were true. as soon as he spoke them i knew them to be true. and truth can't be collected in one's pockets. it simply is.

why do i always cry now, tom? i pressed on. is it the residual of banging my head too many times against a glass wall?


it's good. it means you're experiencing things. deeply. allowing yourself the experience. probably in part what makes you a good actor. 


ah yes, that acting thing that i don't really talk about.

tom, sometimes i ask my gut things, i admitted sheepishly. and i know to listen to the answer that comes back. always, i must listen. because my gut is the wisest and truest part of me. it is the part of me that's lived a thousand lives already, that knows everything, that sees everything, that sees the end before it's even begun. it is my inner shaman. it is where God resides. my gut is a little piece of divinity. people say true love resides in the heart, but i know better. and so, well, Tom, i've been resisting asking my gut this  question--this question of "should i act" because i'm afraid of the answer. i'm afraid it will say no. and that will be that. 


it's a funny thing when you're life turns out different then you thought. a hard thing. when everything you've planned for shifts and morphs and you fall down the rabbit-hole. and it's terrifying. and not so nearly mystical as alice led you to believe. and you wonder if it's time to move on or circle round and there are so many options and that hall with doors is long and and those doors are aplenty and you can't imagine which one to walk through so you just stand there. frozen. terrified.

i asked the question recently, tom. whether or not i should act? i asked my gut. and the thing is... it didn't say no. it didn't return with the verdict i lived in fear of and yet...it didn't really give an answer at all. it told me i was afraid. and that that fear was getting in the way. but that that was okay. that i'd figure it out and it'd be okay. i'd be okay. 


and tom looked at me, kinda smiled and said, it believes in you so much it doesn't have to answer. it believes in you to the point that it'll go wherever you choose. it actually believes you can do anything--acting or not. 


i looked at tom in all of his infinite wisdom, felt fresh tears hovering at their own brink, turned my head and looked straight ahead, and said, well, that's a lovely thought. 


when what i really meant was well, that's everything isn't it. 


graduating from college was an exercise in losing faith. losing that little kernel of belief in my own ability. and as well as i am and far as i've come, i've yet to regain that.

so imagine my surprise when sitting in tom's office yesterday i realized it wasn't lost at all. it was there. patiently waiting for me to awaken to it.

and imagine my surprise when i came to understand that the one person i'd spent all this time fighting against, railing against--myself--simply loved me all the while--never grew impatient or frustrated. never accused me of being selfish or cruel. the one person who's love was infinite and almighty. who loved me with the power and force of the heavens.

alright. mark it down. december 14, 2010: the day i realized everything was gonna be just fine.

bubble, bubble (toil and trouble? nah).

i love champagne.

cava. prosecco.

this is not a secret.

i need no occasion. no excuse.

and i love the glasses in which to pour the bubbly.

in fact there is a cabinet waiting for me in new york.

it sits next to the couch in the living room.

it has dividers. probably meant for filing. but the sections are just wide enough--just tall enough for the long slender flutes and the shorter, vintage-inspired coupes.

yes, my roommates and i have a furniture piece dedicated solely to the housing of champagne glasses.

(is it any wonder we get along?).

i hadn't had anything to drink since arriving in utah at the end of june.

so on saturday night i made my way to the liquor store. picked out a bottle of pink bubbly and carefully unpopped the top (oh the sound of the cork coming undone!). i poured it into a fancy glass-cut goblet (the kind perfect for russian estates--perfect for checkhov plays) and sipped quietly as the conversation carried on around me.

i didn't need much. didn't need to drink quickly. hardly needed to go back for seconds.

and i though, there is something to be learned from this love affair with champagne.

you see i respect the champagne. i recognize its place--its purpose. and so i never overdo it.

now if i could apply this understanding to just a few other things (like ice cream and mexican food and cheese) it might change...oh you know, everything.

on why i don't drink diet coke (kind of). and a whole host of other nonsensical ramblings...

i gave up drinking diet coke a year ago last may.

last may?

i punctuate this with a question mark because i can't think of when exactly it was that it happened--the passing of diet coke from my life.

it's a funny thing when you stop drinking it. you still crave it but it never tastes the same. not even close. in fact it tastes just plane awful. and empty.

i started drinking soda water instead because i found the thing i missed most was the hit of carbonation.

yes, i said hit. yes, it is my drug of choice this thing called carbonation.

why did i stop drinking diet coke?

well, the fake sugar actually.

i could go on and on about how bad it is. about how the onset of wide-spread obesity in this country can basically be traced back to the introduction of artificial sweeteners. about how it actually makes you crave food (carbohydrates especially). jeffrey steingarten wrote a really interesting article for vogue about all this. however, where jeffrey failed is that he didn't discuss how artificial sweeteners actually change how the brain tastes sweet. suddenly real sugars aren't so exciting. and so we stop craving and eating real food. and this is, how to say... really dangerous.

look i'm not judging anyone who drinks diet coke. not by a long shot. i get it, i really do. this wasn't mean to be the point of the post. just the preface. so let me try again...

i have found soda water harder to come by here in utah. i have to be really forward about making sure i always have some in my fridge, i can't just run to the corner store if i find i've unexpectedly finished my last bottle of canada dry. it took me some time to learn this and because i often found myself without, i began to turn to the gorgeous silver frosted cans in the fridge bearing the emblem of the alter at which i prayed for a very long time:

it wasn't good the first can. nor the second. but after not so long it began to taste like itself--like really good. like leave-me-alone-i'm-having-a-moment-here good.

and this scared me. this was the start of the slippery slope. diet coke is my gateway drug. it leads to gummy candies and whole bags of tortilla chips and store-bought frosting (and i hate store-bought frosting, in fact i am diametrically opposed to it).

all of this--this long-winded-nesss--is to say, i've passed the diet-coke phase of my life.

in fact, i've passed quite a few phases now.

i'm past the point where i'm okay with dirty dishes being left in the sink. or where i'll sit down on the couch and just watch the E! channel. i think trashy magazines are precisely that: trashy. and i find value in cooking a meal. in eating real food. i like going to bed at a reasonable hour.

because somewhere in all these passed through and now past phases i'm learning a little something about growing up. and responsibility. and the fact that actions have consequences. and maybe i'm a little late to the party, but i don't think so, it all feels right on schedule.

i'm gonna be twenty-five soon. and i can't wait. it feels like a good age. i think i'm gonna have a big party. with an american-in-paris theme (the thought for that went as follows: 25--1925--the lost generation of writers--ex-pats in Paris). i think it's perfect--lots of stripes and berets and red-lipstick and a smorgasbord of cheeses, grapes, wines, and crackers. and champagne, who could forget the champagne?! yes, the party will be grand, the age will be grand. and life will move-on, forward.

you couldn't pay me to go back to twenty-two, the college years, and a sink full of dirty dishes. no sirree.

just before your weekend begins in earnest...

brittan claire posted about an article she found on mighty girl. and i fell in love with brittan'sideas about it all. so i followed the link to the mighty girl website where the full article is posted. and then i fell in love with the author: maggie mason.

20 things she wished she known at 20.

the whole thing is so spectacularly perfect. the freedom of judgement she encourages, the importance of failure.

i wish i could say i'd already checked several of these things off my list--been there, done that. but alas, i have yet to learn (i mean really know in my bones) most of them.

i'm nearing the twenty-five mark. and that seems like a big something. but at the end of the day i suppose what it really means is that i still have five years to enjoy my twenties.it's not too late to be young and carefree! five years to revel in mussing things up.

so my hope is you enjoy this as much as i did...

20 Things I Wish I’d Known at 20

A couple weeks ago, in my letter to 20-year-old me, I was congratulating myself on not having been photographed topless. A few days later, I realized that wasn’t strictly true.

My roommate Jen Rector was a photographer, and she took a whole book of very reserved pinups. I’m amazed that I lived in an apartment with a photographer and a full bar and we still only managed to do 1940s-style damage.

It’s a testimony to how cautious I was, which is a shame because your early twenties is a great time to revel in stupidity. Play beer pong with bourbon. Pierce your tongue. Climb on the back of a motorcycle in Indonesia. What the hell.

When you’re young; you don’t have to make smart decisions to make sound decisions. You’re still mapping the territory, so failure is the quickest route between idiocy and enlightenment.

These are a few of the lessons I wish I’d started learning a little earlier. I haven’t mastered them yet, but now you get a head start.

1. Consider the source. If you’re worried about someone who dislikes you, first ask yourself whether they’re an asshole. If you don’t like them, and they don’t like you, that’s not a problem. That’s a mutual understanding.

2. Get off the couch. If you find yourself playing hard to get, don’t pretend to be busy. Just be busy.

3. Don’t waste your time. If you have to play hard to get, move on. You’ll know when you’ve found a healthy relationship because it won’t confuse you.

4. When in doubt, shut up. Silence is a smart negotiation tactic, the best option when you’re processing how to respond, and always more productive than lying about what you’re thinking.

5. Don’t complain. Maybe venting makes you feel better, but letting off steam can also lull you into maintaining the status quo. Unfortunately, the status quo is pissing you off, which is why you’re whining in the first place. If you’re frustrated, turn that energy toward fixing your problems, not bitching about them.

6. Don’t obsess. Worrying is complaint’s ugly cousin. Either use that energy to change your situation, or relax.

7. Find an age-appropriate style. No one wants to see a 20 year old in beige slacks and a wool blazer. Buy trendy clothes, wear the slutty dress, do something ugly with your hair. Be part of your generation, so you can laugh at the photos later.

8. Be polite. It keeps doors open, lessens the potential for misunderstandings, and increases the odds of getting invited back to the beach house.

9. But defend your boundaries. When someone isn’t taking no for an answer, clarify what you want, and then respond forcefully. Being polite to someone who isn’t hearing you is naive.

10. You look good. There’s no such thing as the hottest person in the room. Everyone is attracted to something different, so just take those odds and run with them.

11. Being nice is overrated. In fact, “nice” is the least interesting thing someone can say about you.

12. Keep it to yourself. “She seems nice” is an excellent thing to say about someone you don’t like. Particularly in the company of people you don’t know.

13. Know your audience. When you’re telling a story and someone interrupts you, let them.

14. Let your passion shape your profession. You know that thing your dad says? “If work wasn’t hard, they wouldn’t pay you to do it.” Please. There are professional rock stars, astronauts, puppy trainers, and bloggers.

15. Sex is personal. Don’t bother with one-night stands if they’re not your thing, and don’t judge people for enjoying them (or not). Waiting to sleep with someone doesn’t make you an uptight prude, and jumping into bed doesn’t make you a spontaneous adventure seeker.

16. Focus. The saying, “what you’re thinking about is what you’re becoming” isn’t just chilling, it’s a universal law. Be aware of how you’re investing your attention – including your words, and your actions.

17. Cut yourself a break. Don’t offer a running commentary on your own faults. When you do, the people around you listen. Give yourself space to change your character.

18. Don’t be intimidated. World travelers are just people who bought plane tickets. Pulitzer Prize winners are people who sit alone and write. You can break the most profound accomplishment down to a series of mundane tasks.

19. Choose good company. Ask yourself if a person makes you better or drains your life force. If the answer is B, you’re busy next time they call. And the time after that.

20. Enjoy your body. Odds are you’re more beautiful now than you will be again. Ask your roommate.

holy cupcake!

there are days when i feel like i'm actually regressing. moving backwards. undoing any progress in an upward and positive direction for my life.

but for every ten of those days, there's one where i manage to make a batch of cupcakes for a cast picnic. i (1) finish said cupcakes a full day in advance. (2) the frosting does not get everywhere, as it has in the past. and (3) i do all of this in high altitude {which, need i remind you, i am less than unaccustomed to}.

and i think to myself, kid, you're doing just fine.

okay.

i have arrived in utah where i will be for the next three months.

right now three months seems like an interminable amount of time to spend in a place where i don't really know anyone. in a room that feels awfully tiny, awfully white, and awfully far from home.

but the mountains are large and green and one feels like they might just reach out their hand and actually touch them.

so i'll let the mountains do their work on me. and i'll be okay.

even if i have to cry a bit along the way.

like yesterday. on the plane. because i don't know that i've ever been so frightened. or felt so far away from what i had once imagined for my life.

or like today. because i miss my parents (and some really darn good tex-mex food).

but parents (and lupe's) will be in texas when i return in september.

and new york will be on the cusp of autumn when i finally make it back.

and who knows where life will be. and that's the exciting part, right?

this chapter.

i've been thinking a lot about what i might call this period of my life when i look back on it in twenty years.

(because this is the kind of thing one must think about. {obviously}.)

and i have decided, after much consideration, that it shall be called:

the period in which i learn to blow air through my lips in all directions and manners of fashion as an attempt to keep myself calm.

(and find that alone to be completely insufficient. {obviously}.)

just ahead.

i went to see someone.

just the other day.

about my... future.

and at the end of our time together she looked at me and said, you have a beautiful life ahead of you.

and never have more comforting words been spoken.

a beautiful life.

she didn't say successful, or happy. contented or lucky.

but beautiful.

and that was just the word i needed to hear.

happy.

before you read: this post

is really a continuation of this.

i'm sitting in the kitchen now.

it's cool in here. spring air kissing the countertops.

i'm waiting for my water to boil. for pasta. i'm having pasta. with a little oil, cheese, and avocado.

and i'm happy today.

can you believe that? that i'm actually happy today? isn't that just so perfect and ridiculous and funny, and so exactly the way life is.

do you know the greatest cause of pain is the avoidance of it--the railing against, the attempt not to feel it.

i awoke this morning feeling lighter. because i was honest. with him. with myself. and compassionate towards the two of us and towards whatever tenuous thing we had created.

i liked who i was when i was around him. that's how it began. that was the first feeling. he created a space in which i felt comfortable to assert my independence and confidence. to be sexy and light. and attempt humor. he quieted my mind.

i made so many mistakes along the way. misinterpreted so many comments. expected so much.

but today i feel again like the person i was when all of this began. like the person he allowed me to be. (i have to remember to thank him for this).

only today do i understand what it is he wanted. and oh how i'd like to go back, retrace my steps, and try again.

ah, life!

i'm chuckling as i write this. because this is life. and i'm finally finding my head above the water long enough to laugh about it.

reason #983 how you know you're living in nyc and still figuring your life out

you commit yourself on a daily basis to figuring out how to best keep track of your finances.

today, it's in the ledger that you get at the bank (upon request).

or so i feel.

there's this line from the guernsey literary and potato peel pie society that i keep thinking about:

"What did he look like?" I asked, for I wanted to picture the scene. I expected it was a futile request, given that men cannot describe eachother, but Dawsey knew how. "He looked like the German you imagine--tall, blonde hair, blue eyes--except he could feel pain."

sometimes i think, just for today--just for today i will be the woman with the perfectly manicured nail beds who does crossword puzzles to completion and listens to this american life on a regular basis.

just for today i'll be the woman in the three-inch-pumps who woke at seven for her five-mile-run. and who can smile just-so and melt the heart of many-a-man.

just for today i'll be the girl who doesn't need months to warm-up to someone, for whom shyness is not a reality, but something read about in literature or dissected in art-house movie theatres.

who sits down to a meal. by herself--without four years of ghosts trailing just beyond her field of vision.

for whom sadness is a singular event--occurring intermittently at best. who can speak three languages and laughs sans snort. who cuts her grapefruit gracefully and and prepares her meals in advance. who always responds to emails and calls in a prompt fashion. who mails thank-yous the days she's finished writing them. by hand. whose handwriting doesn't deteriorate to scribble. ever.

who knows what day of the week it is when she wakes in the morning. and how much money she has in her bank account--wait, scratch that, who has money in her bank account.

but i'm not. i am not that woman. not today. not tomorrow. probably, not ever.

but today--today i can feel pain. and that's something.

understanding the bard. and bed. bed, too.

last night i dreamt of a man.

he placed his hands, open palms to my shoulders, equidistant on my back.

and they were clammy.

and this is how i knew he loved me.

and palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss.

and i awoke thinking my world would never be the same. sensuality and shakespeare elucidated by a single dream? ha, a mystical mind have i!

metanoia.

i believe it was during game two of the alcs championship--you know that five hour, ten minute game?--that my metanoia occurred (how's that for a word?).

i was sitting there watching the game, anxiety plinking (is that a word? oh well, is now) away at my oh-so-many-emotions, when i thought, hold up, stop. the story is already written. the answer has been told. if my boys are meant to win, they will win. no need to worry or stress, just sit back and enjoy the game. feel the experience.

the story is written.

already.

but that doesn't mean my boys got to ease up. they had to fight for the win--fight for their lives--every step of the way.

and win they did.

i've been thinking about this a lot lately. how somewhere out there i'm living a life that's already known. the answers are just in front of me, waiting. no need to worry, just enjoy the experience. but fight, fight through every step, scuffle, double-play.

the thing is... in baseball the answer is simple: score more runs than the other team and you will win. but how does one win in life--what exactly is one fighting for? and because the answer is ambiguous at best, it's hard to tell if you're attempting to re-write the story or just fighting for your life with more resilience and courage than you ever knew possible.

it's mucky. tricky. no clear lines.

more than a fort.

I came to visit one night. To make sure I could live here. We had drinks, my friend and I. And talked about life now, a year after school.

And then I took the red-line subway home, to my little pocket on the Upper West Side. I climbed into my too-small bed, in my too-small bedroom—my too small bedroom without a door--and I cried.

I cried for the all the things I imagined I was losing. I cried for failed expectations and the perpetual push away of that line—that demarcation of success.

And then I woke the next morning, washed away exhaustion and disappointment, and set about busying myself with all the tasks a move demands:

Telling the roommate. Letter of notice. Cleaning. Packing. Painting (oh the painting). To take the bed or not? Change of address. Weaning the wardrobe. Trips to Goodwill. Cajoling friends into helping with the actual move.

And all the while I was afraid. You see, I’d lived on the Upper West Side for five years. Two years in a dorm at 66^th street, followed by two different apartments at 104^th, and finished by my near-year stint at 80^th. A forty block radius, in which I conducted my life. A forty block radius in which I attempted to become an adult. And yet here I was hurtling myself a hundred blocks north of my-so-called-home.

It was a product of funds. Of not having enough to live in such a “prime” location. It was capitulation, this move.

And yet I found that as I ticked away all those tedious tasks, I began ticking away other things--things I’ve long talked about but never acted on.

I bought a bike. And went in search of the perfect swimming pool. I found it at 145^th and Riverside—I’m going tomorrow for the first time. I began to keep track of expenses and I (wait for it) did my taxes. And this idea of growing up, becoming an adult was suddenly an appealing notion. For the first time in my life (truly, the first time) it seemed thrilling, actually.

And so this move became about more than necessary funds, or the lack thereof. It was not capitulation, but decision. A choice. A change. An opportunity.

I spent the summer after my sophomore year of high school in Manhattan. Five weeks. I took the bus in every morning and walked thirteen blocks south to 27^th street. And the city revealed itself to me and I to it. And I fell in love with mutual revelation.

I have spent five years trying to rediscover that love, or to recreate it.

Washington Heights is the most topographically diverse area in all of Manhattan.

It is.

Before I moved up here I would throw this fact around, using it as currency—one of many justifications I employed to convince others that I was in fact excited to make the move uptown. I don’t tell people this anymore, I don’t need to, I don’t need to justify anything. But because we’re all friends, I’ll tell you...two blocks north of me is a park where back in day, good ol’ George Washington set up fort with the Continental Army during the Revolutionary War. Mmmmm…I hate to brag, doesn't that history just turn you on?

And the street I live on is hilly. It bends to kiss the Hudson river. The George Washington Bridge stands guard against the skyline. It is strong and constant. The bakery across the street sells a roll that reminds me of my two week stint in Cuernavaca—we’d walk into a panaderia with two dollars in our pocket and walk out with two brown paper bags of bread—it was a happy time when one survived on bread and milk alone.

I can always find a seat on the A train. And the apartment gets light. And I have a door!

The grocery store on 187^th is small and clean and wide with inviting aisles. It carries pumpking flax and ciao bella gelato. I could marry the grocery store! There are no crowds to fight, no throngs to move against. Fairway was always an experiment in tolerance and agility.

I love the relative calm here. The near silence. I love the ubiquity of bikes. Yes, the ubiquity of bikes! What a satisfying statement! And more than anything I love that it feels small and lush. It is a neighborhood. And I have found my Manhattan and mutual revelation is once more mine to unfold.

I loved Australia. The whole experience was divine. And yet there was no better feeling than climbing into a yellow taxi after a 20 hour sojourn, asking the driver to take me home, and for the first time in five years of Manhattan living, believing in the power of that word. Home.

I am home. And life is good.

the egg-carry.

field day circa 1995

so you want to know what i remember about my childhood?

everything.

we lived in a house. that we built ourselves. with the name fee scratched in cement on the upper-right-hand corner of the driveway. 

it was on a half-acre-lot covered in bermuda grass with no back fence. just barbed-wire and a pasture that stretched to the other end of paradise. every once in a while there were horses. and always there were cardinals nesting in the trees. 

our neighborhood consisted of only two streets and a series of water ponds and canals. 

i walked to school. down three houses. past the pond. up some stone steps. and through the gate. into the school yard i traipsed with a story on my lips and my mom at my side.

i played softball. and soccer. and did day camps and college for kids. there were play dates and pool parties and gymnastics and a children's theatre downtown.

odyssey of the mind? my dad coached the team.

my parents let me pick my pre-school. i went to the one that had the rocket-ship slide. and safari murals painted on the walls. 

and i went to public school. and i really don't know how i got so lucky, but it was as all public schools should be.

we sewed dinosaur pillows and had "live" wax museums. i was marie curie.

we hatched chickens and learned to hula dance. 

and of course...there was field day. and this was not just any field day. this was field day as it should only be done.

a full day affair. with painted-class-t-shirts. and yummy treats. and hoola hoops and balloon tosses. and races. short races. long races. it was a day in which childhood itself blossomed. 

and do you know what else i remember?

the egg-cary race. you know, the race where you balance the egg on the spoon and walk from one point to the next. passing it to a friend, who you are sure cannot do it as well as you?

that's what i remember--being sure, as i watched my friends precariously balance the eggs, that that egg was only safe in my hands. 

back and forth. back and forth i watched it go. and i watched my friends watching. watching the egg traverse the lawn. and i realized. i realized, they too thought the egg was safe only in their hands. even as i carried the egg, they too doubted. just as i doubted. and it became clear.

the egg was just as safe in their hands. and it was perfectly safe in mine. but we can't know what it feels like to be someone else carrying the egg. we can only know what it feels like when we ourselves have hold of it. 

this life of ours, well, it's our egg. and we're each responsible for our own. and those around us, watching us (parents, friends, and the like), sometimes (actually, often) they want to pick up our egg and carry it for us. because they think they can do it better. but they don't know the egg as we do. they don't know the soft spots and uneven surfaces. they don't know it's tendency to roll to the left, or wobble just before some version of a finish line. they have to trust us. and we have to trust them. and okay, sometimes it's best to let them hold our egg. or move it a few paces ahead. but at the end of the day we are the egg-keepers. all of us. lords of our own eggs. 

and it's never safer than when we grab hold of it (gently) and feel for the soft spot and note the flat surface and walk confidently into the future based on nothing more than what we're feeling. 

sometimes...

sometimes...my past seems more inviting than my future. because it’s known. what i wouldn’t give to be the eight year old who survived on boxcar children and goldfish, who built forts and gave tea parties, who believed in kissing her bears goodbye each morning. sometimes i wonder if I took a misstep somewhere. and if with that misstep I’m failing my eight-year-old self. i wonder if there’s any going back. 

but then, sometimes...i have brief, fleeting moments of clarity. And I know. i know that the best is yet to come. that my days of forts and tea parties are not over. that love, as i know it, is only the beginning. and that there are no missteps, no wrong turns. that every good day, every bad, every right decision, every wrong, will lead me to exactly where i’m meant to be.

photos via ffffound

and visualize.us

gym.

so ned's been better lately. and i've been more forgiving of him. 

we're learning to live together peaceably. 

and i'm beginning to think he's not such bad guy. 

he has good intentions. but manifests those intentions in very unhelpful ways.

and then there's gym. 

gym and i haven't seen much of each other lately. 

and while i know gym is a good guy--a good guy who's actually good for me...well, this girl has a thing for bad boys, ya know?

so i'd been thinking about the book club a lot lately. 

and this led to a dream about an exercise club (yes, an actual night-time dream).

 and i happened to mention this to my girlfriends at brunch last week. and they seemed to think this dream could become a reality. 

three reasons why:

1. gym is really good for all of us

2. this way a week won't turn into a month in which we don't see each other

3. a reason to not sleep in until noon

and so a dream, an idea, a reality was born. 

we met last friday. 

and elliptical and i had 45 minutes of oh-this-isn't-actually-hell bliss. 

and i got to talk to vic and carolyn about life a year after school. 

and then again this morning. and wednesday is looking very promising.

we have big plans. 

dates with central park. 

dates with my newly acquired New York City Ballet Workout DVD (Dancing on Thorns really rubbed off on me). 

and with the pool. pools are such a commodity in this city of ours. so water aerobics and laps and good ol' water fights are in the near future. 

oh. sigh. i can't wait.