Exhale

I have been holding my breath for a few days now.

Kind of waiting to wake up from this weird state of surreal that seems to not be leaving anytime soon.

Let me just say a few things:

1.  I am, unfortunately, a valley girl. I am not proud of this, but manfriend has forced this concept down my throat; I do hate being cold, and enjoy a good latte. Shun me if you dare. With that said, metropolitan life suits me quite well. And although North Dakota is not the hub of all things modern in our fair country, Bismarck in particular does have a lot to offer by way of commerce and full scale suburban life.
2. I don't personally have anything against North Dakota, or Bismarck-proper. So if you are from here, or a place similar to here, I am not hatin'. In fact, I relish the opportunity to be separated from my familiar because it's good for the soul. What I do dislike, is being away from co-ops and hyper-local restaurants and JCrew. I will miss those things, and I am allowed to miss them, so just let me whine about it.
3. I am far away from home again. Not 'home' as in my "mother's bosom". Home as in, when I need a good wine-cry, I can walk across the hall or sweat it out at my favorite oh-so-familiar yoga studio or circumnavigate traffic with my eyes closed (Do not try driving with your eyes closed!). 

But keeping those three things in mind, the answer to the question of how I'm doing out here, is "fine". Not in the "I'm-actually-mad-at-you-so-you-need-to-keep-asking-until-I-tell-you-what's-up, fine." I mean the actual sense of the word in it's true form:

I'm downloading and processing a new place. I could have moved across the river to Minneapolis and I'd still be doing the same thing--only with more coffee and dinner date distractions in between. I like  love my apartment because SO MANY CLOSETS! (When you live in 50+ year old homes for 8 years, you do not take those for granted.) Moving itself is exhausting physically but I think it spends us mentally for all of the adjustments you have to make from your comfort zone.

But I'm starting to take hold of this new normal and embrace it for what it is- a real-life adventure. Not something out of the movies that's romanticized, but a daily story that will one day be a time period encapsulated as "The Bismarck Years".

The days are flying by, which seems weird to say but I haven't looked at the clock mid-supper before 8:30pm because there's a lot of stuff to get distracted with-- easy things like putting away more pans, and googling curtains or office chairs.

It's Wednesday, so it feels good to finally exhale. I'm not holding my breath for any surprises or some sort of elaborate Punk'd episode to unravel, but I'm here and this is my now.

On a related note, if anyone has any good butchers or places to buy good bacon, I'm desperately seeking a good thick-cut. #lowmaintenance #notsorry

Tally-ho!

I cried in yoga tonight.

It was a sculpt class and I was on my back sweating to hold a bridge pose, counting backward from 25 and my sweat gained the companionship of some welcome tears.

I've been intermittently saying goodbye to things here in St. Paul; friends, restaurants, familiar streets that know a special part of me in this chapter of my life. It has been difficult to say the least.

What exacerbates the stress, is my anxiousness to leave. I am giddy. My apartment is going to be awesome. I get to spend more time with my man-friend-- a luxury previously unimaginable, even recently as my friend Natalie will tell you that he's a figment of my imagination because he travels so much.

I will be home more. I am out, all the time, being the most hedonistic version of myself I've ever been as an adult. I've spent equal amounts in petrol and on food making friends, and attending events because I want to soak up every last drop of this glorious, wonderful state.

I learned my lesson when I moved from Duluth, that you will, more than anything, miss the little things. Coffee from your favorite spot, your favorite grocery store (because a good one is hard to find!), the way your street can be perfectly peaceful and make you feel so safe, so homey...or the way the sunlight hits the kitchen on an otherwise average day, making it delightfully noteworthy.

Those little things I've photographed in my mind (and on my phone) because although each day in itself is different, this "now" is something I knew would be exceptional from the very start. I have been spoiled and yes, blessed (even though I cringe at writing the word) these last months.

So when I was in class, going to my last Yoga Sculpt class for however long it takes me to get back to here, I cried.

25, 24... I can't believe I'm moving... 23, 22, Why is my spine so boney right now?? 21, 20.. ah to be young again, I wouldn't go back to being 21 if you paid me... 19, 18... I'm hungover just thinking about it; I was so naive, what did I know of the world? 17, 16... not enough to know I was clueless... 15, 14... I would have never guessed this would be my (and our [manfriend's]) path, but why not? 13, 12... seriously longest series ever... 

I've had a lot of people ask me if I'm excited, and I never thought I'd say this, but I am. Truly, and genuinely for this next stage. I sweat-cried my tears today and I hope they'll be the last (mostly because I hate goodbyes and want to escape like a thief in the night). But I think this next journey will be extremely nourishing to manfriend and I, as we pioneer the Great Plains, challenging creatively and just the right setting to ease into the bones of my late twenties.

It's going to be a fun ride. Bismarck, I'm comin' for ya.

Work-a-holic

I've had this kind of crazy recurring dream that I've been living in an action movie. Probably because the last few months of my life have been a hilarious montage of too much wine and a lot of brunch dates with my gal pals with a healthy --erm-- decent-- dose of sculpt classes in between. But as we all know, every movie has the roller-coaster of emotions that comes from too much bliss-- (sorry it's the Capricorn in me).

You know when you're going fast on a bike (or accidentally hydroplane) and you hit a big puddle and slow-motion slow-down--as in every other molecule in your body is still going super fast but your tires and sweet purple mountain bike decide they're going to take a chill pill underneath you? 

Well my involuntary slow-down was when my girlfriends asked me how many jobs I actually have. 

Kind of comical-- for most people the answer is like: 1 "real" job (a typical 9-5) and maybe 1 side job for shoe money or something leisurely. But I some how answered the question with not one, not two, but six. Yes. Six.

What in the...?

I know right???

*What comes after hitting the puddle is the inevitable reality of motion and the laws of gravity reminding you what's up ala pavement.*

I kind of panicked. Counting each role out loud made me think of all the commitments I'd made-- like I'd planned my senior semester all over again but just doubled my load for no reason whatsoever. Remember that chaos? Registering for EVERYTHING so you got in and then only showing up on day 1 to see if you hated the syllabus, the teacher or had a friend you could stick it out with? No? Just me? Oh okay. 

WHY DO I WORK SO MUCH??? Am I a workaholic? I met with this total babe from a PR agency last week and I was embarrassed when telling her about myself because I sound like I can't commit to anything since I commit to everything. 

I frequently tell my friend Sarah to slow down-- just because you can do everything doesn't mean you have to. I think the momentum of moving + the new year + my Saturn return had me juggling so many knives, that once I stopped to think about what I was actually doing, I realized how dangerous it is to myself to juggle knives (literally --but in this case figuratively because what psychopath juggles knives?)

Something about turning 27 has really set me on a path of serious self-love. I don't think I would have given myself a break before because of 'youth' and 'the grind' and 'hustling'-- all words I'm so over right now [serious valley girl tone there] because at the end of the day, even if your resume has a bazillion things on it, you're still juggling knives. 

I decided to make moves toward cutting back on my commitments in favor of committing more wholeheartedly to the ones that will help enrich my spirit, not just my resume. 

Besides managing your workaholic-ism, how do you practice self-love?

Bye bye, Chi.

I write this for no other reason than the catharsis it provides me. Maybe there's a lesson in it, but mostly I just need to put it into words.

When I graduated, I wanted to move to Chicago. That was my main objective outside of not starving. Man-friend and I had agreed we'd take it in stride pending what opportunities would arise, but I had committed my heart and my mind, to moving away.

Over the last year I've been lucky enough to squeeze every last bit of free time into visiting the city. Manfriend was covering a territory that caused him to spend an excess of time there, and so I took full advantage of embracing his travels. Some of our closest friends from college moved there a few years before, and were kind enough to show us the non-touristy neighborhoods to hit up, leading my heart to only long for the Windy City as my home even more.

It seemed glamorous; the trains, the skyscrapers, the people-- oh the people! They're literally everywhere. It's unfathomable to me that there are so many humans in such a small space. Where could they all possibly be going? But when you are discovering a new city, those are the kinds of things you find endearing and wholly part of the energy.

I cried a lot of tears and drank more coffee than was sustainable for any one human during my battle to escape Minnesota, but could not, and would not, win the fight.When it became apparent that I'd have to choose between forcing my dreams and gracefully meeting the realities of life, grace trumped brute force and I stayed.

This week, I had to travel to Chicago to get some training done for a new role I've taken on. I was all-consumed with preparing for my training and not until I arrived at the airport, and walked an oh-so-familiar path to my flight gate, did I realize that I'd be reunited with my former love. 

It was like seeing an ex for the first time after an ugly/against your wishes break-up, but you actually look really, really good. I hopped on the L and rode the blue line like a pro because unlike the last time I encountered my ex, this time around I was much better off. Not as emotional or desperate to please, I was finally "okay" that we had parted ways.

With every stop of the train, I felt a familiar longing that I only recognize with this specific ex. Chicago knew a little part of me that I wouldn't show to anyone else, and could never hide from her again. That piece of me, belonged to her. 

I finished with my meeting earlier than I anticipated and was left for the first time, alone in the heart of the city, to do whatever I pleased. I walked a bit, but due to the relentless wind and insufferable cold (combined with a stylish/not practical outfit) I promptly entered a restaurant.

Alone I sat by the window, Instagram-med my food, and sipped a glass of wine, contemplating without pressure if this was the life I had missed out on. I recalled my memories-- good (tourist-ing, new friends, great pizza) and bad (alll the wind always, smelly streets, drunk men on trains) and decided that I was longer the woman that had her whirlwind romance with Chi. 

I had done it once before with Manfriend, but I never expected I'd need to say "Goodbye" to Chicago on my own. I still wonder if it's a recurring theme that so many poignant moments in my life are experienced as an individual living a moment of absolute lucidity. I don't know. That's contemplation for another day, for now I'll just say, "Goodbye, Chicago, it was lovely to love you".

Moons & Moods

I woke up on the wrong side of the bed today.

I am partially grouchy because my neck is sore from my workout last night so I couldn't get comfortable, and partially grouchy because of reasons I can't explain.

If you're wondering, it is not my lovely cycle come-a callin'. That has come and gone so I won't attribute my morning betchyness to that. No, I am quite certain it has nearly everything to do with the moon.

Most mornings I wake up and have a very clear vision of what I want and how I will execute my day. Lists of to-dos form in my head and as I begin to organize what order these tasks will play out, I start to ease into the day. I make note of the weather, fill my water bottle and set off into the world.

This fine day, I woke up pissed. I did not have a bad dream, I was just upset. Not teary-wah-wah woe-is-me upset, but like I want to get out of traffic because I'll be late again to my hair appointment pissed.

But I knew why: today, is a full moon.

For those of you who don't put any stock into astronomy and the tides, I beg you to remember that we are 60% water and so for the moon to not affect you, is foolish. I also don't think it's a coincidence folklore positions witches and werewolves to be out and about during full moons. Just sayin'.

In history, this traditionally plays out poorly. I attribute my foul mood to something insignificant: man-friend being insensitive, slow internet, crappy food-- anything that serves as a plausible catalyst to why I'm such a raging bitch for no given reason.

But today I decided, instead of being a bull, I'd utilize this fire-laden focus to motivate me. I have found lately that I'm doing more negotiating (contractors, cars, Father Time) than usual. For some reason I instantly thought of Lean In and wondered if this kind of razor sharp energy is what Sheryl Sandberg channels on the reg-reg.

If you're experiencing a full moon meltdown as I did this morning, I hope you wrangle that energy and make it work for you. Pick something today, and make it your red caped-target du jour.

Or don't, and just be a bull, it's up to you.

A Cleanse

I did a cleanse last week because I wanted to lose weight.

Just kidding. But that's what everyone thinks when you say you're "Cleansing". It's got this awful connotation because there are radicals out there that insist on defaming the core concept behind cleansing-- which is hitting a restart button on mind/body/spirit-- whichever applies to the cleanse you're doing.

I don't tell people very often that I am a self-proclaimed recovering shopping addict. It seems like a pretty regular thing for a young woman to do--shop, that is-- but I felt like I had taken it to the next level. I don't have any other vices-- smoking or gambling are lucky enough to evade me. And not for lack of experience. 

Once in college my bestie and I watched a movie, thought smoking looked decidedly cool (it was a 50's movie) and we wanted to know what the hype was about. So we bought a pack, took a drive, and tried to experience what so many of our culture cannot escape-- the appeal of cigarettes. We ended up laughing more than smoking because this is of course, a ridiculous experiment but despite our very blatant exposure, neither of us retained an addiction. 

Anyway, when I participated in a 30 Day Challenge that asked me to actively not shop and share the experience with the world-- not just my conscience-- I found that breaking up is oh so hard to do. 

But break up I did. I was moody and cranky and it forced me to face how much I actually used a new shirt or any other material object to cope with long days or bad moods, and it turns out that it was a lot. So as a recovering addict, I fully support the concept of cleansing because that's what I did-- I cleansed myself of the reckless thoughts and actions that have plagued me for so long. My spirit, and my bank account, have duly thanked me.

This time around, I decided to try a juice cleanse because, why not? Who am I to judge if I've never actually done one? So I did and I tell ya what... turns out I was kind of addicted to food, too.

Don't think that I casually use the word "addict" because I'm not claiming to be "meth-level" addict, but there's a part of me that wouldn't let up.

Don't you just want a steak, Jess? Don't you miss chewing, Jess? Mmmm... buffalo sauce...

In those three days I was hyper aware of how much food played into my life. I know that my dream job is to be a traveling food writer ala Andrew Zimmern and Samantha Brown, so I already care more than the average bear, but this was different. There was one point where I had walked down the hall from my desk and upon returning to it, walked directly to the office kitchen. And I wasn't even hungry. Or thirsty. I just did it on autopilot because that's what I usually did at that time of day.

If you think I was just missing the act of chewing, you're right. I did. And this cleanse asks people to not stress themselves out over not eating by encouraging them to have something healthy to eat if the spirit moves them. So I made guacamole and ate it with crunchy flax seed chips. And so my crunch-crave was fulfilled.

The cleanse itself was fun. (No, seriously.) It was a personal challenge and there were moments of weakness but it was a real test against myself. Manfriend supported me along the way (i.e. When I wanted wings at 11pm) but all in all I really enjoyed it. The juices were delicious and so fulfilling that I ended up with a few extra turning my 3-day into nearly a 4 day had I not opted for Korean wings in lieu of my ginger juice. I noted any changes in my body and found that I was not a victim or torture or any grand restriction as some people expect to be. More important I realized how what you put into your body really matters. I indulged all weekend and sorely regretted some of my choices. The mediocre quality of processed food against what I can create in my home or find in a top-notch restaurant loses in a show-down every time. 

My mind has reawakened to a consciousness that appreciates what and how I eat. I have no idea if I'm thinner because I didn't weigh myself and I seriously don't care. But I do know that I'm lighter in spirit without the heavy burden of unchecked eating hanging over my head and resting in my stomach. 

I plan on doing one again whenever I need to refocus my mind-- when I'm not cooking or cleaning up after cooking, I have time to think and decompress. If you're interested in a cleanse, I recommend it but not because you want to lose weight but because you're ready to challenge yourself physically as well as mentally.

Old Dog, New Tricks

In general, I hate celebrating my birthday. I think there was a time where I was a kid where I tried to plan a party and everything fell through last minute, and being a January baby, I never got to have a pool party, so I've since been scarred. This bitterness subsided as I eagerly awaited turning 21 (the last cool age) and promptly returned after my hangover from the aforementioned birthday evaporated.

As my mid-twenties slipped in and out of my fingers, I woke up realizing that I was in my late twenties.

Um, what? When did that happen???

For anyone who is older and annoyed that I am whining about my 27^th year, please just hear me out:

It is not a matter of the number that bothers me—I undergo this annual meltdown every year with the exception of years 16-21—including the years before--I cried when I turned 13 and I cry now at 27.

To me, it is more about where I am in my life against what I had planned. Ah, my infamous plans, destined to doom, as per life’s usual dark humor.

But despite all the lists of “30 Things to Do Before You’re 30” and any other bosh that someone came up with to help legitimize a love of cats and early bedtimes, I still cried on my birthday as I felt the weight of time laying into my bones. My 27 year old bones. In rapid valley girl toned succession I thought:

I should floss more. I should read more. I should drink less wine. I should write more. I really don’t read enough. How many books did I read last year? Audiobooks are not cheating. Ew, I’m such a millennial. But I’m still a 90’s kid at heart! Ohmygosh kids in the 90's are just turning 21. I’m so out of touch. I will never be cool again. I should have a dog by now. I should be married by now. I don’t have time for a wedding. I need to make more plans. I should have gone to the gym this morning. Birthdays are the worst.

Sob. Sob. Sob.

Part of this stems from the social norms and pressures that come from too many episodes of Full House and Friends. Part of this comes from being a naturally neurotic Capricorn-oldest sister/only girl combination. In order to blatantly distract myself from this annual depression, man-friend and I went shopping, had beers, and ate apps. Basically my three favorite activities… maybe today isn't so awful?

As the evening plans approached, my natural instinct was to estimate all of the things that would and could, go wrong. My expectations satisfactorily lowered, we headed into the night.

I had attempted barring people from saying happy birthday, but since that’s kind of a jerk move, I politely thanked them and forced myself to remember how nice it was for people to send you love on your life anniversary. With my guard down due to a delicious spicy cocktail and two fish tacos, I was having a good time. How is this possible? I’m supposed to hate my birthday! That’s the tradition-cake be damned!

But the temptation of my favorite humans in one space, gathered to laugh and eat and make too much noise proved to be exactly the opposite of what I wanted, yet precisely what I needed. As we caught up with each other about new adventures and recent [i.e. since college] successes, I forgot about milestones and all the shouldas that haunted my morning. I had planned to be disappointed with my evening and I was so incredibly wrong. Catching up with friends, and witnessing reunions that were five years overdue, reminded me of everything I had done to-date. A degree, a military career, a loving support system, a healthy spirit and an appreciation for little things like arranging flowers on Sunday or quiet nights at Trader Joe’s—these little things are what aging was about.

The morning after, I woke up with a heart full of love. I’m starting my 27^th year with a Cheshire Cat grin. Somehow I found a victory and I beat the Birthday Blues against all of the odds. If turning 27—or any other age for that matter, means that you set free some of the worries you carry around, I don’t think aging is such a morbid (get it?) thing after all.

I don’t regret crying my tears, but I’m quite sure next year’s sob-session will be laden with some tears of joy and gratitude. Turns out you can teach an old dog new tricks.