Chicken Rain

It poured while I walked home from work last night. POURED. I walked around puddles and tried to avoid hitting people with my umbrella while I tried to figure how what it smelled like outside. About 10 minutes in it hit me: downtown DC smells like Hooters chicken wings and wet dog when it rains. It doesn't smell like trees, summer, or hot pavement. It doesn't smell like cozy days under blankets or like the gym at my high school on stormy days. It smells like chicken wings and dogs.

Missing things creeps up on me. It's a slow creep towards the cliff of sadness that I never recognize as a cliff until I'm mid-fall to nowhere. The push over the cliff is usually something small. Like getting the wrong coffee order. Or chicken rain. Or one too many late nights at the office. Or hearing that song you played power hour to in college and remembering what it felt like to laugh (drink) so hard you puked. PS: don't ever play power hour.  

I sometimes confuse that missing things feeling with being pathetic or not trying hard enough. I give myself pep talks about how lucky I am and how whatever I'm feeling pathetic about is over and I should suck it up and be an adult and focus on now. 

I think that sometimes works. It works until the weight of missing things becomes so heavy that if crushes all those pep talks. I'm grateful for forays into the past like trips to Austin. For commuter planes to Shreveport. For college reunion weekends where we just play drinking games in the hotel. Those little refreshers can stave of some crushage. But not all of it. Not all the time. Not when there is chicken rain and some things you can't ever get to again no matter how many planes you take.  

Say yes

My new years resolution was to eat more ice cream. Eating more ice cream seemed like a reasonable resolution because I've abandoned the ideology that packing my lunch 4 days a week will make my life better or that making up my bed everyday really matters. It just doesn't, for me.

I wanted a resolution to match all the other "yes saying" I've been doing for the past five years. I've said yes to lots of things because I thought I might need the experience one day. Saying yes to volunteering, to extra work, to extra friends, to extra well, life, because my current cadre of life experience wasn't doing the trick. I felt perpetually unprepared. Saying more yes and less no, I thought, would give me more opportunity. As it happens, it does.

Taking every opportunity and doing it (whether or not you want to) creates a little nugget of stuff to put in your pocket and use when you need it. Volunteering for that grant writing project that you don't have time for leads to conference invitations, to best friends, to your biggest champions. Becoming a sexual assault counselor because you might want to be a genetic counselor one day gives you the opportunity to hear everyone with fresh ears, with greater compassion, and better coping skills. Writing a eulogy for your dad lets you hear yourself be at your most vulnerable in front of 200 people and learn that the only way to grow is to be vulnerable. Taking on an extra project at work just because you want to say you did it lets you talk about it in your next interview.

Opportunity to be better and do more is all around us all the time. It's just so hard to say yes to it. It seems like too much. It seems like too much until all those experiences lead to landing your dream job. It seems like too much until all that extra effort leads to friendships that last a lifetime. It seems like all those people out there got their awesome jobs and awesome lives because they were just awesome. They aren't. They are like you and me, except they say yes when everyone else says "no" or "not right now".

And when that opportunity taking pays off it seems like there was never any other way to live. Like saying "yes" instead of "later" or "not now" was the key to really living how you always wanted to. So say yes. Take the opportunity. And put it in your pocket. Then grab some ice cream.

Stop tilting your head.

Six people have told me that getting a title, registration sticker, and driver's license in the District of Columbia would be among the worst experiences of my life. I listened to someone talk about how his trip to the DMV was like being in Sarajevo in 1994. Another new resident told me that to get an inspection I basically had to sell my soul and do everything that no human can do. It's no surprise, then, that I waited almost two months to get a D.C. driver's license and register my car. This doesn't seem like a long time but in D.C. if you have out of state tags it's basically like you are violating parole. I received two warnings in 24 hours by the same officer in different parts of town. Officer Sanders and I were becoming fast friends.

Sigh. So, I decided to just make this happen. I made a spreadsheet with all the documents I needed. I double checked them. Triple checked. I put my warning violations in my window with an annoyed sign that said "GOING TO DMV TOMORROW. THANKS". I wish someone had added it to my collection on passiveaggressivenotes.com but to no avail--yet.


I went to bed at 10:30 and was up at 6:15. In the shower that morning I took some yogic breaths. I decided that I was only going to get mad if I waited longer than three hours. I reminded myself on the drive down that DMV workers were people too.


As I pulled up to the inspection station, a man wearing a uniform motioned for me to roll down my window. He greeted me "Hi! First time to the DMV?" I nodded and started pulling out paperwork in some sort of frenzied panic. He laughed and said "Where you from?" I explained that I just moved here from Texas. We then chatted about people being a rush here all the time and how they were meaner here. He asked me to say y'all in a sentence. I obliged. Then he said, "Well, hope you can bring that laid back attitude to D.C., pull forward, we'll be with ya in a minute. Here's my card. My name is Richard if you need anything." Richard flashed me a bright white smile.


I pulled forward, sort of stunned. I kind of wanted to keep hanging out with Richard and shooting the shit. Long story short, ten minutes later I was out of the inspection station with my paperwork, no problems, and a Dum-Dum sucker. Everyone was nice, professional, and ready to get me the F out of there, which I totally appreciated.


Around the corner, is the actual DMV. I parked and commenced standing in line in 30 degree weather for an hour and five minutes. I was fifth in line. As more and more people filed in line, I tried to decide who would survive if we were all in a survival situation (which wasn't THAT far off). I tried to figure out who would be my friends and who would get eaten first. I wondered if anyone else in line was thinking the same thing. I decided not. At 8:15 exactly the doors open and everyone floods in. I get called to have my paperwork reviewed in two minutes flat. Mr. DMV gatekeeper guy is impressed that I have all my documents. He doesn't even ask for half the stuff they (internets) said I needed. I make it to my final counter.


I wait patiently while second mr. dmv guys puts stuff in the computer and just looks at me when I need to pay. No words, just grunts and eye rolls. I get my picture taken for my license and the lady is yelling at me to stop tilting my head. I'm really not. We go back and forth. I'm moving my head in really tiny motions every way I can think of. I wonder if I'm dizzy and leaning, I wonder if this is a joke. I wonder if the floor is tilting. I think of Willy Wonka. Finally, I just say, "Mam, I think this is just how my head is." She snaps the picture.


In the next five minutes I'm back in my car on the way to work. With new plates, title, licesne, and normal blood pressure. I was only a little upset that people weren't more congratulatory of my achievement. I thought for sure I'd get a high five or something.


It was no big deal. Everyone was fine. I didn't get yelled at too bad. I wasn't told I had to come back with my first born. My expectations for service were SO low that just a normal experience was a reason to celebrate. Everyone hates the DMV because they don't have their act together. Over prepare and you are fine. People expect the DMV to be GOOD, friendly even. I expected to cry and possibly have to leave the city.


I mostly hate things because other people tell me it's awful. Expectations are the root of all heartbreak. How we think things are going to be is largely how we see them. It takes a lot for something I think is going to suck to not suck (thanks Richard). I'm going to stop listening to other people so much. But I won't stop tilting my head. Boom. Check it out


(Sorry folks, had to remove picture. It was coming up in google searches and had my address. Safety first! )

Is it Friday yet?

In the olden days, it seemed that the weeks bled into weekends. Weekends weren't the respite that they are now. There were just days. Back then, weeks were sprinkled with fun things like extra long recess, or candy, or a party. School was interesting because maybe, maybe someone would ask me to the dance TODAY, this day. Week? Weekend? It didn't matter. Life was awesome and everything was new.

College made it worse. Tuesday night? Sure, I'll drink a box of Franzia and watch Rudolph. Thursday? See ya at Flatts! Sunday? Just another day to catch up on my sleep and maybe clean the bathroom.

I always felt sad for adults that worked and hated their weeks. I wondered why all days couldn't be fun, or, at least interesting. I never wanted to be one of those adults that lived for the weekend. THEY, those people, weren't doing it right. They just didn't know how to live.

On Friday last week, I signed an email TGIF. People asked me what my plans for the weekend were on Tuesday. I have a feeling of dread and anxiety on Sunday nights. It creeps in around 4pm and stays into my finger hits the elevator button on Monday morning. I day dream about all the life I could live if paying my bills didn't mean sitting at this desk. Some days are worse than others. Some days are good. But they are all work.

Fitting a life into the weekends doesn't work. That's because life isn't all chocolate, sex, and poodles; it's mostly work. It's mostly doing things that suck so you can do stuff you like. It's a tradeoff. Sometimes the tradeoff is worth it. Sometimes it's not. I think if you are living Friday-Sunday and just functioning the rest of the days it's probably not a fair trade.

Life is too short to shorten it any more. Long live the work week.

Job Opportunity

To have a space to park your moving container in the District of Columbia you must obtain and pay for a permit. This permit process is all online EXCEPT for actually getting the permit. For that, you must visit your friendly local District of Columbia police station. There, you log into a computer circa 1999 and a printer provides you two large signs that say "EMERGENCY NO PARKING" and have your phone number and name on it. If you don't do this, you'll get fined and, in my mind, arrested and imprisoned forever.

I had been a resident of Washington D.C. for four days when I worked up enough courage to go to the police station. After missing the turn TWICE then missing the next turn THREE times I completed my 3 mile journey in only an hour. Win. I've got my confirmation number, my email, my driver's license, and my passport. I'm prepared to give blood and submit to a retina verification process if necessary. I park and walk past what is for sure a crack house (that's right, next to a police station) and open the door to my Ward 5 police station.

As I open the door the smell of whiskey and White Diamonds hits me. Hard. I have walked into the police station at the exact same time that four local hookers are being let go from their night in captivity. A large, potentially male dressed as a lady, hooker stops in her tracks, puts her hand on her hips, leans back, and looks me up and down. She's wearing a short, tight, sparkly blue skirt, heels (one is unbuckled), and a puffy coat with fur. I start to hear "boots with the furrr.." in my head just as she says, "Oooooweeeeeeee, baby gurl, we could make you some MONEYYYYYYY". The cop escorting the ladies of the night tries to hurry them along but is holding back a laugh. The receptionist screams "LEAVE THAT CHILD ALONE". And I start smiling, standing wedged between a trash can and a metal detector. My hooker friend goes on and her friends laugh, "Baby, if you get tired of being a good girl, you come let us know. We got you". They are laughing. I'm laughing. The cop is laughing. As they walk out the door one says "Fuck, I ain't go no money for one of them egg Mc..Mc...What the fuck you call them sandwiches?" I hear then talking about how many egg McMuffins they can buy as the door shuts and the cop walks back in.

The receptionist who called me child says, "You look like you just need a permit. Go print it over there, sweetie". As I print my permit, I see another hooker snoozing in the corner, her eyelashes falling off, glitter smudged across her cheek. I gather my permits and signage. I walk back to my car and get on the main road. My heated seats kick on. NPR news is on the radio.

I'm so glad I'm a good girl. And I'd bet, if you asked, those ladies (or men) thought they were good girls once too. I think they still are.

Opposite side of myself

Endings come all at once. Lives, friends, hang-ups. School, homes, and boredom. Love, security, and comfort. I'd like to think that one big ending causes lots of little endings but I'm not sure that's the case. I think endings come all at once because too much hanging-on would happen without forced endings. You'd never get to really know what it's like to start fresh if only one thing ended at a time, life is much, much too complicated for that.

If endings come as a package deal so do beginnings. Beginnings are more than a new house, haircut, job, or city. They are a small and precious window to be that person you said you'd be if you just didn't and if you maybe could. Beginnings mean new lives, new friends, and new hang-ups. More school, new homes, and new ways to be bored. More love, new security, and greater comfort. And if beginnings didn't offer those things, endings would never last. It would just be too hard. We'd be back where we started all the time.

I'm not back where I started. I'm on the opposite side of myself. I'm on the opposite side because I've had a lot of endings that have pushed me beyond what I thought of myself. I've had new beginnings that pulled me beyond what I knew of myself. If you give yourself the space, the challenge, and the sense of adventure to end and begin you wind up in places you never knew you could be.

Experience

Experience is weird. If, 10 years ago, you had told 16 year old Alix that she’d be flying to D.C. for interviews, riding the metro alone, making mistakes and recovering and not having an anxiety attack, she would have laughed. She would have laughed and said “Oh that’s dumb. I’m going to be married and living in Houston and pregnant then. I’ll be a stay at home mom. Also, I’m way too nervous to do any of those things. Can we go to Chipotle?”

Experience is that thing that divides people. It’s the delineation between those people that find value in anything and those that think everything sucks. The most interesting people don’t talk a lot about how much something sucks. They’ll talk about the highlights, the good things, and let the rest go. Their experience is positive no matter what actually happened. Those with experience try new things and find good. They try old things and find the good.

Everyday is a chance to put some more notches in my belt (not like that), a few more tricks up my sleeve, forge a new way, and make a new plan. If we look at experience like that, at life like that, the pressure’s off. It’s ok if it sucks or you suck, you don’t have to remember that part. Just remember how to not suck the next time. It's all about interpreting your experience.

To today’s events, 26 year old Alix would says, “F*ck yes I rode the metro. No, no one helped me. Yes, I crushed those interviews. Yes, I tripped on the sidewalk and didn’t care. No, I’m not married. And, can we go to Chipotle?”

How’s that for positivity? Boom.

Yoga Mat = Life

Tuesday night at yoga the room was packed. Like, move your mat over so some jerk who is 5 minutes late can squeeze in kind of packed. I was squished between one middle aged lady with a huge engagement ring and an older lady wearing a Wheatsville Co-Op shirt.

For those of you who do not know, yoga involves extending your body far beyond the reaches of your allotted mat space. So, when the room is packed you encroach on other people's space. Usually everyone will adjust a little to give the folks around them the maximum space. Not on Tuesday.

I am uber socially conscious and restricted my movements so I didn't even get close to Ring Lady and Wheatsville Chick. I didn't fully extend, I didn't fully twist, and I certainly didn't reach my potential. They however, had their feet on my mat at some points and their heads uncomfortably close to my crotch. My arms were bent and awkward to not interrupt them as they fully extended swan dove to the floor like angels. My leg extensions were at 25% so they had room for 100%.

I went into savasana (basically quiet time) annoyed that they didn't make room. Then, I thought, I didn't make them. I gave up so much of myself that I let them take what they wanted to make them comfortable. Then I thought, this room is not big enough for everyone to have their own space for everything. Some other person in this room did the same thing I did and was laying there unsatisfied. And, we had to. We had to sacrifice so that other people could do their thing. If we had all taken all the space we wanted, people would have gotten hurt. The world needs people who sacrifice their own happiness and potential so that others can be comfortable.

But next time, it's my turn to swan dive and stretch and push myself. Ring Lady and Wheatsville Chick take note, I won't always let you have your space. Sometimes, just sometimes, I take what I need.

Herndon 113

Eight years ago, I was getting ready to go to college. I was packing up my stuff, generally freaking out, and feeling like a real grown up. I knew I was living in Herndon 113 with a girl from Highland Park, TX. My suite-mates were exotic. They were from Georgia and California. Whoa. I was ready to take on the world with my coordinated comforter, sheets, art, lamps, and towels.

Last weekend, I visited Herndon 113. The room that I moved into eight years at Trinity University with a group of strangers. It looked even smaller than I remember it. The paint was new, the furniture updated, but, still the same. It was still an incubator for college freshman to grow in. Grow indeed.

My dad moved me in and out of that room. My lost my first meaningful relationship in that room. I learned that friends are not always friends in that room. I learned about failing and winning in that room. Seeing it with fresh eyes, reminded me just how far I've come from that 18 year old wearing khaki shorts and a pink t-shirt with a freshly broken heart and endless possibilities on move-in day.

And sometimes, I miss her. And Herndon 113.

Do as I say, not as I do

A year or so ago, I was feeling very future focused. I thought for sure that I knew everything so I wrote down rules for my future daughter(s). (Creepy? Potentially). I came across the list a few weeks ago whilst cleaning out my old purse.

I thought I'd put them on the internet airwaves so one day, she'll have them. Or so everyone can think I'm a psycho. Either way.

1. Don't worry about squeezing the toothpaste from the bottom up. It's just not worth the effort.

2. You are prettier without makeup.

3. Don't do Kamkazi shots, ever.

4. Make him wait. A little.

5. Don't apologize for things that have nothing to do with you.

6. Don't qualify what you say with "I think or maybe I don't understand, but..." Just say it.

7. Have dessert. Then, work it off.

8. Learn to make one dish really, really well. Then, only make it if you love him. Only you'll know what it means.

9. Send cards not emails. Or texts. Or whatever you have by then.

10. If everyone else is drinking beer, don't order a margarita.

11. Get your pets from the pound. They are better animals.

12. Always carry some trail mix, Advil, and a tampon. Always.

13. Don't put the email address in the To: box until you are ready to send.

14. If you think he's lying; he probably is.

15. Don't play all your cards.

16. Don't slam your seat back on the airplane. It's so rude.

17. Always choose dare.

18. When someone asks what you do, don't say your job title. Make it interesting.

19. Keep a flashlight in your bedside table.

20. Wear whatever you want. Don't worry about it.

21. Don't be afraid to cut your hair. It's fine.

22. Get really good at Scrabble.

23. Don't cry at work. Ever.

24. Calculate the cost of clothing by cost per wear. If you wear it a lot, it's ok to spend more.

25. Have nice perfume.

26. Throw our underwear that aren't pretty. Only buy one's that are.

27. Check the weather.

28. It doesn't matter what you major in in college. It's all about ambition, baby.

29. Only buy art you love.

30. Buy the expensive olive oil. It's worth it.

31. If he doesn't get your jokes; leave.

32. Remember what it felt like to get asked to your first dance.

33. Forget what your first dance was like.

34. You are more than your job.

35. Don't put your mother in a gross nursing home that smells like urine.

36. Learn to hover and pee.

37. Get your oil changed regularly.

38. Learn to say no. And mean it.

Rainbow Hunters

Not too long ago, I would make my little sister sit in the game room and be the student while I played teacher. I'd put saran wrap on the window and pretend it was an overhead machine. I'd give her quizzes and generally torture her. Not too long before that, we'd run around the house playing rainbow hunters with a little plastic prism. We'd find places the sun leaked in and use our magic prism to make rainbows.

Since then, we've watched each other fall in love and get our our hearts broken. We've both been through serious health crisis (I mean, lungs collapsing and everything). We've buried our Dad. We've been rocks and bowls of jello, but never at the same time.

Last week I watched her graduate from college and on Monday we'll travel together to Utah for a grown up girls vacation. We are both adults with educations and plans and dreams for our own lives. One day, sooner than later, we'll have our own new families.

This is the way of things. You grow up and do things on your own. All those days you thought were boring, like the day you went to the nursery with your dad and sister and got a Christmas tree. Or the day you learned to water ski with your family cheering you on. Or the time she threw up green beans. Or that day you all sat around and watched football and drank Cokes, are the best days.

And I suspect that one day, when I have two kids and a job and a husband and a house to run, these will be the best days. The days when I had time to sit on my couch and drink tea and write a blog.

Every day is the best day. You just don't know it until they are gone.

now sit down

If you asked a random sampling of my closest friends what one word describes me, I'm sure that you'd get an equally as random group of responses. I expect they'd range from funny to annoying to totally ridiculous.

If you asked a random sampling of people whom I don't know particularly well to describe me in one word they'd probably say something along the spectrum of nice to ok. Which is fine.

Apparantly, if you asked one of my professors, he'd say, "Tough".

Today, we went to his house for class. We sat in the living room. We drank beer and Diet Dr. Pepper's. He rambled on about how basically he could do whatever because he was tenured. He talked about the injustices of our educational system. Then we moved to the kitchen to eat empanadas and gazpacho. After a while, I went to leave. I thanked him for having us and said it was nice. He said "I always want to talk to you. You're tough. I want to know why." I laughed and said I'd stop by office hours. I reminded him I've stopped by several times and he hasn't been there. He replied with "See, you are tough."

I'm not sure if tough is want I want to exude. I'm not even sure where tough comes from. I don't feel tough. I feel like the inside of a Valomilk.

That said, toughness isn't a real thing. It's an attitude. It's a philosophy. It's one that I subscribe to. The greatest gift I can give myself is toughness of mind, body, and spirit.

Not toughness like "Oh, hi, I'm Alix and I have an invisible shield of armor" tough but "Oh, hi, I'm Alix and I'm fine" tough. The sort of tough that speaks up when other people won't but knows when to not say a word. I'd like to be the sort of tough that doesn't let people off the hook for things that matter but lets unimportant things go.

I'd like to be the sort of tough that people call when family dies. I'd like to be the sort of tough that other soccer mom's (one day) are sort of intimidated by. "See, look at my awesome orange slices! Now sit down". I'd like to be tough enough to accept when I'm wrong and not back down when I'm not.

I'd like to be the sort of tough that knows how not to only cry alone. I'd like to be tough enough to walk away gracefully or in a blaze of glory. I'd like to be tough enough to challenge everyone always, even when they are challenging me.

And, from the comment today, it looks like I'm being tough without trying. Win.

Bring it on.

capacity reached

Somewhere between full time grad school, full time work, and volunteering I reached maximum capacity. Today.

I made an excel spreadsheet at 4am to manage everything I need to get done in the next two weeks. I actually made a column that was titled, "Things to think about while driving". As I wrote these ridiculous words I realized that being this busy is A.) my own effing fault and B.) pretty dumb.

Perhaps some of you know that I like to be busy. If I'm bored for 2 seconds I start googling everything from books to read to pictures of cute animals and ways to make change happen faster. I am an information junkie. I thrive off knowing and doing. So, I took on too much. I've learned my lesson. Quality over quantity. Why am I realizing this today?

I stopped by Central Market to get dinner around 8:00. I walked in and went to the prepared food section. There were two pastas I liked. One was penne with goat cheese and tomatoes and stuff. The other was the same, but, with chicken.

I stood there. I held one in each hand. I put the one without chicken back. I walked away. I got 4 steps away and I changed my mind. I went back. I started thinking about the chickens I saw in Food Inc. Then I got worried I was going to waste away for not eating enough protein. I stood there, staring. A lady with short hair and a puka shell necklace nudged past me and got her Peanut Noodle Vindaloo Bowl with no hesitation.

Then, I started tearing up. My throat got tight. I got sweaty. My eyes filled with warm, wet tears. My exact thought was "Am I about to have a nervous breakdown in Central Market?"My second thought was "Is this a panic attack, I thought it would be more dramatic!?"

Don't worry. I didn't and it wasn't. But, I did realize that just like everything else, you can't hold stress in. You have to have a release valve. Sometimes, that valve gets opened up by a coworker asking what's wrong, or having some down time, or a tiny thing pushing you over the edge. Things like a chicken pasta bowl.

I now know my limits in an actual real way.

I got a creme brulee...and the pasta with the chicken.

It wasn't that good.

circle of the same

Hours become days. Days become weeks. Weeks turn into years. Then you are almost 26.


Somewhere between the age of 9 and 11, Claire and I were babysat by a cool older girl in HIGH SCHOOL. She was awesome. She had sweatshirts that said her school's name. She had SERIOUS homework. I remember being fascinated with her graphing calculator. I thought I would never be old enough to learn to use one (which may actually still be true). She had grown up hair and knew things about music and boys and how to work the oven. She was a magical grown up fairy.


Last weekend I hung out with my little from Big Brothers Big Sisters and I begged her not to grow up. I told her graphing calculators SUCK and that she should enjoy being 14. Want to know what she said? "I want to be a grown up so I know how to deal with stuff as good as you. I want to know what to say and where to go."


Besides being again amazed at her clarity of voice, I realized that I was that babysitter. 16+ years later, the circle of life completes a round. To her, I'm a magical grown up fairy. Then we talked about Lady Gaga's egg and decided that we should probably get a Bedazzler and make tutu's and t-shirts for the concert.


It's good to be a kid. And an adult. All at the same time. I was right.

don't breathe too much

I have been pathetically not working out for far too long, at least not on a regular schedule. So, I signed up for a 2 week intensive kick-your-butt yoga boot camp. 6:30-7:45am 4 days a week for 2 weeks.

Let's just say that I can't move without feeling that all my ab, shoulder, and arm muscles are disintegrating. It feels great. I feel great. I like vegetables and eating strawberries for dessert. It's amazing what a change of pace can do.

Today, as we held chair pose for 2 minutes, our teacher told us a story about a book she read. As sweat rolled into my eyes and I convinced myself I would not die like this, she began. There is an old Indian theory that you are born with a predetermined amount of breaths (this might be like you are born with all your eggs, it's unclear). All the breaths you have are enough to last you through your also predetermined lifetime.

Which means, that when I start breathing fast because I'm worried, impatient, pissed, or anxiety ridden I am taking my life away. Quite literally. I am shortening my time on this earth.

Now, I don't really believe that I only have a set amount of time of breaths or anything. But, I think that thinking of your life in terms of breaths is interesting. So, I set an intention.

I will not breathe fast when I am inconvenienced or when I'm anxiety ridden. I will not breathe fast when I am working hard. I will breathe smart, slow, and steady. I will not let pressure, time, or expectations rush my breath. I only have so much.

Namaste, dudes. I'm going to eat some kale chips.

round of applause

I think it was two summers ago. Maybe not. Who knows. I was at Barton Springs in ATX, watching all the hipsters and reformed hipster families mill around the 71 degree natural fed pool. I watched people lay on the grass in the sun, in love. And watched people in the shade, in love. I watched kids scrape their knees and their dads hold them. I kept count of bad tattoos and good tattoos and jort sightings.

There is a diving board that serves tiny children and grown up children. They all jump off and attempt (or succeed) at tricks. Everyone watches. It's fun and sad. And, since I can't dive, sort of maddening.

After some dude with a dragon tattoo jumped off the board and belly-flopped a little boy with shiny blond-white hair, wearing a life jacket, gingerly walked up the diving board stairs. He slowly, and carefully, walked to the edge of the of the diving board and immediately began to look terrified. He walked back and forth. Starting down the stairs, back to safety and changing his mind, walking to the edge again and becoming terrified all over again. His indecision went on for 3-5 minutes as 400 Barton Springs goers looked on, in suspense. His mom and dad grew more and more uncomfortable.

Someone started clapping. Then someone started yelling "Jump!" and before long, this little boy had 400 Austinites rooting him on. Clapping, whooping, and yelling encouraging things. Everyone knew how to encourage this kid that they didn't know. Everyone wanted him to overcome his terror and claim victory of the diving board. It was one of the only moments that I've felt that people are all the same and mostly good.

After more waffling, this now famous little boy decided he couldn't do it. It was too much. His mom picked him off the stairs and took him back to the safety of their family.

Of those 400 or so people at Barton Springs that day, everyone knew how to encourage and root for someone they don't even know. I wonder when, and how, and why this doesn't happen in real life. Why adults tear down other adults, why adults want other adults to fall and drown, or just have to back off the board. I wonder why you'd never see 400 Austinities cheering on an adult who is afraid to jump. Someone would probably call her/him a loser. Or a pussy. Or yell at them to get the F*** off the board.

Aren't we all just kids who got old?

Frito Pie Retrospective

There is a picture of my dad and me laughing in front of a steep wall of rock. I keep this picture above my sink because it reminds me of Frito Pie, my dad, laughing, and torturing my poor mother.

We were driving somewhere that had mountains. Rocky, steep cliff on one side of the curvy road, long drop off on the other. It was summer and we were on vacation. Claire and I sat in the back of the rental car. Dad drove, mom rode shotgun. Claire and I would sleep, laugh, eat, and fight. Mom would yell and dad would eat Corn Nuts and sneeze really grossly. We'd all get uber dramatic and roll down the windows to let the sneeze out.

This particular ride was memorable not because of the Corn Nuts or the gagging but because we made our mother physically ill by mentioning Frito Pie. You see, the road was curvy and Dad had a lead foot. Mom was bordering vomiting and keeping it together.

Claire and I keep a mental storage bank of things that put mom over the edge. Frito Pie is one of them. Tag teaming mom with mentions of meaty, rich Frito Pie with chili and cheese and tiny onions commenced. I talked about the color of the chili about the crunch of the Frito's. Mom was yelling at us to stop. Dad was doing the wheeze-laugh where you were sure his brain would explode.

Claire brought out a little writing board from our toy bag and I wrote "Frito Pie"and "MMMMM" with a picture of a steaming bowl. Tiny Frito like squares were coming out of the bowl.

We put this masterpiece in front of my mom's face and she started dry heaving. VICTORY!! Dad pulled over. Mom dry heaved over the edge of the mountain. Dad and I got out of the car and walked around. We watched mom wretch on this road and laughed, our arms around each other, watching victoriously.

go ahead. you'll live.

As most new years begin, I'm determined to eat right and work out and lose that part that makes my pants hard to close. I anticipate this determination will last between 2-3 weeks. I suspect, that along with every other American, I will fail to eat what I should, I'll hit snooze too many times and not workout. This year, I know it. Im not pretending. I'm trying.

The marketing engine that is America is well versed in playing on this short lived determination. I read somewhere between 4- 10,000 articles on Eat This! Not That!, how eating more legumes will help me lose belly fat, how to stay on track, and how a handful of almonds and some fucking Crasins should keep me satisfied between lunch and dinner.

The truth is, none of this shit works. Lifestyles work. Not using pasta as a coping mechanism works. Not running for Chipotle every time shit hits the fan works. Not liking Velveeta and fancy brie at the same time works. Crasins are just not the same. I don't care how many you eat.

I'm not sure why everyone needs to be told that the Olive Garden's Tour of Italy is bad for them. We know that. It has creme sauce, fried chicken, and pasta. We get it. We also get that it is ridiculously good. We don't eat out because we want to eat healthy. We eat out because it makes us feel good.

Good, healthy food has its place--in every refrigerator and every table across America. But, so does the Tour of Italy. Things like the Tour of Italy and Outback Steakhouse's Blooming Onion are what make life worth living.

Just make sure you aren't living to eat. But eating to live, really live.

Pass the brie/velveeta.

Don't. I'll vomit.

I have fond memories of Sunday lunches when I was younger, a tween and teen. Dad would cook something either really good or really gross and we'd all eat together. I'd usually be wearing some awkward outfit or oversized pajamas to hide my uneven boobs (don't worry, they are better now, kinda). My hair would be cut into a triangle, frizzy, and I'd have horrific bangs. Claire would be wearing some mismatched outfit. She would have spent the morning playing with an animal or gluing paper together or solving engineering problems in her room.

The kitchen would be warm, the newspaper strewn on one end of the table. Dad would cook with a kitchen towel over one shoulder.

I remember one Sunday well. Dad had made quite a spread. We were eating fried chicken strips and green beans and potatoes and the whole deal. Only, Claire refused to eat the green beans. She insisted over and over that she didn't like them. Dad didn't like definitive statements. Saying you would not do something was pretty much asking to be made to do it. The lunch went on like this. Dad insisting, Claire insisting should would not. Finally, lunch was over and Claire had a mess of green beans on her plate. She was going to have to eat them.

Dad and I began cleaning kitchen while tiny little Claire sat alone at the table struggling to get the green beans down. Dad was washing dishes while I piled dirty ones on the counter, one eye on Claire.

And then, Claire began to quietly and neatly vomit onto her plate. Not explosive, I'm dying of the plague vomit--but quiet, roll out of your mouth, fuck you vomit. Dad looked over just after I did. He began shaking his head. I don't remember what happened next.

What I do remember is that Claire didn't have to eat green beans anymore. To this day, I have never seen a better "told you so". Congrats Claire, you remain the queen--of timely vomiting.

Caramel Frappucino Chicken Wings

Social norms are my favorite. They keep me safe from weird things happening, most the time. This was not the case yesterday. I was sitting in the lobby area of Jester waiting for class time. I was listening to some sweet jams, answering emails, and feeling really satisfied with my life.

Let me pause here to tell you folks what Jester is. Jester is the biggest dorm in the country. It's like a mall with rooms on the upper floors. There is a Starbuck's, a Wendy's, a Pizza Hut, you get it. It is CRAWLING with undergraduates in their Nike running shorts, Uggs, and t-shirts. There are tables everywhere of some cultural society trying to sell you cupcakes. I happen to have class in one of the few classrooms in this building.

So there I sit, watching the chaos swirl around me. I'm sitting on gray faux leather loveseat thing. There are approximately 34 other seats around me. Some close, some more than 20 feet away. There are 5 other people sitting all scattered around with a socially normal space in between them. One of them is carefully eating her sandwich and chips, making sure not to make too much noise or be gross. I appreciate her.

This girl walks into the seating area. She is carrying a take out tiny box that says pizza hut. I immediately think breadsticks. She is also carrying a Venti caramel frappucino. Gross. I think about how sad her glucose levels will be in 2 hours.

I've seen this girl before. She always sits here when I do but we've never talked.

And here enters the downward spiral of social norms. She passes the 28 open seats. And sits in the chair right next to me. She is now 7 inches from my ear. Now the spiral reaches the speed of sound. She opens her Pizza Hut box to reveal 8-12 honey BBQ chicken wings. The smell hits my face. And I feel queasy. "Ok, Alix. Take a deep breath. You are ok. They are just chicken wings."

Speed of light--she begins eating these chicken wings. Not politely like the sandwich girl. Her face is covered in sauce. She is eating these chicken wings like she is a fucking T-Rex. Then she morphs into a prehistoric creature and SUCKS ON THE BONE. Sucks on the bone with audible noises. And, so, naturally I dry heave. No one notices.

She takes a huge slurp of caramel frappucino. The cup has translucent bits of honey BBQ sauce mixing with condensation. It's too much. I can't live this way.

I pick up my bag. I move to the other seat. And, T-Rex gives me a dirty look and wipes her talon on the seat.

Really.