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.

I have to make a shout out.

My dear friend Rachel introduced me to Hyberbole and a Half, the best blog EVER, written by Allie Brosh.

Why I'll Never Be an Adult captures exactly how I feel almost all the time.

Enjoy!

a lentil

Oh my gosh. A whole month without a blog entry. A sign of the times, I'm afraid. I have been SUPER busy with work, school, volunteering, and being a human.

I don't have too much to say.

This is my favorite new thing:





Enjoy :)

Focus, Floyd!

During sweaty yoga yesterday, the teacher was talking us through a particulary hard pose. She was asking us to control our thoughts of giving up. Tune out everything except our thoughts on breathing and balance. Practice self control. As sweated/rained onto my mat, I decided that I'm not very good at self-control.

All I could think about while this teacher was telling me to focus was what sort of pasta I was going to reward myself with. I was also hoping that the guy next to me wouldn't shake sweat on me again. I was thinking about how I didn't get the caked on bird crap washed off my car. I was thinking about how much my hip was burning. I was wondering why ANYONE would go to a sweaty yoga class without deodorant. I was wishing I wasn't right by the heater.

All this to say, that I'm going to try really hard not to worry about the sweaty dude next to me. Or the stuff I didn't get done. I am going to be thankful that I could show up and work really hard. This might be called focus. This might be called self-control. This is more likely called just trying to do better.

putt-putt and princesses

Friday was my birthday. It was wonderful. I'd venture to say that it was my best (adult) birthday to date. The Flamingo party of 1990 is hard to beat.

It was wonderful because I have never felt so loved and understood, ever. I walked into work to find my cube decorated in pretty, pretty princess theme--complete with pink net canopy over my chair and pink silk flooring. I had cards and candy and Tinkerbell school supplies and a Hannah Montana poster in an antique frame. I knew who was responsible. My closest co-workers. My friends--my friends who took time out of their lives to make me feel, well, like a princess.

It was wonderful because I threw a party for myself and my closest, most reliable friends showed up because they knew it was important to me. They refused to let me down, even though putt-putt is not that fun and not everyone likes pie.

It was wonderful because my friends far, far away were thinking of me and calling me and wishing they were here to sweat their balls off playing putt-putt at night and eating pie.

It was wonderful because I knew that someone had my back. Someone was invested in me having a good time and made sure I was comfortable enough to let go and let it happen.

It was wonderful because friends drove 2+ hours to hang out for 4. It was wonderful because all my most faithful friends were in one place (spirit or otherwise) all getting along.

So what? I don't get it. Why is Alix all emotional because she has good friends? Because I haven't had good friends, I mean REALLY good friends. Friends who know what I really mean when I say "it's fine." Friends who know that I don't like beer and will only drink French 75's from a thermos. Friends who know that I worry about everyone else's good time before my own. Friends who know that I love princess stuff, even though I pretend like I don't.

Maybe this is what makes this birthday different. I feel a little different. I feel like a grown-up. I feel like I have a team. I didn't know it could feel this good. I didn't know this is how it could be.

Thank you to all my wonderful friends near and far. You are irreplaceable.