Good times, bad times, you know I've had my share

I want to say I've always been an optimist. It's probably not true, because I was 23 once, freshly graduated from an expensive four-year college with a degree that I had no idea how to put to use, and oh, yeah, it was 2008. If I felt then like things were not great, that I was never gonna be able to make enough money to support myself, and that I had no clue where I was going with my life, it was probably all true.

However, by age 30, I considered myself the happiest, most positive person. I successfully navigated a move that took me more than 2,000 miles from the side of the country where I had lived for my entire life, and I immediately found friends, employment, and a lifestyle I could not have even imagined for myself.

For nearly a decade, around the month of November, when folks on social media begin to post memes about how glad they are that the year is ending, and how it was a tough one, I have rolled my eyes. "2010, you took too much from us all", and "2012 wasn't my year", or "2016 was the worst year yet" (ok, maybe that one is actually true, from a national perspective). Just be positive, I would think. Don't spend your time thinking about negative things you can't change! It only leads to feeling down! Focus on the good!

I don't think I'm that person this year.

This may make some of you rejoice. "Thank goodness," you'll think. "Her positivity and zest for life has really been wearing on those of us who would rather just wallow." (For the record, I don't think any of you are true wallowers, but I do think the social media fallacy of the perfect, happy life is alive and well - and I'm totally guilty).

But it's been a tough one. While 2019 has contained a multitude of amazing, beautiful, exciting and joyful moments, it has also contained some of the toughest things I have dealt with in my adult life. I can't say I will look back on 2019 with fondness. In this year, I have found myself more frustrated, confused, and unsure of my own mind and my own decisions than I have been in over a decade.

I started it off with some poor choices. I ignored my instincts to back away from a relationship that did not serve me, and let that person back into my life. This one choice lead to months of putting myself and my needs and feelings second, while a person who sometimes claimed to love me also put me second (at best). I allowed myself to stick with this relationship, even while I was increasingly riddled with anxiety, stress, and feelings of worthlessness on an almost daily basis. I felt that, since both of us had fought to be in this relationship, I needed to just keep making it work. I spewed supportive cliches at my friends about how we all need to ask for what we deserve, while I continually refused to do this for myself.

This all came at what I now realize was great emotional expense. In the last several months of 2019, I have been more scared, sad, self-doubting and stressed (say that five times fast) than ever before. I filed a police report for the first time in my life. I went to court, another first, and had to face someone I thought I had loved while a lawyer told a judge that I felt I was in danger. I had my first panic attacks. I have questioned not only my confidence, but also my ability to make smart, healthy, self-serving decisions.

No one deserves to feel this way, but I acknowledge that my emotions are a product of the decisions I kept making. And we don't always make the best ones for ourselves.  It's probably another cliche that every choice we make leads us to where we are now, although it's actually true. I wish it wasn't. It would be nice to blame anyone but myself, but the truth is I was spouting a line of confidence and assurance while living a reality that was the opposite.

I suppose life is a series of ups and downs, but I've always wanted to only be up. There are several literary quotes out there about needing to have darkness to have light, but I have always pushed away any possibility of darkness and rushed towards the light - the happy, positive things in my daily life always outweigh the bad, or at least the amount of time and attention I spend on the good things vastly outweigh that for the negative.

While reflecting on this year, I can say that I believe this to still be true. When things fell apart, and I finally allowed my anxiety and stress around my situation to show, my friends rallied around me immediately. No one let me sleep at home alone when I was sad or scared. My friends skipped work to make sure I wasn't in court alone. Other friends continue to do daily check-ins about my self esteem, emotions, and self-care habits. For one bad relationship, I have dozens of wonderful ones.

I would like to end this with something like "what doesn't kill you makes you stronger", but that's another cliche I'm not sure I buy into. I think what doesn't kill you can make you feel weak, confused, and sad. But time, friendships, and putting yourself first can slowly start to change all that. So while this year wasn't perfect, or even particularly overwhelmingly good, I can't say it was a complete dumpster fire, either.

It has more than a month left, and if you know me, you know that the holiday season can only help. Cheers to the upcoming New Year, friends, and to being honest with yourself, making good choices, personal accountability, and growth.

$4 a day

I was listening to the radio last week (am I the only person who still listens to local radio? This might be a topic for another time) and heard an announcement from our local food bank/food assistance organization, Lift Up, that they were challenging everyone to take the “$4 a Day Challenge”. They described it as a fun and educational way to raise awareness about food insecurity in the United States. It turns out that the national allocation of funds for a recipient of the government’s Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program (SNAP) is $4.15 per day. Those who depend on SNAP (formerly called food stamps) for all of their food and drink are only eating about $29 worth of food per 7-day week.

I can tell you right now, that while I don’t have the exact numbers for myself, I’m spending a LOT more than that. I probably eat dinner out 3-4 times per week (I can actually hear my ultra budget-conscious mother screaming from nine states away), my boss buys my lunch out every day of the work week, and I probably drink 3 cups of coffee per week that I don’t brew at home. I’m a millennial, with no children and no mortgage. If the avocado toast is there, I’m going to order it.

This is not the way I was raised.

My mother estimates that she spent $100-$150 a week on groceries when I was growing up. Which is probably just below what I spend now. But she was shopping for a family of six (I supposed if I’m being accurate, it was sometimes a family of as few as three, as my sisters and I did spend time with our other parents). Mom had a whole book of penny-pinching tricks (literally, it’s called the Tightwad Gazette, and was written by a woman in Maine named Amy Dacyczyn. If anyone has a copy, please let me know how her tips are holding up 27 years later) and was committed to things like making her own bread (delicious) and mixing gallons of milk 50/50 with powdered milk (not so delicious). Luckily for my mother, my siblings and I had pretty inexpensive taste - I loved plain bologna and wheat bread sandwiches, and Top Ramen, at a whopping $0.11 a pack, was a staple of do-it-yourself kid food. She also cooked dinner at home every single night, managing homemade sauces and salads comprised of vegetables from my stepfather’s large garden. I never felt deprived of anything or food insecure. That said, if not for my mom’s extreme frugality and budgeting, things could have felt a lot tighter in our house.

So, I decided to take on the challenge that Lift Up was proposing. I planned on five days, because I’m a complete food addict and a fan of lazy Saturday brunches, and I wasn’t sure my willpower would hold out over a weekend. On Sunday night, I went to the grocery store and carefully selected $15 worth of food (I figured that saving the extra $5 for incidentals could only make this easier and more realistic). I bought bologna and wheat bread, some apples, a couple of green peppers and carrots, condensed soup, oatmeal, pre-packaged pastas, and one $1 pint of store brand Rocky Road (I refused to live an entire five days without a small shred of edible joy).

It started off okay. I hadn’t had bologna in years, so it was sort of fun to pack my lunches with sandwiches and sliced carrots. I quickly found that I was hungry enough by lunch (I work as a landscaper and my job is quite physical, on top of belonging to a CrossFit gym and running 5-10 miles a week) that I was happy to eat just about anything. This would have been fine, except I also got to watch my coworkers and boss eat short order Mexican food, sandwiches, and pizza. By day two I was physically salivating while watching them eat things that had a much larger flavor palette than bologna on wheat.

For children who live in SNAP households, watching their peers eat a variety of lunch foods while they eat the same things everyday or dine on the lackluster, reduced-cost hot lunch at school is difficult. To make matters worse, lunch payment is a hot political issue all across the country. In June, the Pennsylvania state legislature voted to reinstate “lunch shaming”, which is the practice of either denying lunch, or providing an alternative, lower-cost meal option to children who’s parents have outstanding bills. 12% of families suffer from food insecurity, and households with children are twice as likely to experience a lack of food.

By the third day of my challenge, my eyes were opened to the fact that Americans who have to feed themselves on a SNAP budget don’t get to enjoy food the same way as those of us who have more to spend. While dining out, or even cooking a meal at home (something I do woefully infrequently) is an exciting chance to try new flavors and foods, those who have to eat for $4 a day need to plan to fuel their bodies as best they can. I was not enjoying eating by the middle of the week. I went to a party on Wednesday night and went straight for the fresh veggie tray, unaware until then of how much I was missing fresh tomatoes.

On day four, I started feeling really awful. I had a headache by 1 pm on both Thursday and Friday, which I believe I can attribute to the higher sodium level of my $4 a day diet. In the last few years, many studies have been published that prove the negative effects of processed meats, and I was eating salty bologna every day. Half of low-income American adults and children consume at least two servings of processed meats every week. Those who use SNAP benefits to feed their families eat 39% fewer whole grains and 46% more red meat. They consume more processed foods overall than those who do not receive food assistance. Part of the reasons for this is that processed, salty foods are inexpensive and often non-perishable. People utilizing their local food bank to supplement their SNAP funds are likely to find canned and packaged foods, many of which are high in sodium and carbohydrates and low in balanced nutritional value.

Also, I really missed coffee. I sort of forgot to budget for it, and although it is relatively inexpensive, it was something I thought I could easily forgo during the five days of this challenge. It’s a very hip, upper middle class cliche to talk about how much we love and depend on our caffeine, but it’s possible this was also a contributor to the headaches. Cocktails and desserts (except the ice cream, which, if I’m being honest, was gone by Tuesday night) also went out the window. There is no viable way that someone living on $4 a day can afford these small luxuries.

I talked to anyone who would listen about this challenge, including my 18-year-old coworker, who seemed properly horrified when I mentioned that I had purchased condensed soup. I’m not sure if this is a generational or income based response, because when I was a teenager, I was likely still eating Campbell’s chicken noodle (at about $0.50 a can) and loving it. Spoiler alert: it’s not as tasty as we all thought when we were kids. I think it’s basically flavored salt water and very, very soggy spaghetti.

This week has been eye opening. I have to say, I’m not sure if I personally know anyone who is eating on a budget like this, but I certainly hope not. With our current political climate, and the man in the White House threatening to cut benefits to large numbers of Americans who desperately need them to feed themselves and their families, this challenge is even more important. Poor nutrition, which is certainly what I experienced with the foods I ate this week, leads to a variety of potential health problems, which can lead to high or unpaid medical bills, which can force Americans deeper in the hole and keep them in poverty longer. It’s a cycle we need to break. I wish all of our local food assistance organizations, like Lift Up, had more regular access to fresh vegetables and healthy proteins.

I guess to conclude, I would say this challenge was not exactly “fun”. But it was certainly constructive and very interesting. If anyone else is interested, check out liftup.org for more details and to start your own $4 a day plan.

My Baseball Tale

It’s the most wonderful time of the year. Everything looks shiny and bright. People are wishing eachother a good and happy season.

No, I’m not talking about Christmas. It’s Major League Baseball opening day, guys.

Today, it’s March 28th, making this Thursday afternoon (1 pm ET) the earliest opening day in American Major League history (technically the season started on the 20th in Japan this year, but today is the official opener for every team). I’m not sure what the reasoning is behind the early jump, other than to possibly give more days off to players and coaches, who will show up at a ballpark 162 times between now and the end of September (163 for players who make their league’s All Star team or compete in the Home Run Derby). This number is a sharp contrast to other sports, for instance football, where teams play one game a week for 17 weeks, with a week off each during the season, for a total of 16 appearances.

But this is not a blog about the difference between football and baseball. However, it should be noted that for baseball players, the season is a literal full-time job, with most teams playing 6 days a week and sometimes as many as 14 days in a row. It is also a full-time job to be a fan. If you miss a week of coverage, you might find that your team has slipped from first to third, and have no idea how that happened. People who play fantasy baseball are wholly consumed by trades and injuries and starting lineups. It takes work to be a true fan.

You could say I’ve been going to work my whole life.

My mother, an avid Red Sox fan for her entire life (a side effect of being raised by a widowed mother in New England who, to my knowledge, never forgot to switch on the radio at 7 pm every evening, all summer) went into labor with her second child on Boston’s opening day in 1985. She was able to finish watching the game in the hospital before delivering me that evening. I was happy, healthy, and addicted to baseball- apparently rearing to make it out in time for my first opening day.

(If we are following this course of reasoning, it makes sense that my sister has never cared much for America’s pasttime- in July of 1983, the Red Sox were halfway through their first losing season since 1966, which they finished at an uninspiring 78-84.)

Before I even started school, I owned and regularly sported a Boston Red Sox cap, could name the entire starting lineup, was collecting my first baseball cards, and had already attended spring training games in Florida. I played tee ball, then co-ed little league, then softball. I listened to games on my radio alarm clock when I was supposed to be asleep in bed. I begged my parents to pay for cable so we could watch the Red Sox at home, in our rural town in western Maine. Major League Baseball expanded in 1993, and Portland got the Sea Dogs, a AA minor league team for the National League’s new Florida Marlins. We somehow ended up with tickets to an autograph night, where we walked onto the infield grass and collected signatures from relative unknowns. To this day, that’s one of my most exciting baseball memories.

In fifth grade, my entire class raised funds to travel to Boston for two days of events and sightseeing that included, most importantly, a Red Sox game. Walking into the stands from Fenway Park’s dirty, green-painted concourse, I almost started crying. I was eleven years old and the entire experience felt like a dream. I learned about rally caps, comeback wins, and what it meant to stand and scream until I lost my voice with a stadium of people who were feeling just as crazy as I was as the Red Sox came from behind to beat the Seattle Mariners. I still have the ticket stub. If the seed had been planted before, the tree was officially growing.

My mother, meanwhile, got to enjoy watching all of this unfold. I’m not sure if she was thrilled or horrified (at the prospect of driving in the city of Boston) when I announced around age 13 that all I wanted for my birthday were Red Sox tickets so she could take me to a game. I asked for the same thing nearly every year for a decade after that.

Once I reached high school, I started reading books about baseball. W.P. Kinsella’s short, magic-realism stories about small phenomenons in fictional baseball leagues of the Midwest drew me in, as did memoirs about fathers and sons, road trips to Cooperstown, ballplayer biographies, and Doris Kearns Goodwin’s bestseller, Wait Till Next Year. I began to feel a more emotional, nostalgic reverence for the game. I read books and articles about the history of baseball. I purchased the paperback 500-page history of the New York Mets in an airport in New Jersey while on my way to watch Spring Training in 2003 and devoured the entire thing in a week.

When the Jimmy Fallon film “Fever Pitch” was released, it became the running joke amongst my friends, family, and pretty much anyone who had known me for more than an hour that I was going to end up with a man who didn’t love baseball and I would have to adjust. I have always contended that it’s much easier as a woman to meet a man who also loves baseball. As it has turned out, it’s harder than you’d think.

I met a guy in a bar a few years ago and the topic of loving baseball came up. I could only describe my feelings for the game by telling him that “baseball makes me cry.” He nodded thoughtfully and seemed to understand- he is a long-suffering Cubs fan, who also sees the beauty and emotion in the game. (In case you live in a hermit cave and missed it, Cubs fans are no longer suffering, a fact for which I am truly delighted and thankful). So, we can conclude that in my mid-30s, I’ve become a person who starts conversations with strangers in bars by telling them how a professional sport makes me sob. This is all very normal, I promise. (I should also note that we are still good friends, and discuss the finer points of the game on a pretty regular basis. See? No matter what your thing is, I swear your people are out there.)

At 33 years old, I have a Boston Red Sox tattoo on my shoulder (it’s been there for ten years), I drive to Arizona every March to watch the Chicago Cubs in Spring Training (Florida is a plane ride from Colorado. The Cubs are the next best thing, always have been) and I still treat opening day like Christmas. I don’t think I’m likely to ever love any person, or thing, as much as I love the Boston Red Sox, which is a fact that most people in my life have fully accepted by now.

So Happy Opening Day, everyone. May your fly balls be long, your pitches be swift, your feet be fast, and your loved ones be very, very understanding.

Galentine's Day

Happy Galentine's Day, everyone! If you are unaware of the celebration of Galentine's, allow me to enlighten you: on an episode of Parks and Recreation, Leslie Knope (played by the immeasurably talented Amy Poehler), invents Galentine's Day, celebrated on February 13, a day on which straight women leave their significant others at home and celebrate their female friendships. Confession: I haven't actually seen this episode, but I love the idea.

My local female friends and I will be celebrating tonight - we have simultaneous mani/pedi appointments and plans to drink wine. I have also made heart shaped sugar cookies that I plan to distribute to them. Last year, we also did the nail thing, followed by dinner and margaritas at a Mexican restaurant. Aside from the pampering appointments, it looked a lot like an average Friday (or, who are we kidding, Tuesday, or Wednesday) night.

I was inspired to write this post not about the blooming holiday that is Galentine's (although, trust me, pop culture has taken notice. You know something is trendy and here to stay when Target makes decorations and gifts specifically for an occasion. Find evidence of this here.), but actually about a topic that seems to creep back into conversation every few years. That topic is girl-on-girl crime.

Look at me with all these television and movie references! I'm so in tune with pop culture!

When I speak about girl on girl crime, I mean women believing that they need to put someone else's lifestyle, hairstyle, or interests down to make their lifestyle, hairstyle, or interests seem or sound better. We do this all the time. This very casual, everyday comparison: "wow, seriously. I would never dye my hair that color. What is she thinking?" or "I just cant understand why someone would ever pay that much for those shoes. Don't they have better things to spend their money on?" or "I cant believe some women take a vacation and just spend the entire time at the resort. Don't they know there is a whole world to explore out there?"

Or, for instance, this kind of viral social media meme:

The message here is that you're a better woman, or a cooler woman (I mean, just look at that great beanie, comfy flannel, and adorable dog!) if you're into being in the woods and kindling your own flames rather than owning nice shoes or jewelry.

In this meme, the better, or cooler, women apparently want a hammock as well as a campfire. But no diamonds here! Apparently, you can only be one type of woman or the other. Even the phrase "some women" is inherently judgmental because it implies an "other", as if one is saying "not ME, of course, in my comfy flannel and cute beanie, but SOME females, apparently, enjoy jewelry and shoes."

In case you were wondering, I like jewelry and shoes, and I also have a closet full of flannel shirts and hats. I love going to the mall and Las Vegas, getting dressed up for dinners with my girlfriends, and making campfires before I get filthy in the wilderness. No cute dog. Yet.

I want women to stop believing what popular culture tells us, which is that if you're different from me, we cant possibly get along or have anything in common. Apparently, modern society would rather that young women be a divided group than a united force. I would say that I wonder why this is, and it seems pretty subversive to suggest that perhaps it's systematic the way that young women are taught to dislike one another... oh wait.

Building another woman up for her talents, her interests, or her style, even if it is totally different from your own, can cause no harm. Literally, zero harm. So why don't we do it? Are we actually scared of things that are different than us? Are we threatened by other women? Or are we just used to believing that we cant welcome something we don't understand?

Spoiler alert: I don't have the answers.

I have learned, however, in my tender 33 (almost 34, how terrifying) years on this earth that your social life can be infinitely enriched if you appreciate your friends, colleagues, and even acquaintances for their differences. My friends and I are all incredibly different people, yet we come together over our shared interests and learn from each other in areas that we differ. Do we clash on occasion? No, we are absolutely perfect and flawless human beings.

I kid. Of course we do. But it always ends in one or more of us taking a step back and realizing that we all do things differently because we are dynamic, intelligent, and unique human beings.

Unique human beings who all really love a good pedicure. And wine. Cheers to Galentine's Day!

You spin me right round, baby

Have you ever heard the expression/advice, “do one thing per day that scares you”?

Why would I want to do that? Why would anyone want to do that? I hate being scared. I don’t watch horror films, even around Halloween. I try to avoid walking anywhere in the dark alone. Roller coasters and other amusement park rides are totally off the table for me. I am, for all intents and purposes, a true-blue, card-carrying wimp.

But, I also like trying new things, especially if there’s the chance I might really enjoy them. I recently decided that I am going to do one thing every week that I have never done before, for at least an hour, and see if any new hobbies or passions arise. At best, I’ll transform myself into a person with even more diverse interests. At worst, I’ll get some amusing fodder for my blog. 

This Monday, I went to a spin class. I am sure that I am not alone in my stereotyping of “spin” – that it takes place in a dance studio, full of soccer mom types in varying colors of spandex. It’s a fad exercise program, I believe, where people use expensive stationary bicycles to pedal very fast for 45 minutes. I pictured all of these classes taking place in the middle of the work day, making this fad inaccessible to anyone other than the stay-at-home-Mom set. 

Exercise classes in general make me very nervous- I have always thought that walking into one that already has an established clique of fitness must be the most intimidating thing that you can put yourself through at 6:15 on Monday morning. However, my friend Erin had convinced me that spin classes are fun, and she attends this one, so I assumed some of my anxiety would be calmed by having a friendly face there. 

Next thing I discovered is that spin class has a pre-registry, which must be done on the rec center’s website. Spoiler alert: small municipalities aren’t working with the latest and greatest mobile-friendly web tools. After a couple of frustrating hours at work, trying to find the link to sign myself up for the class while simultaneously serving beers to Denver Bronco fans, teachers on their day off, and four drunk hunters from Minnesota, I still hadn’t figured it out, so I gave up. I decided I would march into the gym at 6:15 (let’s be real: 6:05, because if you know me, you know I live by the motto “if you’re on time, you’re late”) and see if there were any spots available. 

Next spoiler: no way. 

Apparently the Monday class is always full, all eleven spots taken, and since Erin had managed to sign up the night before, my first attempt at spinning was not looking good. Except that by class time, 6:15 on the nose (RESPECT, Helen. Respect.), Erin had yet to show. Upside: I was going to get a spot in the class. Downside: I was going to have to do this Thing I’ve Never Done Before alone. (When Erin did show, it turned out that she had forgotten her shoes, and since apparently it’s not considered kosher to participate in a spin class while sporting Ugg boots, she let me keep her spot.)

This is where my presumed stereotypes about spin class (and workout classes in general) participants started to go off the rails. For starters, half of the class was male. Men getting up at 6 am to ride stationary bikes. Even more interesting is that they were all significantly older than myself, and mostly older than the very fit women in the class. (Now that I’m writing this down, perhaps this is not such a mystery after all...) I believe I was close to, if not actually, the youngest person on a bike that morning. I was also, as predicted, the only female not sporting some form of spandex pant. I cracked some self-deprecating jokes about how no one wants to deal with a newbie on a Monday morning (Garfield HATES Mondays, am I right?), they chuckled politely and assured me it was fine. Someone handed me some 4 lb weights (what?! I thought this was cycling), and we were off to the races. 

Without going into a play by play (spin by spin?) of how the class went, let me say that my ass was kicked. As someone who considers herself relatively fit (I run about 10-20 miles per week, hike sometimes, mountain bike, and have a labor-intensive day job), I assessed the room (and the instructor, a 5 foot tall woman who looks to be about my mother’s age) and thought I would be fine, I would make sure they knew I was a first-timer, and they would all be moderately impressed by my abilities and level of fitness. However, when I was sweating harder than a menopausal woman in Florida, I looked around the room to smiling, mostly dry faces. These people are animals. On top of biking continuously at varying levels of resistance, we also continued to pedal while doing bicep curls and shoulder presses.

To wrap it up, things hurt today (as I’m writing this, it is two days since I took the class). But I didn’t fail. And I didn’t die of embarrassment. And I’ve also signed up for a class tomorrow morning. 6:15 am. Spin classes will no longer be something I’ve never done before, but they are apparently something I’ll be doing again. Luckily, I have some colorful spandex in the closet, just waiting for my second go-around.

Let's Touchdown a Home Run

I was at Target the other day (this fact should shock exactly zero of you, since I love that store and spend most of my hard-earned cash there, so much that several friends have even suggested an intervention), browsing for a new top to wear to a holiday party. I stumbled upon what we'll call the "not quite juniors, not quite adults" section of the women's wear department. There, I spotted some t-shirts, which from a distance looked cute and very much my style - crew neck, sporty, football-striped type cotton things. I walked over to them, anticipating something I might be able to wear while watching some playoff games this weekend.

Instead, what I found was this:

 

Oh, I discovered. They have cute little sayings on the front. Let's see what they've got.

"Rooting for the commercials" is sort of silly, and also a nod to all the people, men and women, who watch the Superbowl just to see the preposterous amount of money that corporations spend on a new ad, to be revealed to the largest television audience of the year. Sure, that's funny. However, they aren't selling this shirt in the men's section. They wouldn't dare. Men watch football to root for the football teams, after all (at least, that's what modern popular culture dictates). It's the women who can only be lured to the screen during a sporting event by the promise of amusing advertisements, right?

I sighed and continued to flip through the rack. 

Of course, a shirt designed in a football style, but only highlighting the half-time entertainment. Because that's why a female would watch the Superbowl- to see if Lady Gaga is going to show up in an outfit made entirely out of non-clothing materials, or if there's going to be a wardrobe malfunction or some obvious lip-syncing. Flashy lights and entertainment are all we women care about! Thank goodness there's a break in the boring sporting match to let us ladies have something to enjoy. Again, this is a product that would never be sold in the men's department. Real men don't care about the half-time show. They just use that time to refill their beer buckets and holler at their girlfriends to bring some more snacks, right?

You have got to be kidding me. Let me get this right, here - young women are supposed to dress in a cute, football-inspired jersey t-shirt for the big game. But there has to be a saying on the front, preferably one that puts us in our place and makes sure that everyone at the Superbowl party knows that despite the style of clothing, we are still just pretty little idiots. The only message that this shirt conveys is that women know nothing about professional sports, and that fact is something adorable that should be celebrated. "It's so silly and cute that I don't know the difference between football and baseball!" If you're wearing this shirt, you might as well have a sign on your back that says "I'm just here so you can slap my ass and send me back to the kitchen for more brewskis". 

I really thought we were past this, Target. There is no practical reason that women should pretend to be ignorant about professional sports, or that it should be considered charming and attractive to be dumb. We live in the United States of America. Everyone knows the difference between a touchdown and a home run. Everyone. We do a disservice to the demographic that these clothes are geared towards (I would say probably the 18-28 set) by continuing to promote the concept that cluelessness and femininity are one in the same. 

I'm certainly not saying that every woman should know professional sports inside and out. If you aren't a fan, that's a personal choice. I just can't believe this clothing was ever made. If a woman doesn't like football, then she doesn't have to dress for the game. And she certainly shouldn't find that her game-inspired choices include clothing that suggests any level of idiocy because of her disinterest. Nor should a woman who is a sports fan find that the only styles available to her at a large national chain are designed to depict her as silly and stupid. 

Here's an idea: let's treat women (and by extension, women's fashion) like they are intelligent, dynamic human beings who can be interested (or not) in any subject they like. Let's stop designing clothes for girls that suggest its cool, trendy, and attractive to be dumb. Maybe if we start there, society will eventually stop treating young women like they're uninformed, silly little girls who need to have even the most basic concepts explained. 

Girls, its ok to know about sports, and it's cute to be smart. Stop letting society take that away from you.

Stone Cold

It's possible that you're aware that I enjoy a cocktail from time to time. 

And when I say "from time to time", I actually mean that I'm likely to be the life of most parties, always ready for a Sunday brunch bloody mary bar, and I never miss a Wednesday Winesday with the girls at our favorite restaurant. Brewery tours and tastings are my favorite. I recently took a trip to Ireland, where I averaged 3-4 pints of Guinness each day, and it was every bit as delicious and magical as I had heard it would be. 

On the eve of my 32nd birthday, while drinking gallons of water and trying to prepare for the two-night celebration, I decided I would take a break from drinking, following the weekend. No wine, no bloodies, no complimentary drink after the lunch shift at my bartending job. I also decided that April 9th would be the perfect day to start, since my birthday was the day before and I was sure to be totally disinterested in alcohol. 

For 27 days, I had not more than a sip (tasting a friend's new and interesting beer doesn't count, people - I was sober, not dead). On the suggestion of someone who had taken similar breaks before, I didn't put a time limit on my total sobriety - I was advised that setting a timeline of "a month" or "two weeks" would just leave me counting down the days until I could crack open my next microbrew, and would thus accomplish none of the perspective I hoped to gain. 

Here's what happened.

1) I needed way less sleep. As a person who highly values my shut-eye, I have always said I need 7 hours to function properly, 8 to feel great, and with 9, I'm a true rock star. After a few days of no alcohol at all, I found myself waking up without an alarm after 6-7 hours, feeing completely rested and ready for the day. Don't think I'm converted - I still really want that full 8. But with nothing coursing through my system to make me more exhausted, waking up with the sun feels very natural. My sleep quality got better, too - no 3:00 am wake ups to pour another glass of water.

2) I got dehydrated. I know this sounds ridiculous, since alcohol is actually what dehydrates you (we've all slogged into our favorite breakfast place on a Sunday morning, ready for the waitress to come to our table so we can plead "coffee and a water, please, lots of water"), but without the knowledge of damage done the night before, I almost completely forgot to drink water. Four days into my sober period, I woke up with a splitting headache, urine the color of marigolds, and soreness and exhaustion after 7 full hours of sleep. Whoops. 

3) I lost weight. A couple of days ago, right before I decided I wanted a margarita too much to be able to resist, I weighed myself and found there is 8 pounds less of me than on April 9th. While I wasn't drinking, I was not paying any special attention to my eating habits, and had slacked off a bit with my running schedule. It didn't matter, I lost weight anyway. My face also appeared slimmer and tighter. By this time, I had reconciled the dehydration issue, which surely helped with this result. 

4) I realized how much free time I really have. When you get out of work at 5:00 pm on a Friday and have no plans to drink, the amount of things you can accomplish seems endless. I did laundry on a weekend night. I grocery shopped on a Saturday at 8 pm. I helped a friend clean and organize his home. I sat on my couch with a coloring book and my Netflix subscription while the bars downtown filled up, and then popped out of bed ready to make the most of my Sunday - just 4 hours after those same bars were closing. I thrift shopped, scoured my apartment, and entertained my parents over a long weekend (in which most of our planned activities started before 8 am). 

5) I felt socially liberated. You know how some people will tell you the truth about a situation, but only after they've knocked back a few glasses of Cabernet? I just started opening my mouth (and my text messages) in an entirely sober state, consequences be damned. I analyzed my friend's dating lives openly and honestly. I flirted with abandon. I told people how I felt about them. Simply, I decided that anything I might feel comfortable saying when my BAC was heightened had better be something I would say sober, too. As far as I know, all of my relationships are still intact and no one has been offended, which brings me to my next point...

6) I realized that nobody cared. Perhaps that's the wrong way to phrase it, because my friends did care. They cared to be supportive, to let me know that they were proud of me for taking a break and working towards making healthier choices. When I say nobody cared, I mean that not one of my closest friends tried to convince me to stray from the plan. I attended all four Wednesday Winesdays that occurred this month, sipping iced tea or water while everyone else drank wine. Did you know that your average "soft" drink costs about $2.50? Oh, yeah...

7) I saved money. I have no idea how much, but I do know that going out for dinner is actually a pretty reasonably priced endeavor if all you're having is dinner. Between alcoholic beverages bought for myself and those I jovially purchased for my drinking partners, I estimated my average weekly spending on booze to be somewhere between $40 and $60. Whoah. Going home from an evening out with cash still in my wallet is a wonderful feeling (waking up on a Sunday morning knowing exactly how much is left in there is even better). 

I'm quite sure some of you will read this and be immediately concerned or convinced that I have a problem with alcohol. "Why would she feel the need to take a break, unless she was boozing hard every night and spiraling out of control?", you'll ask. The answer is: I have never felt out of control, but I came to a realization that alcohol doesn't need to be a social priority. When friends invite me to their home for a bbq, my first thought does not need to be about what type of beer I should bring. My second thought does not need to be a plan on how to get to and from the gathering without driving - automatically assuming that every social event will potentially result in being too intoxicated to drive is just ridiculous. 

Drinking had also come to be seen as a reward for me (this is something I partially blame on pop culture, which is inundated with portrayals of hard working men and women kicking back and letting loose with beer, wine, or margaritas on a Friday after a "hard week"). Saying "I deserve these beers, I just worked six days in a row", or "I pulled a double on Friday, so Saturday night I'm going out" makes little sense. If I am working this hard to earn a little free time, shouldn't I be spending that time feeling my best - waking up with a clear head and enough energy to really enjoy a day of freedom?

If this blog post has been an inspiration to you, then I am sorry to disappoint: I had margaritas on Friday, and woke up yesterday feeling less than stellar. I also had a bloody mary at brunch this morning. Laying off the booze for nearly a month didn't make me want to stay sober forever. However, it did help me gain some important perspective about how I view and value my social relationships, my free time, and my health. Moderation, something I have never been great with (ask me about my sugar addiction!), is my new goal. 

Maybe next month, dessert. Maybe.