Paleo, Schameleo

Since learning about a way of eating called, "paleo," I could only scoff and proclaim that I'd never have enough time to eat that way. Paleo is not just an era long forgotten in our history, it's a way of eating like the caveman - nothing processed, no diary (me, never!?!), no grains, no pizza, no chocolate? "Who has time for that?" I would exclaim, "Not me, never ever."

As someone who is extremely paranoid of using the word "never" in any statement (my supersitions about the using the word "never" require another blog post), trying to eat paleo was already a self-fulfilling prophesy that would inevitably happen one day.

That day was 13 days ago when I started a reset called the whole 30. That's 30 whole days of eating like our ancestors and it's 30 days of a whole lot of nos - no diary, no grains, no legumes (peanuts included), no sugar, no processed foods and no alcohol (sadly translated to no wine).

This reset is supposed to help rid your body of all the bad things that are out there and break the sugar addiction. My first grocery shopping trip was an exercise in and of itself, enlightening me to our society's dependence on sugar. I've been encouraging friends just to try to shop without purchasing any products that have sugar in them - it's unbelievable the foods that contain sugar. If you didn't look at the ingredients, (which most of us would take for granted in a healthy grocery store!) you wouldn't believe they have sugar in them - deli meats (organic) - all have cane sugar; every single solitary salad dressing out there, even balsalmic vinegiette - sugar; how about vitamins - not just one, but two types of sugar; olives - a staple on this diet - most of them in the olive bar have sugar in them!

No wonder we have an obesity issue in this country. It is virtually impossible to find foods without sugar.

Now, when I'm walking in the grocery store or the food area at Target, I am amazed by aisle upon aisle filled to the brim with foods - all containing sugar or grains in the ingredients. I can walk down entire aisles and there is not one single food item I can eat.

And while I am enjoying this freedom from sugar, it's an addiction I fear that society won't let me break. It's going to be so easy to slip back into the world of sugar, because we are almost living entirely in a world in which it has crowned itself king.

How did we get here? And, with all the latest focus on health foods, all organic, grass-fed meats and buy local - the sad thing is that sugar hasn't left, it's stayed and it's showing up in places you'd least expect it.

I've got 17 more days on my journey as an alien in the sugar land. At the end, I hope I can keep up with the paleo way of eating, which actually is not as time consuming as I thought, especially thanks to a wonderful blog, everydaypaleo.com. I love cooking with all the spices and flavors. And the food is so colorful and fresh - cooking is my hobby and I lost that a while ago to pre-packaged, throw it in the oven "food."

It's making me feel lighter, giving me more freedom. But what truly takes the time is finding the food to eat - real food without the dreaded sugar. Breaking the addiction is tough, but even finding the tools to do so is tougher.

From the Archives: This I Believe (2007)

Since I haven't written in quite a while (I need new material; actually, I just need to take a break from something called life), I thought this would be an opportunity to pull something out of the archives. There is a segment on NPR called "This I believe," in which individuals write about their beliefs. I wrote my own essay on Jan. 25, 2007 - This is uneditted to stay true to my feelings as a single woman, a perspective that I no longer have.

Later that year, I met my future husband, who is every bit as wonderful as I had hoped and believed. Someone who loves me for me, even though I am still my old headstrong, independent self. I dedicate this to my fabulous single friends who are seeking their person...

This I believe. I believe there is someone special out there for me. I believe in true love and even though I haven’t found it yet, I will find it someday. I know so many unmarried women in their 30s like me or beyond. From the outside, we appear confident, carefree. We’ve taken designer jeans and martinis over babies and commitments. We are wild things who don’t want to settle down. I think there was a time in my life when I needed to be carefree, to explore the world and learn about myself. But with each passing year, there is a small voice of doubt in my mind that gets louder and louder. I try to push it aside, ignore it, but it is constantly there.

Even though most of us won’t admit it, deep down we are all wondering the same thing, “will I ever find the right man for me?” I don’t see this question as a weakness, nor do I think it is a pressure pushed on to us by society. Everyone wants to be loved unconditionally. Why can’t the single girl have this? Will this make her happy? Will this make her whole? When do I get the chance to experience marriage?

My single friends are beautiful, intelligent, gracious women who have chosen not to get married yet. But we forget that it’s a choice. I think the majority of us could be married now, but we haven’t felt as though we’ve found the match or the timing wasn’t right or we’ve been disappointed by men. But, with grit and determination, we continue to grow and develop into truly amazing women. So after all of these accomplishments, who says that we don’t deserve a man who will love us as we are, as equals? A man who will not be intimidated, someone who will help us continue to grow. But the doubts linger, “are these men out there?” “Will I find them?”

Our mothers raised us to believe that we could be whatever we wanted to be. Education was the top priority. My mother challenged and pushed me to excel in academics, to pursue my dreams and never give up. She descended from a generation of pioneers. Women who were given three options – nursing, teaching and secretarial work.

I think the generation of women I belong to have made our mothers proud. Among my closest group of single friends, you would find all with post-graduate education, a doctor, lawyer, pharmacist, just to name a few. Since we were brought up actually believing in our souls that one of us could be the first female president, perhaps the legacy we will leave is not quite as lofty as those before us, but necessary all the same.

Perhaps the legacy of this generation of single woman is that eventually, women will not be subjected to the ridicule (intentional or unintentional) of those who are in the married club. The constant questions of why aren’t you married or why don’t you have a boyfriend eat away at the hardest defenses we single women have developed. It is my hope that we will take this suffering as a sacrifice so women of younger generations will be able to be truly comfortable and truly happy as single. They won’t have to build the armor that we have so carefully constructed after years of bad dates, comments from concerned family members and idle chit chat with strangers who “just can’t figure you out.”

Us single girls try so hard to feel comfortable and content with our current lack of marital status. We have excelled in so much, but our armor isn’t sufficient. We haven’t succeeded at one thing society says is success – finding a husband. And I have to wonder that once we finally do possess what was seemed so remote, that we may wish to have our single lives back again. But we can’t know until we get there. But you know what they say, the other side always wants what the other one has.

So you see I have to believe in love. I have to believe that it is out there for me. I have accomplishments, degrees, high powered jobs and awards. But what good are they unless you have someone to share them with and create a family of your own? Who says that the modern day single girl can’t have it all? I have to believe that we can. I have to believe in the hope that one day myself and all my single sisters out there will find a guy who challenges and accepts us, just as we are. The perfect match has to exist. This I believe.

The Edge

After taking a break from working out for most of February (at least it was a short month) and not taking a break from fixating on my growing belly, I decided it was time to recommit myself to a workout routine. However, it seems as though the crowds have not tapered off at the Y and yoga, as I had hoped to occur during my hiatus.

As for the app I downloaded to my iPhone that was supposed to help me track my progress and stay motivated -- Let's just say I'm trying desperately to remember what it is called - True burn? Burn it off? Nope, I need to consult an earlier post (perhaps the one in which I set my intention for losing the newlywed 15). Somehow I thought I'd be more committed if I wrote about it and posted it for the world to see. Note to self -- apparently the world is not a major motivator.

Needless to say, that app has been about as helpful as the bar scanning app (which I never used, so one day I decided to scan the first thing I could find at the moment, a canister of Target disinfecting wipes, and shocker - it wasn't in the database, thus rendering that useless), the dictation app (y'all, southern is not one of its languages) and the wine database app (after two glasses - what app?).

Oh, I remember now -- the Daily Burn app. Of course! Well, I'm sure it would have been useful if I (a) worked out, (b) used it and (c) worked out. Did I say worked out? That's right world, way to be my motivator.

So today I am back in yoga class, which I learned has only gotten more popular with the passing month. There is now an overflow studio, which I was relegated to last week. Today I just had my little heart set on being in the regular class with "all the big kids," so I left the office early and arrived with 15 minutes to spare thinking that would surely be sufficient.

The parking lot held a lot of clues as to how this was going to go down. The normal lot was a complete mess, which I quickly abandoned for overflow (common theme, right?). I grabbed my mat and flew of my car, feet barely touching the street, nearly getting run over in my haste to beat three other people across the road and into the door. I entered the studio, almost barreling down the girl in front of me, only to be told I would be practicing in overflow - again!

It was flight or fright - I considered leaving, but I was here and I pre-registered. In a huff, I entered the studio room, first one in. I threw my mat down, cursing that this happened again. That's the spirit!

Many deep breaths later, I exhaled the disappointment out of my body like a bad spirit and made the decision to embrace this opportunity - to take myself to the edge. When I'm trying to "get back in shape," I sometimes like to hold back to minimize risk of injury. I know, completely surprising. This is probably part of the reason I can't commit to working out at the moment, because of minimal effort (although I have been known to go to extremes and over do it a little, which might have happened before to the wedding; it's a Catch-22, but isn't most of my life!?!).

Ever focused on the practice (I definitely wasn't thinking about writing this in there), I extend my arm to the ceiling in the side angle pose and pushed myself to the limit. My legs were a shaking like a dog that just got out of the water -- one leg bent in front of me and the other extended behind me with the side of my foot pressed to the mat. I couldn't control it.

But yoga is about letting go of control and in that moment, trusting your body. When you start to feel as though you are going to break, you focus on breathing to calm the body, even though you are anything but calm. I think I could hear my legs screaming.

But I pushed that noise aside, continuing to breath into the panic, continuing to stretch the pose and take it deeper. I went to the edge - didn't even have to tell myself to do it, I just did. I extend my hand higher - my little fingers outstretched like flames against the bright yellow ceiling. Sweat dripping down my face, into my eyes. Legs burning, burning, burning.

Finally, the pose ends (thank goodness). I fill my lungs and as I leave the pose, it feels like heaven. The feeling of relief, of satisfaction facing a struggle that is complete. Taking another breath, the other side. With a steady gaze (and a quick softening of the face) I went to the edge again, but this time knowing the reward of the return. 

When I was in growing up, I was a year-round amateur swimmer for Mecklenburg Aquatic Club. Our coach would talk to us about breaking through the edge and how we should strive for that feeling where you hit the wall and then suddenly, you are free. You are super human, or at least, you feel that way.

The most vivid memory I have of taking the edge to freedom during my swimming career happened in ninth grade. It was the semifinals of the high school regional championships for 4A division schools -- the 100 meter butterfly and there I was - a faux freshman (grandfathered in from junior high) among a sea of juniors and seniors.

I was seeded in an outside lane in the second to final heat, which makes me a major dark horse, and in a field of 16, one of the slowest. I took my mark and hit the water, exploding under the surface with my dolphin kick. The second I threw my head up for a breath, I knew I was on the edge of the door, waiting to open it. I took an early lead, and with every flick of my arms, in and out of the water, I left the heat behind.

I felt light as air, like a true dolphin out for a leisurely swim in the open ocean. Suddenly, I hit the pool wall - the race was over. I turned and watched everyone else finish. Astonished and in disbelief, I saw my time - 1:07. I had beaten my best time by over a minute, also beating most of the those in the final heat, and would represent Myers Park High School in the state championships at age 15.

As I pushed myself to the edge tonight, releasing fear, releasing anxiety, releasing expectations - I realize the value of breaking through that wall. I was ready to give up tonight, to walk away. How have I let myself succumb so easily to excuses and confinement of so self-built walls? When did it become so easy?

The challenge is moving the walls and using them to block the excuses and the expectations. The edge is the place the be - the reward is so much sweeter when you have gone the distance. I must continue to teeter out on the edge and trust myself that I won't fall, but that instead, I will fly. 

My Aspiration to be a Scrapbooker - Too Pie in the Sky?

When I envision my perfect self, which is (at the moment) easy to do because I'm sitting in my house which has (a) been cleaned today and (b) is currently neat and organized (i.e. no messy piles of anything lying around), I see myself as of a highly productive producer of projects, channeling the grace and nimbleness of a Martha Stewart.

If you have read some of my blogs, you may believe I often channel the likes of Martha - just stop to consider the re-covered living room chairs, the gardening, the trip to Mary Jo's Fabric Shop, the drapes, the whole chicken (which I did take out of the freezer, but haven't cooked yet - my twitter friend didn't tell me how long it needed to cook, so we're back to square one essentially). One might observe these domestic projects and say, "wow...you sure have it together. You are the living image of a domestic goddess, pure tranquility." Cue the birds and harp.

My approach to projects does not conjure up such images of birds, harps and tranquility - instead it's more of a stumbling, clumsy approach, knowing that sooner or later, I am going to start bleeding, sobbing or talking to myself - none of which would make me the ideal Martha, although I might fit right in on a reality tv show. There's always going to be something that occurs, such as the fan I purchased that came packaged with the wrong part (twice - seriously, I swear this happened) or the self-rising flour gets used instead of the regular flour or fill in the blank - it's like Mad Libs over here.

But back to my point, when I think about my perfect life - I envision one project above all other projects - the SCRAPBOOK (using my Barbara Walter voice for hushed emphasis). Scrapbooking to me is the epitome of "you have it together."

Organizing photographs among color coordinated paper and neat stickers - hard edges that are completely straight, no jagged cutting (and no paper cuts). Photos aligned both horizontally and vertically to perfection - that is it, perfection. That is true perfection to me.

I'm an organizer at heart, but I have to have the time and stamina. On a Christmas break from college, I took letters, mementos and photos from my childhood (ages 0-18) and sorted them, organized them and archived them in letter boxes. It took two days, but I did it. That is a glimpse of how organized I used to be or maybe, just how bored.

I walked into Micheal's the other day and was suddenly overcome by the desire to scrapbook - it was as though I had inhaled the aroma of the silk flowers and was just carried away by a primal need to do some crafts. As I walked up and down the aisles looking for a desk organizer, I found myself smack dab in the mecca of scrapbooking (unless you count a precious memories party). It was the scrapbooking aisle - all the tools were right there, the stickers, the pens, the scissors, the paper and the organizer systems! I was in pure bliss...for about 10 seconds and then I started sweating, waves of inadequacy fell over me. I had to scoot on out of there. I'm only a wanna-be! Geez, this is starting to seem like a daily occurrence.

Don't get me wrong, I did a great job scrapbooking when I was growing up - my great grandfather was a printer and was a good source of sample books from stationery companies. My mom told me that when she was growing up, she and her cousin would take those books, rip out the samples and then turn the bound, empty book with its thick, rich pages into the foundation for a great scrapbook. I can remember flipping through some of my mom's scrap books of her trips with my dad - Greece, Turkey, California graced the perfect black pages with my parents and scenery of the world's seven wonders staring back at me.

So I took the inspiration, got my own sample book from my great grandfather, ripped out wedding invitation upon wedding invitation, and created my own scrapbook - I think it spanned from 1986-1987, a banner year. I had pictures from New York, several trips to UNC football games, a zoo trip, trips to the North Carolina mountains and some neighborhood pictures - I was busy with my LeCliq camera, a little too busy after taking three rolls of film at the state zoo - my parents cut me off (I was a passionate child). I can also recall a Disney World scrapbook, a Hurricane Hugo scrapbook (one for the archives, complete with weather reports) and multiple high school scrapbooks.

I even continued to make the occasional scrapbook in college, cataloguing my study abroad semester in France. But, that's about where it ended. Since then, there have been several failed attempts at scrapbooking.

There was my trip in graduate school to Europe. I planned to create a scrapbook - I collected lots of trinkets, matchbook covers, brochures, and so on - all the time thinking,"this will be perfect for my scrapbook," going above and beyond to make sure I had everything I needed. You have to plan in advance for these sort of things. Stored them up in a folder, which I labeled "scrapbook." That's as far as that got.

I remember packing that scrapbook folder up when I moved from Chicago. Then I packed it up when I moved out of my apartment in Charlotte, encountering it when I moved out of my condo in Charlotte...all the while, taunting me like a misspelled word. Sitting on my list of to dos for almost eight years, never getting checked off - and I hate not checking something off my to do list! I finally moved it into storage, thus simultaneously removing it from the list of things to do permanently (or at least until it resurfaces to mock me).

Then there was a scrapbook I was going to make for a friend's wedding - I collected lots of little mementos from her girl's weekend in New York. This time I bought a scrapbook that was color coordinated to her wedding palette, along with some cute city stickers. Where is it now? Under the bed in the spare room where I sit right this moment. Maybe I'll make it for her second anniversary. And, the most aggressive scrapbook of them all - my wedding/honeymoon. I bought the super fancy scrapbook for that, complete with lettering, stickers AND an extra pack of pages. I thought, "I'll just throw some money at this thing and that will motivate me." Nope.

So there it sits, right beside the other failed attempt, if you can even call buying supplies an attempt (to be fair, I guess you could). At least it's out of sight, out of mind. And now, these photo websites have their own photo books - let me tell you - those are just as much work as the real deal. I started to make one for my parents, but gave up after hours had passed and I was still on the first page. But, I made sure to save it for good measure.

One day I will get to these scrapbooks, I'm sure of it. I know that it's worth it -- I can remember how much I loved to look at my mom's, imagining her life before she had me, which is hard to conceive when you are that young. But I had so much fun, flipping through those pages again and again. I hope that I will have more than just my tween and high school years available for my children to peruse (let's face it, the tween years are really those awkward years that are best not remembered too much). But let's be honest, if I don't get to these things before I have said children, it really will be just a pie in the sky kind of idea.

Send a Message to the Universe, the Universe Tweets Back

A few months ago, I happened to get signed up to receive emails from EarthFare, an organic-type grocery store, based in Asheville, but with a store right here in town. It is one of those stores filled with beautiful produce displayed ever so attractively next to trays filled with fresh samples, you can't help but go for an impulse tomato or avocado purchase.

So one day, a note pops up in my inbox, telling me I need to sign up for a free dinner for four. Attracted by the word free like a moth to the flame (aren't we all, even after reading Predictable Irrational), I clicked on the link, which took me to a page that told me I had to sign up to qualify for my free meal. I thought, "that is probably just for a chance to win a dinner for four," and I closed the browser and forgot about it. A few days later, I get a little friendly reminder, being a bit more specific (good refinement due to some customer feedback, I'm sure). So, I decide a dinner for four is enough to make me register on the EarthFare website, which is actually quite pleasant, I must say.

I print my coupon and it tells me that within a week, I can redeem it for a whole chicken or veggie burgers, a pack of carrots and mashed potatoes. I wasn't sure if I would actually get around to redeeming the thing, but then realized I had an appointment at a salon over there during the redemption period. However, I was a little concerned about the "dinner for four" menu - carrots, potatoes (hello CARBS!) and a whole chicken - that's right, a WHOLE chicken. I started to feel like I was back in Mary Jo's fabric store again. I cook and all (both with and without recipes), but I never have attempted something so technical like a whole chicken!

Since I was over there, I decided it made sense to stop over at EarthFare and pick up a few things, after I could check out this stuff and get it if I wanted, it was "free." I had to spend $10 to qualify for the deal, but that is never a problem with a few bourbon salmon slices for me and the hubby, not to mention seltzer water and some other items I have to get every time I'm there, like stuffed grape leaves (seriously, those are delicious).

I casually lurk around the meat department, trying to figure out where the whole chickens might live. Well, I think I did actually decide to jump ship at one point and go for the veggie burgers - but they only had the soy burgers and some kind of nut burger that looked dubious. Black bean burgers were sold out. So, I was too late for the mainstream veggie burgers - it was the chicken or nothing. I'm sure lots of folks like me had that same idea.

While I was picking up my salmon, a couple was inquiring about the chicken to the guy behind the meat counter. "They are so easy," he said. Good thing I wasn't over there - I was good listening about it from my comfort zone by the seafood counter. I casually stared as he took them to the place where the chickens were.

With fish in hand, I moved slowly toward the section with the chickens - oh, there are the seltzers...I eventually got there. Even though I had been over there previously (yes, I admit it), I had evidently missed the huge signs that said, "get your chickens for you free dinner for four right here" in big, bold lettering. I swear retailers, when people are in the supermarket, particularly after the work, they are zoned out and the last thing they are doing is reading anything! I don't even think blinking lights and a leprechaun beside a pot of gold would help people figure out where the free chickens were.

I picked up the chicken and stared it down, straight in the eye. I just wasn't too sure about this chicken - Complete disaster? An instant throw-away? I envisioned myself trying to cook this thing and saw myself starting a project I wasn't sure I could finish - it MIGHT have brought back memories of hanging the drapes in the living room.

I took the plunge. I can do this. I have watched the episode of America's Test Kitchen on cooking the perfect chicken, granted I didn't have all the fancy cooking accessories needed, but I figured that I could do this.

So when I got home, I decided I would tweet about my chicken, which I should mention I put immediately in the freezer as a good procrastination measure.

My post: Picked up my free dinner from @EarthFare today - mashed potatoes, carrots, whole chicken. Nice! Unsure abt cooking that bird - in freezer.

Translated, that's "Hey EarthFare! What's up? I redeemed my free dinner - that was pretty cool. However, I have no idea how I'm going to cook that thing! OMG! This is a thinly veiled call for help!"

Minutes later, @EarthFare sends a note out to the world wide web, the universe of all things, responding to someone else tweeting about their free meal. The post: @akseabird Yum! So glad! How did you cook your chicken? @TarheelConway is looking for tips :)

And just like that, I was saved by @akseabird - who responded to me. Her post: @EarthFare Roasted it w/the carrots. 400F. Inside: fresh basil, rosemary & garlic. Outside: same +salt, garlic pwd, & dill (@TarheelConway).

How cool! Now I had the recipe and I could move forward with my chicken. And, to top it off, it seemed so simple and easy.

My cry for help out into the great beyond had been answered. It really felt like my first time (be it small) interacting over Twitter, having a real interaction. Have no idea who she is, where she lives, but sounds like she knows her stuff. I know it sounds silly, but I interact all the time with friends on Facebook - Twitter just seems so business, newsy, closed-off - I haven't gotten to the point where I've really been able to use it this way. And, it was just so dern nice of her to add me to her tip!

I am going to take that chicken out of the freezer this weekend and give it a try. I hope it turns out well, and I plan to throw those carrots in there, along with some other stuff. I do love to cook, and am not afraid to go off a recipe (in fact, that's why I'm good at cooking and not baking) and throw caution to the wind, do not get me wrong. It's just a whole bird seemed like something out of my league, taking it up a notch! But, I think I'm ready now.

Who knows, maybe my next step is making real, homemade pie crust! Or better yet, real, homemade chicken pot pie, honey!

As the Page Turns - Au Revoir to Mes Livres de Papitre

I have loved books from a very early age. One day, I remember it ever so clearly, I was reading a very thick book out loud to my dad, possibly about the adventures of farm animals. I am not sure how young I was and since I don't have children yet, I have no sense of scale when children start reading on their own. However, he abruptly interrupted me and said something to the effect of, "you are old enough to read to yourself now - in your mind," followed by him getting up and walking out of my bedroom. I'm sure that my dad was really saying, "That's it - I can't take any more - get me out of here!" after sitting on my bed, lost in my hundreds of stuffed animals, trying not to fall asleep listening to me read for night upon night. I was left dumbstruck - probably by the end to the attention, but also by the fact that I needed to read to myself? in my head? That didn't seem as much fun. Although, I probably just shrugged and kept on reading.

Another memorable moment was reading "The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe" in second grade - I was so proud, bragging to lots of parental types. Not sure if that is really an achievement now, "kids are sooo smart these days," (rolling eyes, although I'm sure I'll say this about my child too - I swear with all the geniuses running around, why are we worried about the national debt in 20 years!?!) but back then it seemed like something.

Over the years, I've turned into a bit of a speed reader. I tend to skim over some parts that I find either boring or irrelevant, or when I desperately need to find out how something is going to turn out. I never skip full pages or anything, just speed through dialogue that I judge to be unimportant to the plot at hand. What's completely ironic is how lengthy my blog posts get - I hope someone out there has more patience than me to read these long diatribes (and enjoy them too). Although, I take great pleasure in writing them. Perhaps that's a sign - better writer, than reader.

And like any "writer," I abhor poorly, written prose with flat, undeveloped characters or plots that are disjointed or non-sensical. But, I'm not always a critic - it is rare that I encounter a book I absolutely loathe, and like a witch in a fairy tale who has been cursed, I absolutely must finish any book I start. I learned to be a bit more choosey after picking up one of the Mitford series books that my 70-year-old grandmother, at the time, raved about. The raving part should have been a hint. I was in my early 20s - let's just say I was not the target audience for this read.

I am probably half book snob/half book tabloid (or better yet, "book Us Weekly"). Sometimes you just need a "good beach read," which is a nice southern way of saying "a book that lacks depth and intellect; that doesn't require a lot of brain power to read;" kind of like reading a tabloid or watching mindless reality tv, which depending on the topic, can be just as relaxing. These are the types of books I can fly through two at a time, given enough spare time and the perfect 12-hour beach day weather.

Two years ago, my husband tried to get me to cheat on my books - he proclaimed that I was a "loud page-turner" at night, and didn't I want one of those new Kindles for Christmas 2009? Like an old curmudgeon, I was repulsed - I could never give up my books - never! (I'm dramatic, at times, so I'm sure I threw an extra one in for emphasis). I love the feel of the paper in my hands, the turn of the page, the weight of the book (or the cramping in my arm as I try to hold the book with one arm), how could I possibly give that up?

Well, I haven't written my post on all of my personal "rules" yet, but let me tell you that "never say never," is right at the top. When these words roll right off the tip of my tounge, people should start taking bets on when I am going to contradict myself, because the moment is not too far off.

Weeks go by and I hear from my sister-in-law (to be) about how great her Kindle is - she basically gave me a testimonal and how to use it pitch that hit me just at the right time - it was like the perfect storm for the Kindle marketer. I had finished up the "Girl Who Played with Fire" and had to order the next installment. The suspense was killing me (did I mention I read the first book in about three days?). I wish it weren't so dern cheaper online - and of course, I like to get the free shipping because it usually comes just as quickly, but I was sweating like a drug addict waiting for this one - and it finally arrived via the USPS. But, I still wasn't sure I was ready to say goodbye to books though, so this indecisiveness ended the deal. I cherished the stack of books I had by my bed, collecting dust, but waiting to be read, to be shared, to be loved - too much.

About a year passed and thoughts about that Kindle would come in and out of my mind like humming a catchy song - thoughts about how easy it would be just to download a book and start reading whenever I wanted. Soon, one of my best friends visited from Nashville and her Kindle peaked out at me from her purse when I picked her up at the airport - sneaky little devil (if it had been in a blue case, that would have been cute). It had a really pretty green leather case - it seemed so neat and organized - with a strap that kept it closed. She handed it to me, like Adam handing an apple over to our girl Eve. I tenatively accepted, absorbing the look of the e-ink, the buttons, the page clicks. I started to want one, really, really bad.

Soon after, I began dropping subtle hints to my husband, such as "I wish I had gotten that Kindle last year." He countered, "but you said you didn't want it." To which I replied smartly, "well, I've changed my mind." Hint taken - although not without a little trickery. On Christmas Eve (this occured on the way home from the tailgate), my husband announces he just has to go into Target and I can't tag along - he had a sketchy look going on - as if he was going to be in the doghouse. I naturally assumed he had forgotten my gift, and that I was going to end up with a Target gift card - practical yes, but not what a new wife wants from her hubby at Christmas. Plus, I really wanted that Kindle. He continued to play into my belief - making me more and more of a grump (or there's probably a more accurate word).

After getting home and as I'm wrapping up the last of the presents in a huff (infusing delightful holiday wishes into every wrapped present, I'm sure), he appears with card and gift in hand - but it wasn't a gift card as I had braced myself to receive graciously (of course) - it was a brand new Kindle. Cue the music and excitement, and the hand clasping, "a Kindle of my own!"

I still feel guilty about abandoning my old friends, but I must say that my e-friends are just as great. I don't lose my place and I can order more any time I want. So simple and easy. And, I think my brain is used to the e-ink and the slight flash of the screen that occurs as you turn a page.

I'm almost certain now that books will be a thing of the past, and this makes me nostalgic. I'm sure I was supposed to be one of those few who fought for books, who kept buying them because it was the right thing to do - to keep them alive, to keep them real. I fear the day when children will be brought into this world without paper books, never knowing the sensation of turning the page. I wonder if that phrase will even lose meaning (although we still say roll down the window when we're in a car)...

I also fear that I am in so deep with my Kindle now, with the compactness and convenience of it all, that I have strayed too far away from the paper book world I loved. I find myself annoyed with the "old fashioned" paper books - trying to finish them as soon as possible so I can get back to all the titles waiting for me on the Kindle - I may have gone a little crazy ordering books when I first got it - this may take a while. But, I know that old habits die hard and I can never truly convert 100 percent forever (oh no, did I just use the word "never"? Maybe my use of "forever" cancels that out). There are still those books, those masterpieces that require paper - book in hand, page turning (making noise, waking up spouse) and mind smiling.

What Doesn't Kill You...

May drive you insane. For the past week and half, I have launched a fairly aggressive amount of household improvements, with the gracious help (and counseling) of my husband. Right now, I have just "taken a break" for a moment. I'll set the stage for you - I'm recovering our set of four dining room chairs - sounds simple enough, right? I am on chair number four. Said chair has always been the troublemaker chair, ever since we inherited the set from my sister-in-law.

But I digress, what is wrong with the chair in question you may ask? Well, it has a major stain covering most of the fabric. Two to three years ago when we got these chairs, I do remember someone saying, "oh there's that stain, but you can just recover them, the fabric needs to be modernized anyway" So easy...sigh...oh yes, if only things in my world were just that easy.

Chair one was by far the easiest - a cruel twist of fate. Halfway into chair two, the staple gun broke - which created a major meltdown - my meltdowns do not happen often (except for this week) and they usually involve tears, blood (as a result of accidental scratches from tools or furniture) and making angry voices or grunts at inanimate objects - "Why are you so stubborn wall? I hate you screw - go into the wall! Crap, I stripped this screw, get out of the wall! I know said I go in, but now I'm telling you to GET OUT!!!!" Those were actually examples from another project, called "try to hang four curtain rods in very tight corners and right where studs are in the living room." There won't be an encore performance of that one - the curtain has set, so to speak.

My husband took the staple gun and was determined to beat it. He spent about 20 minutes fixing the staple gun after I banished myself to the bedroom to chill out. After the staple gun started working again, I quickly finished up chair two and moved on to chair three. So, that brings me to good old chair four. Just so you know, it is still sitting on the floor with it's bottom-side up and I swear it is smirking at me, even from the next room over.

I am angry with this chair for a few reasons (1) it is missing one of the four screws at the bottom to begin with, which made me feel happy at first (oh, so nice, I only have to deal with three screws), but then I thought, I really could use all the screws because (2) one of the screws is stripped and will not come out and (3) this is the last chair and (4) did I mention that this was the last chair?!? So, I have commenced yoga breathing and have walked away, although it continues to mock me. I can see you chair four!

This was the last chair (and the very last task) in the home improvement maddness in which I have participated over the past eight to ten days. What else have I (better say we) done - let's see -- hung four sets of rods and drapes in the living room (and now as previously noted, I know why the former owners didn't ever attempt this), hung pictures from our wedding throughout the house, hung a new bulletin board, rearraged a bedroom, hung rod and drapes in kitchen, hung drapes in bedroom, and so on. Did I mention the yard - planted flowers upon flowers, potted and in beds and I'm telling you, it better not freeze! Those pansies better like the cold, dang it!

And today, after all this stress on my body, on my mind, was the very last thing - recovering the chairs. The whole concept got me completely out of my comfort zone, and I had even placed a "?" beside it on my list of things to do. I can install an anchor in the wall just fine, but sewing or anything in the sewing family? I have no clue. I cannot even sew on a button - I know, I know. It ranks up there on things I should know how to do, such as calculate tip without a tip card (I don't like to do math, it's not that I can't do it! I just prefer to use the card for accuracy!).

I decided to go to Mary Jo's cloth store and before I even walked in there, I was feeling uneasy and intimidated. I have no idea what type of fabric I need to recover these chairs and if there's anything I absolutely hate, it is looking like I have no idea and saying something (or doing something) foolish to a bunch of experts.

I walked in and casually strolled around the store. "Will someone help me?," I thought. "Someone better help me because I have NO idea what I'm doing." Trying to look like I know what I'm doing. I decide I'll start with silks - I see dozens of colors, no beige. Ah ha, sign points to beige and white silks are in the corner.

I walk over there, dragging the chair seat I brought with me. I browse around the fabrics. $25 a yard. "Hmmm...is that expensive," I wonder? Aphrension looms over me, along with indecisiveness. This seems wrong. I called my best friend, who had been here earlier to see if she could give me the scoop on how this worked - voicemail. Women, who seemed to know exactly the yardage and type of fabric they needed, were teeming all over the store. I tried not to look panicked. I considered abandoning ship, but I was all the way in Gastonia, for crying out loud. Determination hit me - I have got to find a salesperson, someone has got to help me.

Apparently, I was in the bridal section, which might explain the $25/yard fabrics, which I later learned was probably really expensive compared to what I need. A sign that said "upholstery" caught my eye and I decided I better move over there. Before I started crying "mayday mayday," I finally found a salesperson to ask how in the world this place works.

I find a fabric I like, get one of the teenage guys to bring it over to a cutting station for me, and they tell me I've got the wrong kind of fabric. I felt like I wanted to cry - now I look like an idiot. I don't know what I'm doing and at this point, I made sure that was clear. Fortunately, the saleswoman was extremely helpful and the panic welling up in my throat subsided. She took me back to the stacks and we found a better suited fabric for the chairs. She took measurements, she made cuts. I had what I needed. Relief. Now get me out! I don't like being out of my element, but I told myself, this was a growing experience. Just as every project my husband and I ticked of the list of things we've been meaning to do for the past two to three years (in a week and half) was a growing experience.

Did it make me stronger? Well, that dern chair four is still sitting on the floor. It's probably the 100th hurdle I've had to face in the past eight to ten days and I'm simply exhausted. I'm waiting for my husband to get home and maybe he can win the battle for me. He's been my steady rock along the way, not letting me quit. So, I won't quit tonight, but I think I'm done with projects for another two to three years. I think I'm good with the "strength" I've gained from this exercise.

Update: Hubby got home, asked what's up and I told him about chair four. He came in and saved the day for the second time, by ripping that baby out! Take that chair four!

In the Words of C&C Music Factory - Music is My Life! (Oh, and My Girl Talk Experience)

Back in 2008, I felt like I was one of the last people to find out about Girl Talk. I'd have to say I learned about this music that has been described as a "sound collage," basically a mash-up of all different sorts of music, in two equally responsible, but parallel paths. A friend of mine introduced me to it one weekend in Chicago. I think we were sleepy, but it was time to go back out on the town (a good motivator is a necessity when you've been at a football game all day in the frigid cold). When it came on, I instantly loved it because it was like a delicious vidalia onion of music - layer upon layer of songs -- a constantly evolving sound that made music from choas, filled with familiar hooks and beats from songs that spanned the history of a TimeLife music compliation. It was something I'd never heard before (think Journey blended with Jay-Z, for example).

Now don't get me wrong, back in high school and college, I might have been "sort of" on the fringe of the music scene with an awareness of punk, alternative and college bands (just really enough to impress guys, but not enough to make any intellectual claim as might occur if I were in living in High Fidelity). At this point in my life, I am definitely not in the know when it comes to these sort of things (unless I accidentally happen upon it, which is really how I learn about anything that seems ahead of the curve, pure happenstance. A benefit of being a Sagittarius, I guess). My pop culture knowledge of music is even more hindered because I primarily listen to only one type of music (of course that's country).

But, back to my origins of discovering Girl Talk -- At the same time, I heard a review of his songs on NPR, most likely while commuting to or from work one day. With these two paths of knowledge now converging, I knew where and how to get my hands on his music, and I knew this was right up my alley. When I got home, I bought the "pay what you want" download, which I thought was pretty cool (first and only experience with that). In an instant, I was gettin' down all over the house - my cat probably thought I was nuts -- well, probably not, I did (and still do) that a lot. Anyway, I had an hours plus worth of Girl Talk mash-ups to motivate me during work-outs. At that point, I was mainly running and this music is perfect for running.

But in addition to being great for work outs, I loved the mash-ups for another reason. The music I experienced when I was growing up was probably 75 percent driven by what my parents were listening to at the moment. And they had diverse tastes, which is no wonder why I have diverse tastes - you listen to country, but love Gaga?? I can remember listening to Preppy Deluxe, The Drifters, Sam Cooke, Buddy Holly and the Crickets, Dirty Dancing (and More Dirty Dancing), John Denver, Stand By Me, The Coasters, Whitney Houston, Michael Jackson - the list goes on and on. Once the cassette tape took off, my parents amassed an enormous collection of music - from what they heard growing up to what was popular at the time. This was certainly thanks to my ignorantly signing them up for a mail order music club (you remember, get seven records for one penny - and you actually taped the penny to the mail in subcription). I sent that in (why I didn't raise an eyebrow from my parents when I asked for an envelope and stamp and probably some personal information, I don't know) and as suddently as the seven "free" records arrived in the mail one day, we were locked in to the club membership for at least one year. I'm sure some laws have changed that makes this completely illegal now, but back then - I think my parents just decided that they loved music enough to keep the club membership and make the most of my mistake.

Because of this extensive collection that probably played like an encyclopedia of American music from the 1950s-1990s, nine times out of 10, I can bust out the lyrics to almost any Motown song, beach music song, and so forth - I love to play that game with the radio because I always win, beating out competition in a matter of seconds. I was born into a family that loved music, and a family with many musical abilities. My maternal grandfather was a band teacher in South Carolina, eventually earning the "Order of the Palmetto" for his contributions to youth and music in the state prior to his passing. My mother was an accomplished clarinettist and her brothers were all talented musicians, two of which are still active in bands today. My paternal grandfather owned a radio station - fostering my father's love of music as well (as well as fueling his record collection). And, me, I used to be able to sing (although, without practice you lose it), but even with a faltering voice, I still love to sing along, especially to that old Motown sound, all warm and fuzzy accompanied by the rich thump of a real bass. The sound that reminds me of countless road trips to Myrtle Beach and the scenes I would imagine of what it was like back in the 50s and 60s.

So, a few months ago, I learned that Gregg Gillis (AKA Girl Talk) was coming to Charlotte. Even though it was on a week night, I just had to go and see this guy in action. I bought my tickets and then made the mistake of reading a blog post about how to survive a Girl Talk concert (from a recent show in New Orleans). It sounded like maddness - prepare to sweat (yes, it sounded like even more sweat than my hot yoga class), then the crowds, people pushing against each other, there was a mention of people being on extasy that pretty much freaked me out. I wasn't exactly sure if this was for me...it just sounded as chaotic as the mash-ups themselves.

After stressing about the fact that I might have to stay up late the night of the show for almost a week, coming up with a million excuses of why I might have to bail out, the night finally arrived. I thought the show might last until the wee hours of the morning, but after all that stress - it ended at 11 p.m.! I honestly couldn't believe it. In the future, I must remind myself that as with most things, it usually ends up working out, so it's not worth stressing over. What happened to shows that last until 2 a.m.? Not that I was asking for that, but an early end to the show was not what I was expecting.

But back to the show - it was a blast - definitely chaotic and the closest thing to a "rave" that I will ever attend - stuff just kept flying off the stage and into the flailing arms of the crowd below - balloons, confetti, beach balls, toilet paper - it was like being at a Blue Man Group show, except the people on stage dancing around the DJ booth weren't blue, they were just dressed up in 80s work-out gear (also unexpected), but as told -- they were sweating it out, and I mean, they were sweating it out, not just to the oldies, but to some goodies in there too. It was like a snapshot of the Y from about 20 years ago -- one guy even looked like he was leading a step class or high impact aerobics to get really 80s about it. Make no bones about it - I was standing safely off to the side (yes, I am lame, but I did not want to join the crowd - I value my personal space now).

I wish it could have been on a weekend, but I did get to see the man in action (who apparently is a biomedical engineer?), rocking back and forth from his computer, letting the music take him and the crowd where it wanted to go (well, I'm guessing it was a computer, I couldn't see since I wasn't able to put my 30-something-year-old-self up in the mosh pit. Those days are long gone.) I was amazed to see all these young kids around me, and it reminded me that about 15 years ago, I was one of those kids so totally wrapped up in the music and the moment (however, I was way too straight be drinking, smoking or on drugs, which I'm sure many of these kids at the show were, sadly).

But, I had a youthful energy that I'm sure radiated off me to the 30 plus year-olds in the crowd, maybe reminding them of carefree, earlier years. Of course, most shows that I attended in high school or college did not end at 11 p.m. - that part, in addition to the venue, seemed a little commercial to me. There was also a taped "line" of where the standing area was and where the walking area was. I remember seeing shows in Charlotte at the Milestone Club, 13-13 or the Pterodactyl. Those were basically fire traps, but there weren't a lot of rules - it just seemed like it was more real, more freedom, made you feel closer to the music. And there was no tape to create a path - you had to work your way through the people to get to the restrooms.

I was definitely more of an observer, and as I watched the crowd "get up and dance," I had a realization that I probably won't be going to shows (not that I go to many now) like this for much longer. A feeling that started when my husband and I went to the Jackopierce show last year at the Visulite - it's just different now, because my life is different -- so much has happened, so much has changed, with more changes to come. Once I start my role as "mom," I'll be attending concerts with my children (yikes - my parents got some good ones, like Milli Vanilli, ugh...is that in my future...)

But needless to say, I'm glad that I went. I didn't even feel that old either, despite the nostalgia - probably helped by the fact that because we thought the show would start late, we didn't arrive until close to 10. So, an hour was probably an ideal amount for me - I could get my groove on as the DJ Gregg Gillis peeled back the layers on the onion, while in my mind, I peeled back the layers of music over the years, each song triggering memories from the past or creating new memories for the future.

I'll Take the #3...Oh Wait, Is that What I Ordered?

If you're out to dinner with me and we're at a restaurant where I have dined often, there is a 99 percent chance that I will order the exact same meal that I have ordered on previous visits. Usually, this is done very covertly, without pomp and circumstance, until I can no longer resist the urge to say that what I'm about to order is the absolute, very best thing on the menu.

Once everyone has released the breathe of air they were holding waiting for this to happen - what rings out is a chorus (sometimes in surround-sound) of, "we know, Betsy either orders the best or worse thing on the menu." Then it is typically followed up by sneers or jeers and maybe a few "remember when Betsy ordered..." stories.

One of the more common themes of my misadventures seems to revolve around restaurants.There's so much good food for fodder here (pun intended) - for instance, I have a track record of encountering several non-food items in my ordering (hence, one of the reasons I feel I am justified to say that I often order "worst thing on the menu" versus just "something not that great on the menu"). And, yes, my top ten list is completely disgusting and I will not go into that and mess up my lovely blog that revolves around pies. I will say that recently I did find an arm hair (not mine) in a taco and that doesn't even grace the top five.

Another example, although you might not believe me and hopefully some friends will comment on this - is that if there is a bug to be found, it will make its way into my water, iced tea or wine without fail. Sometimes, even if I get a new glass and new liquid, more bugs will find their way into my drink. It has happened so often that I pretty much continue to drink my wine or water as long as the size of the bugs is minute (not to be totally gross, but when possible, I'll fish them out). I gave up being grossed out or annoyed by this long ago. Seriously, I'd never drink anything out at a restaurant ever again if I didn't make these concessions.

I absolutely love food and I enjoy a great meal out. That is why I insist on always striving for "the best thing on the menu." And usually, I get it right. Sometimes it takes a few tries at my ordering technique to obtain ordering perfection, often requiring multiple visits. It takes a lot of work for me to settle on what I want to order -- deep thought, attention to detail, weighing of the pros and cons, what am I in the mood for? All these questions must be answered before I can make the right selection. And when it is the right selection, it is worth it, which is why I tend to always order the same thing again and again. Why deviate when you know you won't be disappointed?  When you know it will be just as delicious as it was last time? The only issue is when there is a new chef and it's made completely different. It is just devastating to me - hard to recover from that one (well...at least until dessert!).

Now, I have to admit that there is only one restaurant out there where I have rarely ordered the same thing, and I have done this NOT because I "ordered the worst thing," but because the menu is so compelling and food so delicious, I have preceded to eat my way through just about the entire menu over the many years I've lived in Charlotte. Props to 300 East. *cue the fingers to the thumb, brings her hand up to her lips and makes that kissing noise* Simply divine food.

But I digress, back to my main point here - sometimes it takes a few tries at my ordering technique to get to ordering nirvana, and today was no exception. A few weeks ago, I tried out one of the latest hot lunch places in uptown Charlotte, Newk's. I got one of the salads and I liked it okay, but felt I could do better. So, today I thought, I'd like a little less food (the salad bowl was bigger than my head) - I'll go with a half soup and half salad. So I place my order and wait for it to arrive. I get my little half salad, but I am presented with the largest bowl of soup I've ever seen. "This is not mine," I say. The server asks, "what did you order?" I explain - "I got the half soup." He says, "This is the soup." I counter, "I thought it was small" (and point to my co-worker's smaller bowl of soup accompanying his half sandwich). Exit server, leaving me in a state of confusion with an enormous bowl of soup. I still have some work to do here.

On the way out, I had to look back at the menu. Yep, there it was - in black and white - you can either get a half soup and half sandwich or a half salad and bowl (yes, that is bowl) of soup. What is that?!?! That defeats the purpose of a half and half. I wanted smaller portions. Apparently, I need to read the menu more closely.

And just another aside, I do have a tendency to over order as well - having done this most recently (and egregiously) at Shomar's. My co-workers love to go there and it took me about five or six times to land on my perfect "best thing on the menu" - the Greek chef salad with chicken, no shell and pita on the side. One time I ordered the gyro platter - what arrived but the largest plate of food I've ever seen - lamb meat stacked sky high, on top of french fries, with lettuce, tomato, a side greek salad and a plate of pita on the side. I could have fed a small country.

My menu foibles continued on throughout the day apparently. I went to East Blvd Bar and Grill tonight and ordered a very tasty and delicious USA Burger. Thinking it was just the standard cheese burger, I was shocked to see it arrive with three pieces of bacon on top. "That is not mine..." *Reprise lunch dialogue with server.* It was an odd sense of deja vu. In this case, let me tell you, the customer was not right. Again, I apparently did not read the full menu. Although, really, when I think of a USA burger, I think of the basic burger...but I didn't get the memo about the bacon. Still good though.

Needless to say there are two certainties (well, probably many more) that will occur if you are out with me at a restaurant. The first is that there will be drama, and most likely high drama during both the ordering phase and the delivery of food phase of the process. The second is that I will order either the "best thing on the menu" or I will take a wrong turn somewhere and truly end up with the "worst thing on the menu." But I can guarantee that no matter which way my meal ends up, it will definitely be an entertaining dining experience.

The Golden Globes - Too Much Dang Work for Real Life

After watching the Golden Globes last night, I thought I'd take a beat from last fall's "the rent is too damn high party" and title this blog accordingly. Before I begin my reflections on the night, I must admit that as someone who usually meets most political campaigning with a rolling of the eyes, I took particular delight in the New York gubernatorial race, following it very closely. I really did enjoy Jimmy McMillian and his "rent is too damn high" campaign, including the creative theme song he developed with a pumpin' beat. For becoming something of a national icon (okay maybe just for 15 minutes), I have to admit - he was straight-forward and you knew exactly where he stood on his issue. No ambiguity there. I admire that.

But I digress...After absorbing this morning's declarations of red carpet "dos" and "don'ts" (and I truly think it was definitely saying something if you were a red carpet "do;" the competition for "don'ts" was tough) - I got to thinking about all the effort that goes into looking your best for the myriad of award shows that happen throughout the year. It must be just like getting ready to get married, only it's something that happens again and again and again.

Recently, I've been reflecting about the months of preparation I took leading up to my wedding in June 2010, mainly because I used to be in shape (it was only six months ago!). I have since gained several pounds and become very, very out of shape. I ask myself after each workout that absolutely feels like torture, like I might throw up - "why, why, why did I let myself get out of shape?" What a harsh reality. I look around, who can I blame - my husband? No...I know, my kids (wait, I don't have any kids)...Oh darn. There is no one else to blame. This is something I have done to myself. I have to blame me (bites my tongue). That just makes the pride hurt that much worse!

I can remember my motivation for crossfit - I couldn't miss more than a few days in a row, otherwise the workout and next several days afterward hurt like hell. I recall getting sick one week and when I started back, it was a hellish nighmare of burpees, box jumps, thrusters and pull-ups. I can feel the sweat stinging in my eyes just thinking about it. That's probably one reason why I didn't return after the honeymoon.

I spent endless amounts of blood, sweat and tears (as I have said before) on preparing myself for the big day. And, it was so exhausting in fact, that I carried my need for rest straight through the honeymoon and most of the way through 2010 (until about Nov/Dec). I can imagine that preparing for these types of awards shows would require the exact same preparation as the big day - just more frequent. No wonder they don't gain weight, all this work would be so tiring, it would be too much effort to eat!

That would mean outfit preparation - not just figuring out what to wear, but jewelry, purses and shoes for each outfit (in the real world, you have to be your own stylist, but in the not-so-real world, I guess you'd hire someone who would probably talk you into wearing something so hideious for your body, you'd end up on the fashion "don't" list). Better to be your own stylist, I think.

After the outfit, you need perfect nails (with coordinated toe and finger nail colors), spray tanning (I did this at least five or six times, not sure how I did not end up with tanning spray all over my car by the end of it and it is not the most comfortable thing in the world. It looked pretty natural, but I did not feel natural - as I rubbed off color on anything I came in contact with. Going to the grocery store after a session was not a good idea. I was like a science project.).

There's also waxing (painful), hair cut and color (super time consuming), the list goes on and on. And not to mention all the money I spent! Well, and more so, the time! I was constantly running from one appointment to the next. I filled up a whole week before the wedding with this stuff. That's not even factoring in the constant trips to the gym (Ultimate Crossfit and hot yoga). That was just a glimpse of how I spent several weeks leading up to the wedding. My husband would be mortified (well, mainly if he knew the beauty tab)! (Although, I'm sure he loved the end result, and so did I). Don't get me wrong, I am a girly girly and love getting pampered, it was just a bit much. I did throw in a few massages, which were devine, and looking back, probably took some of the edge off.

Now, fortunately, I had a lot of spare (if you want to call it that) time to work on all of my beautifying before the wedding. And of course, if you are a celebrity, part of your "job" is finding the time to fit all of these activities into your daily life. That is not the case for real people - I haven't even been able to get my nails done in weeks (and I've been so lazy, I haven't even filed them - they are jagged edges just waiting to rip skin - watch out, I could get into a cat fight with you. Meowr!).

Perhaps this is one reason why I love to take out the old judgement hat and rain down my decisions as these scarlets walk (or hobble in a drunken stupor - you know who I'm talking about, and there's always at least one of them!) down the red carpet. We can imagine all the work and effort that has taken place for them to get into "Golden Globe" shape, and by God, don't we just love it when they fall short. All that hard work - for the Glamour "don't" page! Oh honey! Bless her heart!

For us who live in reality, we take joy in the bride walking down the aisle who looks her very best on her big day (at least I'd say 99% of us do!). And that's because as "normal people," we completely deserve to have that moment in the spotlight. It makes us feel good, seeing someone "normal" basking in the efforts of bridal preparation. So completely deserving. And apparently, as my blog would suggest, so completely lucky to only have to go through all of that preparation every now and then.

The Journey

One of the things I cherish most about my yoga practice is the chilled, lavender-scented washcloths that the instructors leave on our mats at the end of class for savasana (which is supposed to be your own time to relax after the practice and clear your mind in silence). I live for this treat, which is delightful when you have been sweating like it's over 100 degrees at 90 percent humidity (and there are people who practice right next to space heaters and humidifiers - what kind of insanity is that?). The icy cold feel of the washcloth on my face and neck, almost burning it's so cold - it is a dream.

During savasana, the lights in the studio are dimmed and the ceiling fans are making their familiar squeaking sounds as the blades rain down sweet breezes (maybe that doesn't accurately describe the smell) --it's time to rest and give thanks to your body for the hard work its just completed, an acknowledgement of the gift you just gave yourself.

Now, there's probably some enlightenment stuff that's supposed to happen to as your clear your mind, but if you know me (or if you can surmise from my blog posts), it is virtually impossible for me to clear my mind for any amount of time, much less a few minutes. No, during savasana I am either doing one of two things - drifting off into a coma-like, semi-conscious sleep (this has only happened a few times) or thinking about things I need to do (and mind you, I am not just thinking at casual, walking pace speed, no I'm going a mile a minute from one random thought to another). Usually I'm thinking about something that is worrying me or a looming deadline or even a far off deadline - the things in my life that might or could weigh me down.

But today, I have to admit, I was thinking about my blog because I knew exactly what I wanted to write about. In particular, I was reflecting on something that my yoga teacher said during class. As we were yoga breathing and doing our downward facing dogs, she told us to think about how we can get so focused on the goal, we don't stop to enjoy the journey.

This rings so true to me. As Oprah said the other day in her Season 25: Behind the Show series after filming a show with The Judds, "I had a breakthrough." Well, Oprah and I have something in common now, besides charisma and intelligence - I had a breakthrough!

I got to thinking - when I get to yoga class, the first thing I think about is savasana - I jump straight ahead to my favorite part. I can't wait for those lavender-scented washcloths - seriously, I'm like Pavlov's dogs about those things. One reason - it means the class is nearly over, and let me tell you that after sweating out more water than you thought could be in your body for an hour and a half, you are definitely looking for signs that the end is near. I don't blame me - who could?

Why do I do that? Why is that my first thought? It's a recognition that many of us who are high achievers are taught to focus on the goal - "keep your eye on the prize" and "reach for new heights," "push yourself, you can get there." I know that deep down inside I am a believer in the journey, or maybe I just know that is how it should be - make every day count, carpe diem and all that. But in reality it's easy to lose track of that when your eyes are focused ahead all the time, instead out the car window...

The other difficulty is that journey can be a challenge to endure - it's often filled with fear, doubts, tears. There are those times when you can't see the end to a seemingly hopeless situation, it seems as there's no way out, or at the very least - that the "goal" is so far away, you feel as though you'll never achieve it. But, in my experience, if you stop and experience the journey, it can also be filled with laughter, memories and pure joy. It's those experiences that define us as people, steps to the goal that we should be relishing and cherishing with every breath. It's those things that we never get back - and if we don't stop enough to experience them, they won't even become memories that we can pull out of our library and rewind from time to time.

Just as in yoga as in life, it's hard to slow down and let the journey carry you, to fully commit yourself to the journey and only the journey. During class, I spend a lot of time intentionally throwing thoughts of "when will this torture end?" out of my mind. But, what I must do is embrace the journey - make every moment, every motion, every breath count. And at some point, I will find that I reached the goal without having to worry and fret about getting there. And, I have got to believe that if I freed up all that anxiety I've focused on the goal, I would find that I could make my poses stronger and accomplish feats I've never done before.

And in life, by intentionally taking time to enjoy the journey, delight in every second like it's the lavender wash cloth at the end of an awesome practice, I might find that I've achieved my goal without hardly trying or, maybe without even realizing it. And that I'll find that I've not just achieved the goal, but exceeded my wildest dreams. As we close out our practice, I'll close out my blog. Namaste.

I Went to the Gym and All I Got Was This Lousy T-Shirt

So, no offense to my gym, the Charlotte YMCA, but the title indeed sums up my evening. It seemed to have slipped my mind that it was January, which means prime time at any and all gyms. Gone are the easy breezy days of showing up to class with a minute to spare and getting "the good spot." Oh, how I love thee January.

I'm not quite sure why I thought I'd be able to sail right into class today. In my 34 years, I'd estimate that I have experienced at least 17 or 18 Januarys at the Y (Yes, I started going, to that exact gym, when I was 16). We all know the drill - it's new year's resolution time. Everyone wants to work out, get in shape and lose weight. How do you do that - you dust off the Y membership you haven't used in 11 months and head for the gym.

It's crowded, you can't find a machine, people (many of whom are working out for the first time in ages) are cranky (wouldn't you think it would be the opposite - happy, endorphin-filled people?). And then, there are the newbies to the gym -- now, of course, at one point in time I was certainly a newbie, but that was back when I was 16. The newbies -- you love to hate 'em -- they wander around cluelessly, they don't obey the gym rules (hey! it's crowded, so that means 30 minutes, not an hour on the machine!) and most importantly, they take up space in the classes that used to be practically empty!

I can recall one year in which I declared I would not go to the gym until at least mid-February. The only hitch in this plan was that I didn't do any other physical activity in the interim. So, when mid-February rolled around, I had found other ways to spend my time, which I'm sure involved eating and drinking wine. Needless to say, that directive was not a huge success.

Even if I had not run into a friend on my way out of work, I still would not have had the 20-30 minutes necessary to arrive to the gym early, claim my space and most importantly, find a parking spot. If you really want to experience some road-ragers, visit any gym parking lot during the hours of 5-8 p.m. M-T during the first few weeks of January. Yikes.

So due to my lack of planning, I arrive at the gym with T minus two minutes until spin class time. The "duh meter" clicked "on" in the back of my mind as I approached the satellite parking lot, the lot that is usually about 20 percent full around the 5:20 p.m. mark. I drove through the lot - completely full - with a line of cars in front of me and a line of cars behind me. I stared in disbelief -- the gym is really packed today. Really, I couldn't believe the lot was full - I think I actually said that out loud to myself in the car.

I drove around the block and contemplated turning the car around and going home (I think that was my inner subconscious that did not want to work out). But then the parking gods opened up and as I turned back into the lot, a spot appeared. I pulled right in it, except I couldn't leave the car all lopsided and wonky in the spot. So, put her into reverse. What's that - I see movement out of the corner of my eye - someone thinks I'm leaving. I'm sorry just straightening out here, nothing to see, move along - yes, I know I am a horrible parker and you're raging at me outside of a Christian organization just because I wasn't really leaving my parking spot. I'm sorry!!!

Once my car was set, the clock was showing 5:32. I told myself that I should still be okay. I'll just sneak into class - I really only missed the warm-up. I'll still get to complete the true workout of spin class - the hard hills and ladders. So, I head into the gym. Boy, it is teeming with people. Somewhere the wheels were turning...what is the date? Wait, oh no, is it...it is January at the gym!!!!! (Cue the horror music and pan in and out on my face as the recognition of this truth grows).

On my way in some really nice people greeted me and handed me a t-shirt. "It's a long sleeved one, it's really nice." In retrospect, I wonder if they thought I was a newbie. Quel horreur! I USED TO BE A CROSSFITTER!!! Maybe I should have titled this "Nightmare on Morehead Street."

Ever the optimist, I continued to hold on to the thought that there would still be a spot for me in spin class. Why, just last month I'd gone several times (same day, same time) and there were only about 15 people in the class that could hold about 40 (she says, innocently). No problem - well, there was a problem - completely full. Where have all these people been? They certainly weren't there a mere three weeks ago!

I tried another class - there was room, but no equipment. So, I decided to hit the track. I didn't even make an attempt at the machines - that would be pointless. So, I'm running, up above the class with space for me, but no equipment, on the indoor track. Running, running, one lap, two laps, three laps - then I hear the instructor say, "group one, up the track." Are you serious? I wanted to scream. Just let me do this one thing, please. Me and the other two guys were doing just fine up here by ourselves, I wanted to plead.

The class, their eyes wild with new year's resolutions, flies up the stairs to join me on the track. They are breathing down my back like a herd of antelopes. "I'm doing a distance run!!!! Can't you see I'm in this for the long haul!?!?" I wanted to yell as they blew past me. Well, I was only running a mile, but do they really need specifics?

It takes 16 laps to complete a mile and I just didn't have the attention span for more miles, so I found a lone mat and completed about 200 crunches in various styles. I ended with a stretch and then thought, "I've done just about all I can do here." I wasn't waiting around for 45 or so more minutes until the next classes. I was done.

Or so I thought...I head out to the parking lot and I started to have this feeling akin to a tuna fish or a baby seal, swimming out in the big, black ocean when they slowly begin to realize they are being stalked by a school of sharks. I know, I know -- you want my space. I promise that this time I'm not just straightening up! I really am leaving - although, if you're waiting for me, I take at least three back and forths to get out of the spot before I feel comfortable that I'm not going to hit the car next to me as I'm leaving. So, please no raging - save that for the gym.

So, it wasn't the best workout day ever, but at least I worked out. And to all the gym folks who will be diligently going to the gym until Feb. 1 (or Jan. 15) and to all the newbies - God Bless Ya!