Get Angry

Yesterday, in Chicago, Dr. Tamara O’Neal was shot multiple times and left to die by her ex-fiancé because she dared to call off their engagement.

Recently, my anger has been bubbling to the surface more often. Anger over lots of things; children in cages, mass shootings, poor people getting poorer and being treated as if deserving of their poverty, cancer patients being bankrupted, domestic abusers and rapists being treated with kid gloves, sexual assault and harassment being waved and laughed off… The list (and the suffering) goes on and on. And fucking on and on and on.

I don’t know where the line is between staying informed and being crushed under the weight of our collective everyday anguish, but I’ve been skating a little too far toward being crushed. I could probably try therapy, as right now I’m lucky enough to have decent insurance. But…I’m not a sharer. Especially with strangers. And I hate crying about my feelings to people, even if I love you madly. So I joined a gym.

For the last few weeks, I’ve been to kickboxing class almost every single day. And beating the shit out of something for forty-five minutes a day has really turned my mood around! I have boundless energy, I’m always sailing on an endorphin rush, and my butt ain’t looking half bad either. And seriously, guys, don’t accidentally run into my thighs. They’re like brick walls right now. They can fracture bones.

I feel more like myself again–happier, calmer, belly-laughing, and more able to manage the world’s injustices. I mean, one day I’ll probably acquiesce to periodic therapy sessions but right now I’m just really interested to see how high and firm my butt can get.

If I were to offer my advice to anyone also struggling with the overwhelming, it would be to find whatever (or whomever) makes you feel like yourself again. And if that something happens to give you a nice butt? Stick wit’ it.

What I Did Do

I read four books this quarter. I didn’t even complete half of my goal of ten books. But, you know what I did do?

I hung out with my closest friends. I behaved like I was ten years old. I leaped off boats under a scorching sun and into cool waters. I made juvenile jokes and laughed at them myself. I drank Shiraz and woke up at eleven in the morning with pounding headaches. I drank champagne and woke up at eleven in the morning with pounding headaches. I drank rosé all day. I went to sleep when the sun came up. I forgot sunblock when I went stand-up paddle-boarding and didn’t worry once about crow’s feet. I made my friends laugh and got sore stomach muscles from laughing at their jokes. I skipped the mani and pedi. I spent twenty minutes on my winged eyeliner and eye shadow. I went four consecutive days without checking the news. I wore six-inch heels. I walked barefoot on wet grass and hot sand. I ate authentic Italian food and saw centuries-old art. I spoke in French. I cried. I volunteered. I committed. I swam at midnight. I ran at dawn. I test-drove a Lamborghini. I sailed a boat.

I did all the things you can’t do while you’re reading ten books.

Sweaty Sunday

For the past two and a half weeks, I’ve worked an absurd amount of hours and have slept a fraction of the time a normal, functioning person is supposed to sleep. This weekend I was finally able to catch up on sweet, sweet sleep. Also on Chicago P.D. and Law & Order SVU. And maayybeee The Kardashians.

The entire time I was working, I kept thinking to myself how much easier would this be if I had been eating spinach instead of chips or continued running three miles a day like I used to? I mean, four hours of sleep is not enough no matter how you slice it, but I probably wouldn’t have wanted to kill myself as often if I had gone into the last two weeks in tip-top shape.


In between (beautiful) sleep and moments of consciousness yesterday, I reaffirmed my commitment to fitness and health and looking good in my leather leggings. Then this morning came and I wanted to cry when my alarm went off. How is it that I can be so motivated and firm one moment, then eight hours later I have to be dragged out of bed by my ankles? Le sigh.

I did manage to keep my promise to myself, though, and I went to a Pilates class this morning and played tennis afterward. It wasn’t as satisfying as lying in bed and watching YouTube videos, but…what is?


Happy New Year! Hahahahaha… Ahem.

Let’s sidestep the awkwardness of how long I’ve neglected this blog, shall we?

What we can talk about is what (or who) caused me to write again. Don’t worry, don’t worry–despite the title of this post, I’m not here to give you my opinion on Beyoncé’s visual album, Lemonade (I think it was uh-may-zing and what are you doing reading this post when you can be watching it?!) because I’m sure the internet is sick of hearing about it.

I just wanted to check in to say that I’m starting a new workout regime spurred partially by the thirteen pounds I’ve gained (ok, eighteen! GET OFF MY BACK!), and partially motivated by Beyoncé’s new workout line, Ivy Park. I don’t normally like conspicuous logos on anything I wear, but there’s something about the ginormous, screaming logos on some of the Ivy Park stuff that make me reach for my debit card before even looking at the price.

This afternoon I went for a run, and the entire time I pretended that I was Beyoncé in that gray sports bra and leggings ensemble that she wore for “Don’t Hurt Yourself” (if you don’t know to what I’m referring, WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH YOUR LIFE?! Go watch it!). It almost made the run enjoyable.

Thanks to Beyoncé and Ivy Park, I’m running again. I’ll keep you updated!

Originally Published 4/21/14

I took a Claritin today so my allergies are under control. I’m not sneezing like a fiend, my eyes aren’t watering or itching, and I’m not going through an entire box of tissue. Oh, except that none of that is true except the part about me taking the Claritin. I swear I think I’ve been sold placebos as part of some twisted experiment. I’m on to you, Big Pharma.

Last week I started prepping for my 10K. Sorta. The first day I went out intending to run four miles. It was a struggle, but I suited up, hydrated, charged my ipod, and went outside. I usually run down to a high school exactly one mile from my house (Google maps!). Then I jog around their track four times because I know that equals a mile.

Tangent: is using the school’s track trespassing? I really need to know. I know they take trespassing on school property a lot more seriously these days, and I don’t want anyone thinking I’m hunting seventeen year old boys, because–barf–and also, ya know, illegal. I don’t think I would flourish in prison. Just not my scene. Nor is the sex offender registry.

Anyway… I usually run (innocently!) around the track four times to make a mile and then run back home. Three miles. Well this time, I was going to run around the track eight times, but when I got there the students were using it for practice. What a bunch of selfish jerks. I adjusted my plan and decided to run around the neighborhood a few times. I was going along just fine–struggling a little, but no more than usual–when, on mile 2.5, I came upon a convenience store.

I will save you the internal dialogue that followed and just cut to the chase, because unless you’re new here, you already know what happened next. I stopped running and went inside. I do feel compelled to explain that I honestly was only after a bottle of water. I guess I hadn’t drank enough beforehand. But somehow by the time I left the store, I was munching salt-n-vinegar almonds and sucking on a diet Dr. Pepper. Run: officially over.

I am not proud of this. Sure, I was pleased for a short time while I skipped back home, happily, snack in hand. But my lackadaisical attitude was out of control. I gave myself a firm (but kind–we gotta be kind to ourselves–Kumbaya and stuff!) talking to, and the next day I went out for another four-mile run. Of course I happened across a couple of hills and my lungs almost shut down, and of course a knife was slicing through my side the entire time, and of-freaking-course my ipod battery died. But I kept going and completed the stupid four miles. Because God only knows what my next punishment would have been had I blown off this run.

New week, new goals! My long run this week is 4.5 miles. God help me.