Nama-sand

I'm in the midst of one of those first-world, nearing-30, existential white-girl problems.

The struggle is real with me and beach yoga right now.

As you four dedicated readers (who are my family) know, I'm big into yoga and big into it being summer right now. Naturally these forces eventually had to combine to make some sort of lululemon-induced dream come true.

So my yoga dealer roots & [then] wings got me to do a beach yoga with her on Sunday morning. In theory, this sounded like a perfect Instagram picture- except real. In actuality, it was a sandy disaster.

As an oblivious child, sand never really bothered me. It wasn't until we started vacationing with my extra-old-lady-neurotic grandmother who Cannot Abide by sand that I got weird about it. Why she vacations on an island covered in sand is still a mystery- but she passed on her neurosis and now having sand on my towel, my seat, my swim suit is unacceptable.

I am not quite sure what I thought beach yoga was going to be... were they going to just, like, remove the sand to make way for yoga mats? Nope. We just laid our mats down right on top of North Avenue Beach's mess of cigarette butts, bottle caps, and hypodermic needles and set our intentions. 

Mine quickly became to just get through one flow before having to brush off my mat. It did not help that the wind off the lake wind would occasionally flip my yoga mat (and the mats of all my companions) over exposing us to more.sand. Tree Pose with a wily mat was really not the zen experience it is supposed to be.  The deal was really dealt when I watch a number of my fellow yogis take giant handfuls of sand and plop them like little hillocks on the corners of their mats to weigh the mats down.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING? You are exacerbating the mat/sand problem!"

At the end of class, I had a long ponder about turning 30 and if this meant that I should step away from my comfort zone, and become one with the sand, or if it was finally time to just accept the fact that I am a crotchety-sand-hater. I never came up with an answer.

I feel like every couple of weeks I come to one of these moments where I feel as though I have met up with a bridge troll who is yelling at me that I'm getting old and it is time to make some gd. decisions about my life. As with many of the other times this has happened, I kind of shrugged and side stepped the question - this time by buying a 10-pack of beach yoga classes on groupon (instead of the unlimited one) - and figuring that by the end of the summer, I'll have decided one way or another. Until then, I'm just going to talk to invest in some "yoga rocks" (which are just regular rocks, but spiritual and more expensive).

A decade of talking about feelings

Ten years ago, today, I was already up to my chin in what would be an absolutely life changing summer. I am known to throw around the hyperbole pretty loosey-goosey over here, but as I look back on my development into human-hood, the summer of 2004 stands out as a 1-UP-mushroom game changer for life.

It comes down to having the opportunity to invent myself. I had never really had the chance to be new anywhere where people cared. The person I was in high school was just a slightly taller version of the neurotic, precocious asshole third grader I had been, despite the fact that I now had boobs and a quickly developing dry wit. No one cared if I had become a better human, they all knew me and had written me off (except for my friends. You four are the best).

In New York, I had time to perfect the version of myself that I had been cultivating. But I was also busy cultivating keeping our electricity on and learning how to be a functioning roommate instead of a slobby asshole. The summer of 2004 was where all the practice of being a person paid off. I was not the best version but I was finally, a version of me that I liked more than any of the other previous iterations.  It was nice.

Also, let's be real, it was a summer of hedonism. Booze, pasta, lack of pants.  I subsisted off of alcohol and whatever other people would feed me, with the occasional peanut butter sandwich. I lived in a room with a girl who I delighted in despising. She was a fine person, but it was more fun to hate her and make drama (though, with that in mind, we got along great for two people who shared a 10'x4' cell that was only ever 100 degrees F). And it was a summer of shitty things too. Some not-nice things happened. There were so many tears, and not-nice words. But even those moments are tucked away with, "I am happy these happened, they made me a better version of me."

I learned that life should be lived, if for nothing else, "just for the story." Most of my favorite, best, oft-retold stories are from those brief and shining months free from responsibility and left to make choices that felt right in the moment. So I almost drove a car into a house, and made my friend do a shot of cooking oil, and poured hot wax on another friend's chest by accident.

I lived with people that, somehow, to this very day are in my top 10 of favorite people. I also lived with people who I have never seen since, and that is just as awesome. They came into my life for this one shining moment, with their kittens and their Mormonism and their ginger boyfriends.

It would have been totally different if I went to actual college, if I had four years of what I got all in one summer. I probably would not hold this summer up on quite such a large and sparkley pedestal, but I feel like I almost prefer it that way (which is good because our time machine is in the shop).

Since the end of May, I have been thinking about this post, and these memories. I have been reliving it with some of the cast of characters but mostly alone, enjoying reflecting on a time that feels so far away, and yet, not that long ago. I also am grateful/wistful/thoughtful that this all happened before facebook was even a twinkle in our eye. So the only picture I could find online of it is this one.

Which is pretty perfect (despite the fact that my shirt looks really weird). I am fairly sure I had no idea how that camera worked. It is only because of this turd nugget of a magnificent human being this even happened. Stupid Mikey Pits putting ideas in my head and instigating dumb shit like this.

While it is only in retrospect, I am always and forever (ie- never), tryna hang out.

TBIF: Don't take my word for it

I am 100% over the moon for this Reading Rainbow kickstarter.

I cannot remember a time in my life that I did not love books and reading. I am forever grateful for my parents who encouraged books to be a part of our lives, by making it a part of our entire family.

Now that we are older, books are still a part of our family. They get purchased as gift for someone, as an excuse to read them ourselves, then passed around the family. There are books that I got as gifts that have never actually spent anytime on my shelf (which is fine, I feel completely comfortable taking books of any number of shelves and never returning them - it all works out in the end).

I cannot imagine not having this relationship with books. I can't imagine a life not full to the brim of stories I have read and the comfort that comes with a book in my hand.  While I did not need Reading Rainbow's peer pressure to try books for the first time, it gave me security in knowing that this love I had for books was a great thing.  And I watched it joyously, just as I watched Seaseme Street, 3, 2, 1 Contact, and Ghostwriter (PBS did a damn good job raising kids in the 80's and early 90's. Thanks guys). I know there are kids out there who discovered reading through the show and for that I think the world is a much better place.

I am tickled pink that the Reading Rainbow Kickstarter has already blown itself out of the water because there are so many people, like me, who recognize the value of reading as a joy rather than a test-able subject in school. People who are nostalgic. People who love LeVar Burton (he is so very, very lovable). People who love a good coffee mug (I am way too excited about this mug).

I also know there are people who more skeptical about this whole thing. People who do not trust the internet, or celebrities, or crowd-sourced anything. And I completely understand and respect that.

To those people, I say, give your money that maybe would have gone to this to Open Books. My favorite literacy program in Chicago. Open Books give kids the joy of reading with bonus joy of writing included at no extra cost. They make living life better for kids in Chicago. The programs are focused on reading and writing as a thing to treasure rather than one more thing to worry about failing.  And if you feel like you are being scammed if you don't get anything in return for your donation - go down to the Open Books Bookstore and buy yourself something nice. All the money from the store goes back into their amazing Chi-city programs.

I feel like there are so few things left in this world that we can just enjoy without worrying about how its going to kill us (food, the water in Lake Michigan, hugging people) that reading should be something that is pushed for its capacity to make the world a better place.

On Birds and Words

I had truly no idea how hard the news of Maya Angelou dying would hit me. I guess I had never really considered it until I was faced with it - and it just hit me like a ton of sadness bricks.

How people managed to pick their one favorite Angelou quote boggled my mind. I could no sooner pick a favorite cupcake. Why would you limit yourself to just one?

I am grateful to my AP Lang and Comp teacher for introducing us to Phenomenal Woman. For telling all the boys to shut their yappers when they said it was stupid (oh weird, another theme to this terrible week) and for those of us who heard it, she encouraged us to listen as hard as we could.

So I want to take a moment and say Thank you to Maya Angelou for putting words together in a way that had the capacity to stop my heart and made me feel through every single pore.

Thank you for living your life and letting us share it. Thank you for inspiring so many writers and readers by being you and no one else.

Friendly Ground

Today we are skipping town to go watch my baby sister 'Bear graduate from college. Obviously, this makes me incredibly old and I'm working through all my old-person emotions.

The best way to do this is with booze, obviously.

When I was ordering this balanced breakfast, I asked the bartender if I could take this back to my gate to enjoy while stealing the wireless from Boyfriend's phone.

"Of course, young lady, you can take this wherever you want. Welcome to the South Side of Chicago."

My heart bubbled with Chicago pride. We booze when we want (8:30 a.m. on a Wednesday), where we want (the gate because airport bars are sad) and how we want (it was only 40 cents extra to get Kettle One. Hell. Yes).

As I reflect back on my college graduation which was EIGHT YEARS AGO OMG. I am so grateful for the opportunities I had and the choices I made that led me to such a great town.

Cheers.

musings on motherhood

Last night I watched my friend be a mom.

I love having the opportunity to watch amazing women enjoy this new role in the simple matters of tutus and giggles and very first butt scoots. 

But last night it was sickness and messy and fear and doubt and the less fun, but so much more real, side of parenthood. 

And she owned it. Not to say that she didn't question panicked first thoughts, or ask her partner his opinions, or rely on others to help her but she took ownership of a very scary situation and didn't let the anxiety keep her from getting things done. 

I am amazed at this level-headedness. When I think about parenting and especially with the first go-round of just not knowing anything, it is completely terrifying.

It was fascinating to see it up close and in the moment. I never doubted this particular friend's capacity for getting things done but to see it, actually see it, was eye opening in a very good way.

I am very grateful for these friends who outpace me in life's obstacle course.  The ones who show me what it actually is, instead of just what it looks like. And now I get to take a moment to wonder if I have the trust in my own abilities and the same pragmatism during crisis.

Being a grown-up is weird, y'all.

Namaste. Bless You.

I think that yoga might be the one form of exercise I can do constantly without getting sick of while still deriving some sort of athletic benefit, but my current house of yoga costs way more than I can justify spending on anything these days. So I recently canceled my membership.

I think of yoga as a workout, it is how I justify eating all the snacks (and yes, I know we don't actually need to justify snacks, but unless you are going to buy me new pants - justify) but I know that for most people yoga has some deeper meaning. 

For the longest time, when I was told (asked?) to set an intention at the beginning of class, it was always, "let's just get through this." Then, when Boyfriend's mom got sick, the idea of dedicating my practice became a habit.  Occasionally it was for someone else, sometimes it was for me.

Today, I had an epiphany in class. Maybe it was because I was the sweatiest I had ever been. So sweaty, I thought I would dissolve into a swampy pile of yoga sweat goo. I just realized that this is as close to prayer I will ever get.

I have never been religious, and it has always felt pretty douchey to pray when things get bad, when I have never once prayed when things are good. Plus, if there is a man upstairs, he is probably actually a lady and thusly hates hypocrites. Lady Gods cannot abide by hypocrites.

When I dedicate a practice to someone it feels like an opportunity to try to take some of their pain or sadness or confusion away. As I sweat and strain I reach out into the universe, find one person and say, "I'm already working hard, give me some of your weariness because I can take it."

It feels stupidly wonderful (and very cliche-y) to have a workout with bonus substance. To not only feel like I've earned that extra beer but that I have stepped out of me and all of my goofy first world problems and given an hour and fifteen minutes of my breath and self to someone else.

Being the dick pragmatist I have always been, thoughts and breath come up short when what people need are medicine and cures, but as I have gotten older and life has gotten more real I have realized that thoughts (and prayers, if that is what you are cooking) are pretty valuable too.

I have about a month of yoga left in my membership before I move into other things and I try to find other ways to devote myself to others but until then, I will celebrate these opportunities to sweat it out for others.

And please, someone remind Boyfriend when I come home just smelling like a hockey locker room that sometimes, I do this for him.

Juan at a time

This blog post was supposed to be about the Bachelor because I just watched my first three hours of it ever and I have some Things. To. Say.

But instead its about a sick boyfriend who needs pats on the head and gatorade with-a-straw.

Boys are quite possibly the most pathetic of the ill. I am pretty terrible at being sick, but stoicism has never been my strong suit. Boys puff up their chests and show us their tail feathers until they have a temp-a-ture and a yucky tummy. Then it is all sleeping and wallowing in the biggest ocean of self pity that can be found.

So tonight its disinfecting the entire house, keeping the cat from making too much noise and putting the ginger ale on ice.

On the bright side, I got to be a part of this conversation:

After telling me he didn't want anything besides a single piece of bread, he looked at me for a minute, "Um."

"Yeah, what do you need?"

"Um. Are there, like, stomach flu shelves?"

"What do you mean?"

"Like, you know, to sort things."

"To sort things?"

"Yeah, to, you know, sort things for your stomach flu."

"To sort things where?"

"You know. In bed."

"Oh."

"That's a thing?"

"No. Sorry. That is not a thing."

TBIF: for Bros and Creepers.

Mel Evans might be the funniest person I know in real life. Its real creepy and weird how much I like her and not-so-secretly would like to be her friend. Its mega strange and if she is reading this (which, lets be real, she isn't.) she would probably be hella uncomfortable and rethink all those cat pictures of mine she liked on instagram.

At any rate. She is a contributor to the perfect on-the-clock time-waster Bro Jackson which is basically if Deadspin was like, "Fuck you, Nick Denton, we're in charge. Jezebel, you can come too. Be cool."

Her columns, introducing bros to the finer, loved-by-the-ladies, things in life, are consistently hilarious and worth a read. This week's installment about Flowers in the Attic was particularly eloquent and on point as it discussed why girls in 8th grade are weirdly into incest and inappropriate boinking of other varieties.

I, myself, did not read Flowers in the Attic, though I have no idea how I missed such an essential part of adolescence, though I am sure this rationally explains my fears of commitment and twins.

What I did read was Return to the Secret Garden which had to have had the same effect. My mom purchased it for me in an insane error of judgement (seriously, do not judge a book by its cover unless you want your child's favorite childhood stories being beat up and kicked down a flight of stairs).

The Amazon page for this book is really quite spectacular. The summary has a bulleted list of facts. And those facts are mostly about the original. Also, everyone in the comments section is mad. The Amazon page might be more entertaining than the book itself.

There are some passages to that book that I read so often as a ten year-old that I still have them committed to memory despite my insistence on killing of brain cells at an alarming rate in the interim.

The book got passed around my middle school like the new Green Day CD. By the time I retired it, the spine had been taped back together numerous times, so exhausted had it been lying open for the young, impressionable girls to learn about the intricacies of marrying your cousin (spoiler alert) and the complications that arise after illicit garden sex.

I cannot in good faith recommend this book. I can tell you that if you should find it for sale for under a $1 then sure, let me know how it goes. I can in good faith tell you to be really, really awkward around Mel Evans and read Bro Jackson around 11:30 a.m. when you have already given up on the day.

truism 2014 v.1

A night where I can be in bed by 10 p.m. with a book in my hand feels like a good day. Even though it actually means I am ignoring all the work I have to do and avoiding all the cleaning my house needs - it feels good which has to be enough sometimes.

Inner Demons and Good Feelings

I shot out of bed this morning, wide-awake with anxiety at 5:15 a.m. A full hour and fifteen minutes before my alarm was set to go off.

For the longest time, I just lay there, letting the anxiety wash over me again and again until I thought it would explode out of my fingertips.

And then as if some sort of fairy godmother was whispering my in ear, I thought, "what am I panicking about?"

I am panicking about things I cannot control. Things that will get done when they get done. Things that are partially my responsibility - but my portion is done. Things that are so far in the future, I can barely put them on a calendar. Things that will require a late night, but only because I sometimes take on more than can fit in your standard day.

I was anxious about things that did not require the rapid heart rate, the sweaty palms, the near tears. I was anxious, because anxious - due to years and years of having too much to do and a huge helping of fear of failure - is my default position. Anxious is how I am.

While I wish I could say that this revelation made the anxiety magically disappear and I am reborn a calm and zen human being forever rational - that is not the case. The anxiety never left. It stayed as I lay there waiting for the alarm to go off. But somehow, the knowledge that the anxiety was unwarranted, helped make it okay. It was still bad, but Okay Bad.

It was as if instead of chasing off the demon, the good feelings just sat with the demon and they started working out a peace accord.

I don't know where this bold moment of clarity came from but I hope that by announcing it to the internet, someone else finds one as well.

So it begins

It was a little ironic that this week I could only describe my mindset as Zombie.

Get up, go to work, work, work, work, come home work, work, go to bed, get up, go to work, work, work, brains, brains, brains, bed.

Halloween passed with absolutely no fanfare beyond a caramel apple and cupcake. I almost forgot that after Halloween comes all the writing. 

Last year, I did NaNoWriMo with nothing else on my plate. I was unemployed and had a schedule chock-full of free time. And I couldn't make myself write.

This year, I'm in the middle of wrapping up one event and planning two others - which involves a constant stream of words and numbers, and to add insult to I-can-never-say-no-to-work, I'm in the middle of a writing project that will last well into the month. Plus, we have four trips left to take, including tonight's to Seattle. And I haven't even told you jokers about Charlotte, Vegas or the gd Canyon I hung out in. 

But I signed up. Because I always will. 

So we'll see if no free time creates more writing time in one of those inexplicable equations of the universe.  Either way, I'm sorry for the radio silence. More blogs later...whenever that is...

Don't Pull

I hit my wall.

After running on Dr. Pepper Ten fumes and my all-consuming fear of failure for the past three weeks, last night, I could not do it anymore.

So I went to bed, hoping I would wake up magically better or magically with all my tasks complete. 

Quite obviously, neither of these things happened. So I am force to keep running up against the wall, pushing it with my weak, flabby arms and the promise of being nothere in just 48 hours. 

Push on.

Another Year Pt. 1

Its my birthday month! I don't like to celebrate my birthday as much as I just like to take time to think about how amazing it's been to take yet another trip around the sun. Here's the unfinished post I wrote last year. It is absolutely still true. Get ready for a weekly birthday post for the next few weeks as I prep for the last year of my 20's. 

I feel like I talk about traditions a fair amount. I don't know why, per se - but as I grow up and my life extends outward, I have found that traditions, both old and new, help keep me centered and inspire moments of reflection of how lucky I am in this little life of mine.

Sappy? Yes. But true.

Today is my birthday. I am 28 years old. Its a mellow birthday. I am easing into my late twenties slowly and quietly to avoid pulling a muscle. But luckily - slow and mellow is my favorite part of my newest birthday tradition.

For the past few years I have had the luxury of knowing when I wake up on my birthday that the day is mine and I can do whatever I want with it. If I want to carpe it. I can. Or I can curl up with a good book and let it wash over me. Most years it's been a little bit of both. But the rule is - no plans and no requirements beyond being happy.

So this year it was free donuts (guys, Beaver's Donuts gives you a free half dozen on your birthday if you can track them down. Fo' realz. Plus they give you a hat!)

...and coffee with Boyfriend who had raced back from a work trip to Kansas to spend the morning with me before giving me a kiss and promising dinner and presents.

Then a trip to anthropologie, a visit with one of the most important people in my Chicago-life, and now a moment at home to eat eggs and toast and be happy for all I've got.

Balancing on a worklife

Since starting my new job there has been much discussion on work-life balance. It is something that my new company says that it takes very seriously. But they also work very hard and are incredibly successful - so either they are time management machines or the right hand is writing checks that the left cannot cash (it's mixed metaphor Monday!)

Either way, it is impossible. Maybe it is because I am gearing up for the first huge test of my new job or maybe because I am absolutely terrified of people thinking I do not work hard enough - but Sundays seem to be reserved for football and laptops.

It is not that I don't have a social life, I do! And I often spend parts of weekends enjoying it - but no matter what, the first thing I do every morning is jolt out of bed and think about all the things I still need to get done. The second thing I do is check my work email. 

My question is - how do you stop? How do you stop this cycle? How do you let go of the fear of failure enough to stop having it be in the forefront of every thought you have every hour of the day? 

I know that there is no way for me to stop now. I have two more weeks of living like an imminent heart attack before the situation can even be addressed. But after that - what do you do?

Aisle 4 Clean Up.

Is there an age when your first instinct at the grocery store is something other than jumping on that lower kitty-litter rung of the back of the grocery cart and then riding it through the aisle?

I do not ever want to be that age.

Playing Dress Up: Modcloth

I am coming up on my five month anniversry at work and I still feel like I'm playing dress up every day. I also feel like I'm playing pretend, but that's a topic for another day.

Before this job, the only dress code at any of my post-college jobs was "pants." I had to wear pants and a shirt and, if I was walking around, shoes. Now, I live in the world of "Business Smart." 

I hate button down shirts and I really hate blazers so I was stuck trying to find work outfits that were appropriate and in which I felt comfortable. It was bad enough to be totally terrified of failure in a brand new gig but to also to be walking in the door feeling like I looked terrible was a recipe for disaster.

Modcloth to the rescue. 

Dresses have been my go-to. The rules are they need to be at-the-knee and shoulder-covering. But that's it. Dresses have given me the opportunity to be my weird, childish self while also looking nice and ready to get things done.

My first dress was the New Hire and Higher I pinned it months ago as the dress I would buy when I got a new job, I ended up with it in slate (rather than dark) which is lighter fabric and was ideal for summer. Although I always tie the sash in a knot and on the side because I am punk rock like that. 

In that first order, I also grabbed the Coach Tour dress in violet (another pinterest find). Every time I wear this dress someone compliments it. I think because it is professional, but has an interesting neckline and a fuller skirt. Professional and fun. Also it has pockets, it can do no wrong. If I didn't think people would notice, I would buy it in two or three more colors. 

I snagged the Cultivated Charmer dress before it was gone. I don't wear it as often because while I have been reassured about 20 times that you cannot see my butt through the slit in the back, anytime I walk around in it, I am almost positive you can see my butt through the slit. I like that its got classic lines, but the lace makes it interesting.

My newest acquisition is still on its way (I ordered it, but its too small, I am madly in love with it, so I ordered one size up and I'm hoping it'll be on my body in the next couple weeks), A Symmetry Grows in Brooklyn. I love everything about this dress. I love its belt, I love its pocket, and its sleeves, and its big buttons. 

I love that Modcloth lets me return things without getting weird about it (with every order there has been a return or an exchange, and we're still cool). I love that people are super honest about how the clothes fit in the reviews (sometimes girls have each other's backs). 

I love that I have never seen anyone else in my office or on my commute wearing any of these dresses. While I have filled out the rest of my work wardrobe with pencil skirts, other simple dresses, and even a couple dreaded button downs (we're working on it), I love that all of these dresses will withstand the dreaded trend cycle as I have no patience for clothing that I will stop wearing simply because it is out of style. 

As we get into fall, I'm starting to panic slightly about what I'm going to wear when its too cold for bare legs. Boots are business smart, right?

Goulden Oldies.

Football Sundays used to look like this:

Now, its far more likely to look like this:

I will say, it is nice not to have to put on pants. And it is ideal to get projects done with no distractions. And I have far more money to spend on dresses and throw pillows when I'm not paying a $100 bar tab every week.

I miss that face though. The face of irresponsible bliss.

So this Sunday, I'll work hard. I'll imbibe nothing stronger than coffee. I will go to bed knowing that I'll wake up in one metaphorical (and literal) piece on Monday morning.

Next week though? Next Sunday is a return to going for the Gould.

Another added bonus to this new version of Game Day:

It's not Wednesday but...

My friend LaLa noticed something and called me out last weekend, and I've been thinking about it ever since.

I was proudly announcing that the first deposit had been made in my Roth IRA (a discovery that was only made after a panicked 5:30 am phone call to ING thinking someone hacked my account - naturally). 

"I'm almost a grown-up!" with a flourish I ended the story.

"You're always almost a grown-up. Are you ever going to get over that hump?" (I am paraphrasing but that is pretty much what she said.

I look at my life on this Friday morning, I'm dressed in my sensible, walking-around work flats and a dress I've owned  for over ten years that has some stories to tell. I'm going to a real job, but one that is "technically" only four days a week. I have strong opinions at work and people take me seriously. I am scared of most of the people in my office because I don't want to bother them. My hair is dirty because most mornings, I am too lazy to get up to wash it. I am wearing eyeliner but a sweater with a hole in it. My weekend includes a trip to Michigan wine country. And then hungoverly running 3 miles to get a cheeseburger, all because of an inside joke that was taken too far. My week has been full of working really hard and then staying up too late drinking and having fun. I have a wonderful, healthy relationship with a guy, who spent the morning trying to put a clementine in my cleavage. I feel like I have built myself a home and a community. I still think about leaving all this and moving somewhere warm, or foreign or both. I have no interest in marriage or children except for the fact that they are both excuses to get presents and throw parties. I still writing this blog full of meaningless drivel, even though I know that real, grown-up blogs are supposed to have mission and focus.

Not over the hump yet.  

The babes of summer.

I really, really like babies. Always have. It comes from having lady parts, being the oldest of a whole gaggle of cousins, and general enjoyment found in nurturing and small victories (please note: any one of these qualities individually or all three together do not necessarily make a lover of the babies. I'm just saying it worked out with my particular chromosomal make-up).

Before this year, babies were something that grown-ups had: my aunts, my parents' friends, my very, very old and mature older cousin. The people who were my age who had babies were so far removed from my day to day life that they felt like foreigners that I just observed through the window of facebook.

During my recent sojourn into unemployment I got hooked up with some amazing baby-sitting jobs. Truly, the kids I spent time with were some of the best companions I could have asked for during this very strange and out-of-character time in my life. Not only did they provide moments of humor and pride, they also gave me a peek into what parenthood might be like (obviously, not completely as their parents always, thankfully, came home, but like a tee-tiny peek). For some reason baby-sitting at the age of 28 made parenting seem like a much more real concept (rather than something that people have done when they have given up on their own lives and so need something to occupy their time).

This experience coincided nearly perfectly with the announcement that two of my favorite humans were incubating two of the newest, greatest members of the human race right there inside them. The wait for these babies to incubate has seemed nearly endless, but now, some how, it is ending and within the next week or so these babies will be real humans, rather than just cute-in-theory parasites.

The excitement I am feeling about these two amazing events nearly makes my lungs explode. I cannot wait to be a part of these two new lives that are justabout to start. Both babes have lucked out in the amazeballs parents department but I am on the edge of my seat waiting to be a source of entertainment, love, and poop removal for these two.

This excitement-beyond-excitement has brought the real notion of parenthood into incredibly harsh perspective. With so many parts of adulthood (read: marriage) it has always felt like something that I would probably not be good at, I'm too selfish, too greedy, and lack the patience needed to read "Elmo's Big Day," four hundred times in an afternoon.

Now, I know that I could do this. I could be a parent, but the question is - do I want to? Do I want to be responsible for a real, actual human being? Would I set way to high of standards for her as person and me as a Mother? Do I want to give up a life of fancy restaurants and frolicking about the country like IDGAF?

I honestly do not know. But its something on my mind, Internet. And in this breath before the most-exciting-adventure thus-far in adulthood comes before me, I get to take a moment and be so thankful that I know two great women who are going to jump in both-feet-in-the-deep-end and tell me how the water is, before I have to make any choices.

To being a loving by-stander and hander-of-burp-clothes in this next adventure of life!