The Lone Star(burst) State’s “Catch and Release” Program

I’ve always divided boys into the four main groups:  “A Good Catch”… “A Skin Suit Maker”… “A Non-Skin Suit Maker”… “Wrong Team Allegiance.”  Most men fall into the “Non-Skin Suit Maker” category but I always proceed with caution because you never truly know. I completely ignore those who wear hats or jerseys I just can’t accept. I have met some boys that I am certain have women in their basement and a frequent shopper rewards card with Bath and Body Works. But the “A Good Catch” category is a rare find for me. Sometimes though, when the planets align and animals start going crazy using their sixth sense of natural phenomena, one will come around. And then it is up to me to figure out what just happened and what exactly I’m supposed to do with it.

He came out of nowhere and I’m just going to refer to him as “Mr. Texas” because he encompassed every bit of the state one could piece together into a human being. First and foremost: he gave me a Starburst. And not just any Starburst… he gave me a red one. And then a pink one. It’s like someone gave him the blueprint to my heart and he went straight to the core. If he had given me a Yankees ticket, a container of frosting, a mixed tape with Keith Whitley and a Tiffany’s box I’m sure I would have proposed to him myself. I was “caught” and I agreed to a first date.

I adhered to the rules that my best friend put together for first dates. I was one: not to drink him under the table; two: not wear my food; three: let him pay the bill. And while I dropped so much rice in my lap I am confident that he didn’t notice and if he did there was definitely no acknowledgement of the moment (or four…or five…ok, six times). I followed the advice that my brother has given me intermittently over time when he says: “If you’re ever on a date that’s probably something that I wouldn’t share with the guy” including but not limited to: my distrust of canned/frozen carrots; my cat’s participation in my home security with their catnip militia (you read that correctly); and to avoid telling him that I vacuum my fridge not for crumbs but for amoebas. While I find nothing wrong with these possible conversation killers I still refrained from sharing them at the dinner table. And the date was perfect. And I agreed to another. He was officially “A Good Catch” and I was still “caught.”

He made me laugh. He made me smile. My hesitation towards the intentions of the male species was nonexistent which should have been a warning sign to me but instead I took it as a green light. My best friend told me she was so excited to see me happy and that finally a boy was worthy of my time and attention. Every time that I would begin to doubt what was happening and why my guard was uncharacteristically down I would accept another Starburst. And Mr. Texas would smile. And I’d still be “caught.”

Fast forward one month. A day which blockbuster movies are made of: Every single fiber cable, phone line, space satellite, and cell tower stopped working. While mass chaos did not carry out into the streets I’m positive this massive technological collapse occurred. Because the text messages and calls from Mr. Texas abruptly stopped. The only logical explanation for such a drastic suspension of communication is the complete breakdown of modern technology. I picked up my phone and texted people… The texts went through and were actually replied to. Land lines had dial tones. Cell phones connected to outgoing and incoming calls. But there was still no communication from Mr. Texas. Perhaps it was just his phone, right?

Lucky for most boys I am not the kind of girl who sits by the phone and waits for a boy to call. I also don’t send out texts continuously asking for a response or prying for information. If a boy wants to talk to me then he will contact me (I’m confident that Jeter lost my number… again). So I kept myself busy. I cleaned my apartment. I did laundry. I had staring contests with my cat. I put on a pedometer on my ankle and pretended it was a Skip-It. I refused to give my phone any attention.

The last text I received from him read: "Goodnight and sweet dreams. I will talk to you tomorrow!" But 24 hours… 36 hours… 48 hours… 72 hours… “Ding.” One new message from Mr. Texas. I saw the message notification but since he waited 72 hours to send one he could wait for a response. Perhaps since 39 is the new 29 then tomorrow is the new "3 days later." So I flossed. I did some sit-ups until I realized those are not fun and so I immediately stopped. I tried to watch the ceiling fan non-stop without getting dizzy. I made Keurig cup pyramids. And when I thought a suitable amount of time had passed, I picked up the phone and read the message: “Hey sweetie.”

Really? This is your idea of informing me that you’re not dead Mr. Texas? I immediately thought of responses. What was so biting that it would have the same impact as not hearing from someone for 3 days? What could my fingers methodically type that would convey the frustration I had at the disrespect and lack of maturity that came with his behavior? What words could I muster from my years of Latin, AP English & Literature and speech writing? This boy went from texting me all the time to Marcel Marceau. Oh I was ready. So my hands picked up the phone and my fingers sent across a strong, woman-powered, direct comeback that Shakespeare himself would have envied: “Hey.”

His excuses were minimal and his behavior questionable. He questioned his ability to devote time to a new relationship and whether or not he was ready to do so. And then I read the line: “I’m not sure what I want to do.” Well, Mr. Texas. The good thing is that I am fully equipped with the ability to make decisions myself and do so knowing “what I want to do.” And so I made the decision for him. I told him that I did know what I wanted to do and it was not to wait around for him to make up his mind because I was better than that and worth more than that. He set the bait with the Starbursts. He caught me. He had me. And then in true sportsman fashion… I was released. And for the first time since I moved to the Lone Star State I realized I had liked a boy. And I had been disappointed by that boy. I let my guard down and let sugary promises guide my normally overcautious heart and mind.

They say things are bigger in Texas ranging from women’s hair to rancher’s cattle. Added to that list are now the false hopes that boys give you down here and the protective shield I will put up around me. If I could be easily persuaded to follow a boy with pink and red wrapped candy, one can only imagine what would happen with a handful of Skittles. So I take solace in knowing that I learned my lesson. That I walked away before I could be walked away from. That my pride is still intact and that my heart isn’t broken but just a bit bruised. They say “Beware of Greeks bearing gifts.” These folks have never met a boy from the South. I preach to you: “Beware of Texans with Candy…”

If only he had offered me a yellow one.

Pippi Found Mr. Right

I curse my father for making me a horrible liar. I truly wish I was a better liar but unfortunately since I could get away with absolutely nothing as a child(/teenager/last week) my mind has molded itself into a mass incapable of effectively lying. My stories become surreal to the point where my alibis are more like a day with Pippi Longstocking than anything plausible. So because I couldn’t be Pippi with tall tales I was lucky enough to meet… drumroll please… “Mr. Right.”

That wasn’t a typo kids. I have met “Mr. Right” and I am still in awe at the experience. I’m not sure how to come to terms with what happened or even how the events transpired all together. What I do know is the night began and ended with my failed attempts at lying weighing heavily on the situation. “Mr. Right” asked me to dinner a week ago. Given my normal day-to-day happenings I’m a very busy person. I don’t always have time for a dinner date. There are the two jobs that I work; the time spent putting my yoga pants on to work out but never actually making further than checking my mail in them; the minutes consumed with my head laying on the paper towel roll watching coffee brew as I desperately try to wake up; there’s the hour or so added to each day where I walk in and out of rooms trying to remember why I entered or exited them to begin with; there’s the dance breaks that accompany long periods of sitting; and there’s watching my cat try relentlessly to get my attention as a reminder his food bowl is in dire need of sustenance. So basically, from sunup to sundown my schedule is booked and there is little wiggle room, if any, to meet up with someone to have dinner. But when you are an awful liar it becomes increasingly difficult to keep your coherent string of excuses together. Pretty soon you’re saying you can’t get meet up because you pulled a hammy holding a horse above your head with one hand. (Thanks, Pippi)

So with my bag of excuses exhausted I took the couple of hours I did have to spare to meet for dinner.  We met at a neutral location with much lighting and ample people. That way if my skin was particularly soft there would be more than enough witnesses to prevent my abduction. Now I will say that I have been told I am a picky person- I’m a picky eater. I’m a picky dresser. I’m a picky dater. And frankly, I have tried to work with this as a way to make me a better person. Compromise but don’t settle. That’s what I tell myself. So when “Mr. Right” parked his car next to me and locked the Lexus I knew I was already playing my compromise card. A man in a Lexus is about as foreign to me as someone expecting to see me in a full face of make-up and a manicure. It’s just not a fit. But I took a deep breath and reminded myself that not every man on this planet believes that the suitable vehicle to transport them in is a pickup truck.

We weren’t very far into the evening (i.e. we had just sat down with coats still on) when “Mr. Right” started to earn his nickname. He asked one question after another: “Why did you move to Texas?” “Where did you go to college?” “What did you study?” “How big is your family?” But the problem was this: every time I opened my mouth to answer a question I was able to speak about 5 words before I heard the interjection “Right. Right. So…”  This is not an exaggeration. It was like a Twilight Zone episode.

“So Kristen, where did you go to college?”…. “Well I went to Belmont----“ … “Right, Right. So… And what did you study?” … “I studied Political Sci----“ “Right. Right. So.”

There was no stopping it. I would try to talk over the interjection but it became futile after just a handful of questions. He liked his answers better. So I was going to just let him have at it. And he loved to answer the questions I asked. The only problem was… I wasn’t too keen on the answers I was hearing.

“Mr. Right” thinks that old country music sound is awful particularly the steel guitar sound. He said he enjoyed “pop music.” Now I’m not down with what the kids listen to these days so when I heard “pop music” I asked if he meant “like NSYNC and Beyoncé.” He agreed to the Beyoncé portion of that duo. Compromise but don’t settle Kristen. I asked him the universal question that everyone answers correctly because I actually believe it’s illegal in Texas to disagree but when asked the Golden Question he told me George Strait was “eh.” I should have ran then. I should have grabbed my bag, my coat, some really good chips with a finger swipe of queso and got the hell out of there. But I stayed. It would be at that moment, in my life’s movie, that the audience is chanting in true horror movie fashion for me to turn around and run away. But like Jamie Lee Curtis and Mike, I stayed in the epicenter of a disaster. I just needed my own scary theme song.

We proceeded to look at the photo shoot he had on his phone of over 200 shots taken of just him with trees… leaves… a railroad sign… a railroad track… some more leaves… and a staircase. As I looked at the staircase I thought about all the times I have fallen down one. And I thought about how that would be so much more enjoyable that my current task at hand. I heard about his political philosophy which is to make every single state an individual country under a Kingdom of America. Each state would have their own militia and trading policies. When I tried to insert a joke about troop deployment during Yankee/Red Sox games my humor was lost entirely. Actually, achingly and uncomfortably. I didn’t get the joke out to the full extent though because I’m pretty sure I was cut off at “Yank---“ with “Right. Right. So.”

When he went to the bathroom I obviously did what any sane, mature, 30 year old would do who was staring at the exit signs. I frantically texted my friends and told them I was in the middle of a horrible date and I was eating my weight in food to try to ease the pain. Each of them told me to make up an excuse quickly and then run for it. But he was a guy. He would be back in a matter of seconds. I didn’t have time to formalize a rational exit strategy. I would wait until the check was placed on the table, look down at my wrist (sans watch) and say, “Oh wow, yeah, I should be going too.” And then I would make it to the parking lot, lose my phone and wallet, switch cars, change my name to Diane and move to Sheboygan. It was foolproof. The three of them made it sound so easy: “Say there’s an emergency!” Or “I just got a text from the Red Cross and I have to go.” Technically the latter could have worked but I’m on the Disaster Action Team. And the disaster was that date which I absolutely did not want to respond to. So I waited it out. I didn’t speak much (which is painful for me and it hurt the alignment of the planets). The night finally ended and I could go home. Sadly, I think he had a good time (but technically since I couldn’t talk he was on a date with himself).

Right now, in my life, ex-boyfriends are getting married or they’re having babies while I’m still having first dates. I know some will be good. And I expect many will be bad. Some will even end with me finding “Mr. Right”. But I can’t use the huge milestones in their lives as a litmus test for the lack of milestones in my own. There may be weddings and lullabies on their agendas these days but today mine was a date with “Mr. Right” and I learned something.

I learned that they can celebrate their nuptials, and babies and technically “grow up.” They can become different and new people. And I will do the same… just differently. Miss Longstocking was really good at telling tall tales and all the while being true to herself. She was independent and proud. So now I’m the daughter of a sea Captain with my own horse, monkey and house. Being like Pippi is the only way I am ever going to successfully lie. And if having an adventure or two provides me with good alibis to skip dinner with another "Mr. Right" who am I to turn one down?  

Pippi wasn’t ready to grow up and settle down… And I think she was on to something. Diddle. Diddle. Dee.

Barbie & Skipper: Lessons About Ken(s) and the Dream House That Requires More Than Just Assembly

My parents went above and beyond the call of duty in raising me. I'm sure they were presented with more than enough opportunities to "accidentally" leave me in a grocery store or shopping mall and just "forget" to come back and retrieve me. I commend them for their patience. I apologize for the therapy bills I know they are currently paying.

But what my parents never did was bless me with a little sister. A little brother? Yes. A Lego-leaving-Nerf-gun-shooting-booby-trap-setting-matchbox-car-throwing-brother. This "little" brother grew to be an entire foot taller than me. He's now married with a mortgage and a steady job. He doesn't look to me for advice, help or instruction. To put it simply, "he's all done." My work, although mostly comprised of dodging his weapons, laboring through the pain of stepping on hundreds of Legos and enduring the embarrassment of his presence while entertaining a boy, is through.

I always wanted a little sister though. Laura Ingalls Wilder had Carrie and Grace. The entire Babysitter's Club consisted of girls with little sisters. And the bond between Barbie and Skipper was something that I envied. Please note that I do have an older sister of course. The one who got the cool clothes that were eventually handed down to me. The one who could drive, date, pierce and tattoo long before I could. (Let's be honest-I'm not saying that boys were lining up around the block to have a chance date with Kristen but if they were they had to wait until I was a senior or Jonathan Taylor Thomas returned my love letters with a "no.")

So how lucky was I when at the age of 22 I was introduced to an 8th grade girl who was looking for a "big sister" role model. Someone to tell her about boys. About parties. About the cool things in life of which I knew nothing about because I was NOT that kid growing up. But for some reason she stuck around listening to me tell her what company she should keep. What classes she should take. How to talk to her parents when she thought she should keep her mouth shut. I got her through high school. I saw her go off to college. And now that she has graduated, I am seeing her through the first part of her "oh-my-God-I'm-an-adult" phase. I've been there through braces and break-ups. School dances and college applications. Parties and parents. I've watched her grow up into an adult all the while looking to ME for advice and guidance.

Looking to me? That's like a blind person teaching a person with 20/20 vision the color spectrum.

Every time the phone rings and I see her face there on the screen I hit the "answer" button and buckle up for what will only be a conversation that will test my navigational prowess. How do I use all of my relationship disasters, friendship roller coasters, emotional "come aparts" and complete lack of having my life together at the age of 30 to guide a 22 year old? How do I make sure that as a "Big Sister" I tell her what she needs to know in order to make the right decisions? She can always go to her parents or friends but for some reason she keeps coming back to me. And she comes back with two questions every time: "What should I do?" and "What would you do?" Those two questions have more conflict than relations in the Middle East.

I'm sure you're wondering why this isn't like parenting? Why I shouldn't feel like I could tell her "when I was your age we walked up hill both way to school and made our own shoes fashioned out of the burlap sacks we stored our potatoes in" (Irish family... Never fails). There's a difference between a parent and a sister. And I have learned that. It is easier to call a sister when you've found yourself at a party where everyone is drinking and you don't have a sober ride. It's easier to call her because while she knows she wasn't supposed to be at that party in the first place that sister will come out in the middle of the night, get you, bring you water and ibuprofen, and tell you she's been there too. It's not my place to discipline and set boundaries. It's my place to tell her: this is what I went through. This is what I experienced. And if you can piece together ANY helpful hints and tips for putting together a semi-normal and functional life for yourself: I commend you.

The other night this sweet girl asked me a question that didn't have to do with boys and break-ups or dresses and drama. She asked me: "But what will people think of me now?" And I teared up. Because that's exactly the question I have been asking myself for months. And I realized that the answer that I was about to give her as a Big Sister was the answer I needed to hear all along.

She had an opportunity to travel across the world for a job. She told everyone she knew. She was more than thrilled. It was a dream come true. She was finally going to be doing what she dreamed of doing her whole life and it was going to be on a level she never imagined. And after yelling it from the rooftops... it fell through. And she was scared, embarrassed and so concerned as to what other people were going to think of her because her plans changed. If you held a mirror in front of my face you would have seen a person who wondered what people thought of her: spending her whole life trying to get to Nashville, finally getting there, planting roots, trying to make something of herself, and eventually packing up and driving away from it all. I wondered too: Will people think I failed? Will people think that I wasn't able to set out and do what I said I was going to do? What are people thinking of me?

So I told her what I wished I had told myself every night I have sat in this apartment wondering what people were thinking about the girl who dreamed of living in Music City and then left. The only person who's opinion matters when it comes to your life is your own. Life happens. You can't determine the path that you are going to take or what is going to be on the next page in your life story. There are shake-ups and let-downs. But letting the perceptions of others have such an impact on the perception you have of yourself? That's unfair. Failure is when you didn't try. Failure is when you stood on the edge of change and didn't jump because of fear. Failure is not when life has other plans. Failure is when you make other plans to appease the opinions of others.

So I told her. And in telling her I told myself. A Big Sister and a Little Sister learned something together at the same time. And her response, upon hearing my great "words of wisdom" was: "Thank you. You always know the right thing to say! I needed that."

Little did she know... So did I. 

XXX... (Think More Caesar & Less Censor)

The First Time I Knew True Happiness

 

 

I can continue to watch the clock but I am not going to stop those little hands from going around and around quickly turning each minute into a new hour and eventually, hitting the inevitable: midnight. Because at the stroke of midnight the name of this blog will of course have to be changed to something along the lines of "30 and Definitely Insane." I started this thing back when I was 26 and never thought I would be writing it until the day I had to change the digits. It's kind of like the eve of Y2K... we didn't know what was going to happen but we stared at the clock all the same.

I'm not going to say that turning 30 means I am old. But what 30 means to me is the ending of one huge chunk of my life and start of a new one. We waste a majority of our childhood waiting to turn 16 so that we can get behind the wheel. And then 18 so we can run away from home. And then 21 so we can have that first taste of alcohol.. legally. We grow up in using increments of time juxtaposed with a specific age. In my mind when I was 25 I was going to be married and starting a family. And while I adore my friends that are married and have children, I'm really glad that that's not who I am right now. Because frankly my life, just a couple of hours before turning 30, is nothing like I planned. And that's the way it should be.

My little brother is 25 years old, married, has steady job and owns a house. He has always had his nose down and on a driven path he never truly took off course. He's always known what he wanted and went above and beyond the call of duty to achieve those goals. Growing up that's how I thought I was going to be but it turns out life had other plans for me. It turns out that I didn't truly know myself well enough to know that I am a dreamer. I am consistently inconsistent. I am indecisive and easily distracted. I'm not ready to settle- for a job... for a home... for a boy... for anything less than fabulous. And I think that my inability to divert from this path is why I am where I am today: job searching... home searching and on the 14th sequel of the "Never Ending Story: Relationship Edition."

I told myself such behavior was acceptable though in your twenties. Those are the years you're supposed to find yourself. The years you're supposed to spread those proverbial wings and take flight. The years that you're supposed to see just how far you're supposed to push yourself until you fall on your face. And the years you see what you have inside of you that's enough to stand you back up. That experimental phase of your life is supposed to end when you enter your thirties or so I have been told.

But I'm not listening.

I have made more than my share of mistakes in the past decade. From failed relationships and horrible haircuts to failed careers and awful outfits. If you're supposed to spend your twenties making mistakes and learning from them then I spent my twenties exactly the way you are supposed to just with some added sugar and a little more Kelly Clarkson music than most. On the eve of the big transition into a new decade though, I'm surrounded by boxes... boxes that I have been packing for days now as I prepare to start over in a new state that will be filled with new challenges, new jobs... and a whole lot more mistakes.

The first digit in my age is going to change but for me that's all I am going to allow to change. I'm not done screwing up. I'm not done falling flat on my face. I'm not done making excuses for why I can't go to the gym. I'm not done sleeping in on the weekends. I'm not done eating frosting out of the container while watching Boy Meets World upside down off the couch. I'm not done having my head in the clouds looking for that perfect job and that perfect home and that perfect man (and still holding out for Jeter). Simply put, the conclusion I have come to is: I'm not done. I'm not going to have people tell me that with the dawn of my thirties comes the dusk of my youth. I'm not ready to be done.

I've learned plenty of lessons in my twenties that are more than remembering one glass of water and two ibuprofen before falling asleep. I've learned that you don't stay in a job that you know is not right for you. That you don't stay with a boy just because you fear being alone. That you don't stay on the safe side because you fear the unknown. I've learned that hearts mend, tears dry, rivers recede and wounds heal. That friends are made... and they're lost. That falling in love is not for the faint of heart and falling out of  love is for the strong ones. I've learned that home isn't always where you've planted your roots but rather where you hang up your wings.

I'm just a crazy and sarcastic person with a big mouth and a huge smile. I didn't know what I was setting out to accomplish when I drove away from home years ago but I know all that I have accomplished since I took off down that road. I have left a piece of my heart in a tiny house in New York... a piece on a farm in Vermont... and a piece in this great city where I made all my mistakes and recovered from all (most) my falls. I've planted the roots. But at the age of 30 I'm putting the wings back on to try my hand at some more mistakes.

Because tonight, at midnight, when I turn 30 I'm no longer going to look at them as "mistakes that I make" because I'm a certain age. I'm going to just look at them as Life. My life. My never-a-dull-moment, joy-filled, inconveniently blessed, uncoordinated, forgetful and Fabulous Life.

And there's a cake.

What Should Really Be on Your Grocery List.... (No coupons necessary)

When I set out to write this blog my intent was to bring to light issues and situations that I am going through that perhaps other people are experiencing at the same time. Or they are situations that people may encounter one day and they will have my words of sarcastic and hopefully insightful wisdom to guide them through it. I also made a promise that I would be 100% honest because frankly how can someone attempt to inspire others or assist others if they themselves haven't experienced it. So I can assure you with all my heart that I have witnessed, experienced, drudged through, lived through, laughed through and subjected my self to all of the events, thoughts, and situations that I've shared with you. Some have been pretty. Some have been ugly (I'm still trying to understand what was wrong with "No Toppings Guy" and look for him on "Most Wanted" posters). Perhaps I have inspired a few of you to make changes or helped you through a difficult situation with with a laugh. Perhaps I've opened your eyes to something you didn't understand before or even changed your perspective. Or at the end of the day perhaps I've just become that crazy lady with cats and a sarcastic attitude who talks too much. Either way, whatever keeps you coming back to read these posts are why I write them.

To be honest with others you must be honest with yourself. This sounds easy because there are things that are easy to share about me that are completely true: yes, I'm horrified of being made into a skin suit and leave letters/DNA samples/photos before all first/second/sixth dates. Yes, I give 1950's female names to my tumors. Yes, I think frosting solves most problems. And yes, I do believe that a treadmill is an instrument of torture and my personal demise. 

And yes... I'm not perfect. Not because I have the skin of a teenager (God bless you Proactive) or the grace of a drunken sailor. But because I suffer from anxiety. And the reason that I bring this up is perhaps someone reading this does too. Perhaps the experience I'm about to tell will change your point of view and give you support or perhaps it will make you delete the bookmark you have for the page. But I will be honest despite the ramifications that come with it. 

You'd never guess someone as outgoing and vocal as me suffers from anxiety but I do. I have for many years now. And it's not just "will the Yankees win" or "skin suit" anxiety... it's a fear that's inside of me. It's a fear that has forced me to change some of my behaviors and routines. One of these anxieties? Grocery shopping. It's not because I hate to spend money (which I despise doing!!) but because I have this fear that people will look in my cart, see what I am purchasing and think: "She's fat." It's a fear I've battled for a long time... and here's the bombshell: It's a fear that stems from an eating disorder I started experiencing my senior year of high school. Yes kids, I was the plus-sized girl in an eating disorder support group. I would stand up and say, "Hi my name is Kristen. I have a fear of eating food. I'm the biggest girl in this group but I still need help." My behavior is controlled until I'm put into a situation where I'm not in control. Break-ups are one of the most prominent triggers. Those who know me best and know about this "secret" (which is no more) understand that the first thing they need to do, after threatening to kill the guy who broke my heart... is to make sure I eat. 

So you can imagine the heartbreak I had today as I walked the aisles of the grocery store and heard a mother say to her daughter: "We are not buying those. If you eat those you will be fat. And I swear to you I will not have a fat daughter." My eyes filled up with tears because the girl could not have been more than 10 years old. And she was beautiful. Skinned up knees, braces and glasses. She went from having a smile on her face just a couple of aisles over when I first saw her to a look of complete defeat as she held her head down. "A fat daughter"... Who says that? My heart ached for this girl knowing that with the "support" of that kind of mom she was destined to perhaps travel down the same path I traveled. Now please, do not for ONE second, think my Mom had anything to do with the path I went down. My mom is hands down wonderful and has done everything she can to support me even if it meant making sure I had someone watching me eat at the college dining hall that I knew nothing about. (That woman from the Bronx can be so sneaky). I wanted to take that girl's hand and just hug her, tell her she was beautiful, and slap her mom... but I know that would end in my arrest (and I am not made for jail... at all). 

Through years of talking with my "inner-Kristen" who is more stubborn than the Kristen you guys know and love (perhaps?) I have found solace in many realities. I will never be a size zero. I will always have children ask why my legs are so jiggly and my belly so smooshy when they poke it. I will always be told I "have a pretty face" because it's better than saying "I hope you don't lift your arms up in a strong breeze because with those bat wings you're going to take flight." I've learned that I need to go to the grocery store at times when few people will be shopping. I don't own a scale. And it wasn't until I recently that I purchased a full length mirror.

Your anxiety and inner struggles don't go away as you get older. They are always there and you are constantly having to overcome them. But I know that I have a weakness for frosting and baked goods and nothing can stop me from having them because loving myself must be stronger than the fear I have of others judging me and viewing me as "fat."

I don't know that little girl's name. I don't know what the future holds for her. I don't know if she will ever have to sit in one of those support groups or fear grocery shopping. But I pray that she learns to love herself. And I pray that one day, like me, she buys a two-piece bathing suit and says to herself in that full length mirror: "Your legs may be jiggly. Your tummy may be smooshy. But you're fabulous." Loving yourself and having confidence in who you are and what you look like results in a smile. And that's the most beautiful thing you can wear because frankly, it goes with everything... Didn't some kids at an orphanage sing that? 

"You're never fully dressed without a smile"... No matter what size you are. A smile is a sign of beauty. It's a symbol of strength. Don't hide behind it. Wear one because when you do you tell those looking at you with eyes that may be ready to judge: "Don't even think about it... I'm fabulous." 

I hope that little girl in the cookie aisle never chooses the path I took. But perhaps the path I took was part of a greater plan to help others who need to be reminded that their beauty isn't measured by a number on a scale. It's measured by how you love... how you treat others... how you treat yourself... how you smile. 

Go look in the mirror and say "I'm Fabulous." Because you are.

(And I'm the middle child so I'm always right.)

From Bubble Gum to, well, Bubble Wrap...

It's a tale as old as time. A song as old as rhyme. While it's the greatest Disney movie ever made, I am not referring to Beauty and the Beast. It's the other timeless tale of a girl who fell in love and chased a crazy dream she had. It's the story of a little girl named Kristen, rockin' the 80s get-up at the tender age of just 4 years. She was riding in the car with her Dad when he put in a cassette tape (we're going real old school here guys) and she heard "Amarillo By Morning" for the very first time. In a New York accent she asked "Who is this guy?" In an even thicker New York accent her Dad told her, "George Strait." She innocently asked where this strapping man lived and her Dad replied "Probably Nashville." To which, this adorable and intelligent little brown eyed precious girl said, "That's where I will live one day then."

I hope I didn't throw you off too much with the use of the third person. Because I just want to be clear that those characters I just referenced were indeed my own Dad and the adorable "Little Kristen." It was 14 years later that "Little Kristen" was "Voting Aged Kristen" and took off to Nashville with a box of county music CD's, American Eagle clothes and pictures of her high school friends. The world was huge. The "Welcome to Nashville" sign swept her heart away... she had made it.

Now let's flash forward 11 years, 10 months and 3 days. (That's today). There are no more American Eagle clothes in my closet because if I could fit into them it would be a miracle. The pictures of her high school friends are no longer group shots at prom but at their weddings. And while there are still several CD's in her car the Discman has been replaced (sadly). "Grown-Up Kristen" has a Nashville address, a Nashville license and a Nashville plate on her car.... She made it?

This city is my home. It's where I learned how to be a grown up to the best that I can be (I still see animal shapes in the clouds, eat cereal with my fingers and chase fireflies). I've seen the sun shining bright on her (and burning me) and I've seen her submerged under water. I've seen the sun come up over the Batman Building and I've watched the sun go down over the Cumberland River. I've fallen in love... I've fallen out of love... I've been dumped... Then been dumped twice for good measure... And I'm still waiting on that guy who said "See you on Tuesday" to show up 7 years later. I've made friends that are now family. I learned how to balance a checkbook. How to recite "I'm here for JUST an oil change" over and over when getting my car worked on (I'm so gullible for blinker fluid). I became the person I am today because of everything I have been through while making Nashville my home.

Because of Nashville, I know what giving back and not wanting anything in return means. Because of  Nashville I know that Sonic does exist and they have really fabulous large drinks you can get during Happy Hour. Because of Nashville I know what it's like to shop in Kroger next to a country music singer. Because of Nashville I know what it means to really, really love someone. Because of Nashville I know what it means to really, really miss someone. Because of Nashville I know what it means to want to kill the person who you really, really loved and now really, really miss. Because of Nashville I learned how to be obnoxiously independent and stubborn. Because of Nashville... I know who I am. And more importantly, because of Nashville, I know who I want to be.

That's why I never dreamed that the girl who was voted "Most Likely to Leave" in the senior yearbook because of her obsession with the Volunteer State would ever get the feeling that something was missing. I never knew that the thought would cross my mind one day that perhaps there is something more out there. Perhaps, like I've heard so many times come out of the voice of a guy: "We need to take a break."

No one told me that dreams change. No one told me that we have to be willing to let go of the life we planned so as to have the life that is waiting for us. There comes a time in every girl's life when she has to take inventory of all that's around her, removing from the equation the friends and familiarity, and decide where she stands.

Well, right now I'm standing. I'm standing tall but winded. A bit exhausted from the journey that got me here to the day that I am writing this. I was so carefree and reckless when I got on that plane at 18. Now as I stare 30 in the eye, I'm more cautious and protected. I don't know at what age life stops being a game like Candy Land and more like Chutes and Ladders. But it does. I didn't get the memo and I didn't circle it in my planner. The fact is that I have a planner that I write diligently in... yet life had other plans. My health had other plans. My heart had other plans. And I never wrote any of them down or circled them in red.

So I write this in my living room tonight as I stare at just a few of the boxes I've brought home to start packing things up. Because I will be saying "goodbye" to Nashville. Goodbye to the life that I know and I've grown accustomed to. Goodbye to that crazed 18 year old girl running to her college campus that August of 2002. And hello to a new life in August of 2014. My life here has been an endless maze of turns and twists and I've decided to take one of the twists and just see what happens. The path will be paved with plenty of frosting, a lot of tissues, definitely several u-turns on wrong-way roads, and faith. But mostly sugar.

When a doctor looks you in the eye and says that you have a 75% chance of getting sick again... you hold tightly onto that 25% and make the most of it. So with that 25% I'm loading up my car and a trailer and I'm going to try something new. And finally, catch my breath. With my inhaler in my hand and my family on either side of me supporting and guiding me. And in regards to my family, my Dad was wrong.

George Strait doesn't live in Nashville. He lives in Texas. So in true Kristen fashion, it's time to get into the car and turn that steering wheel... west.

Taillights and Twizzlers (Don't ask)

I've been asked a few times why I write this blog. What purpose does it serve to just piece together a string of thoughts filled with sarcasm and wit from a twenty something year old? And I simply answer that I write about my life from my own perspective. Some times people will agree with what I have to say and other times people will shake their head and declare that I probably need therapy. But at the end of the day, when I hit the "publish" button, my simple hope is to touch just one person who may be going through the same thing that I am. Who may be at the same point in their life and they can find some kind of solace in knowing that there is a crazy sugar addict out there who is rowing the same boat and is more than happy to pick up some extra passengers (life vest required... it's all fun and games until someone falls out of the boat obviously). So when my head is filled with thoughts and confusion or happiness and positivity, I sit down at this keyboard and type.

Today just happens to be one of those days (which means it's your lucky day because you get to read all about the my current life status). In exactly one month and three days (who's counting?) I turn 30. I'm one of the last to do so in my close group of friends so I have some older and wiser folks who have already hit the big 3-0 this year to guide me into this new phase of my life. Please do not think for one second that this is going to be an "I'm sooo old" post because as a historian I know what old is. And until I am sitting in a nursing home playing Parcheesi with my roommate who doesn't know my name, I'm not old. The prospect of turning 30 doesn't scare me. What scares me are the changes that come with it and the questions I'm faced to answer as I enter a new decade of my life. 

My twenties were filled with absolutely everything imaginable. You name it, I experienced it. Accidentally moving into the projects and not knowing if the bang I just heard was a muffler or a gun so I hit the ground anyway? Been there and have my Girl Scout badge to prove it. Tornadoes, a thousand year flood, locusts and Nashville's really weak trees falling? Yup. Break-ins and a stalker? Metro police and I are on a first name basis. And we won't even talk about how many trips to the ER I have taken. The hospitals in this area just smile and wheel me back asking about my folks, cats and thesis. 

The advent of my thirties brings about a clean slate perhaps. A tabula rasa if you will (putting 7 years of Latin to good use finally). And as I look to the changes that are coming just days after the clock strikes midnight, I already know my life is entering a new chapter filled with huge changes and unprecedented decisions I will be forced to make. I'm at a crossroads where one road leads to comfort and familiarity and the other leads to the unknown and unnerving change. 

My best friend is moving. And I mean really moving. We will be 1221 miles apart. We will go from being neighbors to being in different time zones and places in our lives. She will be living with her husband and my nephew, a dog named Merle, and finally living her dream as a nurse practitioner. I will no longer be the Joey that walks over for food and company from my Monica and Chandler. Who will feed me? Who will zip up my dress when I'm stuck on the bed unable to move? Who will threaten to kill boys that break-up with me? Who will tell me that the lump on my side is "not an extra rib you grew you moron" and get me to go to a doctor where I find out I have a tumor? Who will be my rock in this crazy town always there to stop me as I lace up my sneakers to run away from a boy? How do I face this new chapter in my life without her? 

I haven't found an answer to that yet. I probably won't find an answer to that even after I wave goodbye to the moving truck, go back inside my apartment, curl up in the fetal position with frosting and watch Breakfast at Tiffany's fifty times. Perhaps the answer isn't something that can be found but something that needs to be simply experienced. We've all said goodbye to loved ones knowing that goodbye is more of a "see you when I see you" situation. That's why God made the Earth round so eventually our paths will cross again. 

But what if watching her red taillights as she drives away are really a green light for me to start a new life too. I've never been good with directions (I still use my hands to make the "L" for left) but perhaps I don't need a map right now. I think if I'm going to turn 30 it means I've learned a lot and know who I am. Perhaps I should just follow wherever that green light leads me. No matter how scary it is to take your foot off the brake... hold onto the steering wheel... and hit the gas. 

Of course wearing the seat belt that holds you grounded and safe. I like to think of that seat belt (in my analogy of course) as my family and friends. And the rear view mirror as the life experiences I can see but I'm moving away from. The decision is mine to make and the road is mine to follow. 

And obviously I'll need snacks for the road.There's no hidden meaning in that reality. I just need Twizzlers to be my drum sticks for the steering wheel. 

Boys Will Be Boys and Girls Will Have to Be Boys...

Usually as a means to avoid elevating my blood pressure I have stopped watching the news. I will get the headlines that I need, the information that is pertinent but I refuse to have cable news on 24/7 which does nothing but sensationalize events. It also doesn't help people like me who hear the word "recalled" and think "My God! I may have ecoli!!" even though I haven't eaten meat in years. We're sensitive to fear mongering. And by "we're" I basically mean "me."

But today I wasn't in charge of the television in front of me and I could only read the headline on the bottom of the screen which read: "Kerry Tells Snowden to 'Man Up' and Come Home." I read it a couple of times because, in general, sight is not my forte. But I didn't misread anything. A government official in speaking out against a national security threat said "man up." Let me be straight- this has nothing to do with political affiliation. I don't care if it was a man, woman, or Muppet behind that microphone. All I hear are the words and those are enough for me to have a reaction... and that reaction doesn't include my feelings on a NSA leaker.

According to the dictionary, "to man up" means "to be brave enough or tough enough to deal with an unpleasant situation." It is considered "the phrasal verb of 'Man'." Just sit for a second and take that in... A couple more seconds... I'm not going anywhere.

Now let me throw this one at you. There is no dictionary definition for "woman up." There is an Urban Dictionary definition which I won't click on. The fact that the definition only exists on that site says more about the situation than I could.

So how's your blood pressure now?

In order to step up to the plate, take responsibility for what you have done, stop evading the inevitable, and become a brave/tough individual, whether male or female, one must "man up." And even more so, this is being used as a term in messages of national security.

I'm just going to call it right here and now: Bullshit. (Sorry mom. I'll take my soap later... Dove, if you don't mind).

The year is 2014. I think we can have a better term to use than "man up." I am not the conductor of the Politically Correct Train by any means but some phrases just rub me the wrong way. We are trying to crack down on using phrases such as "that's so gay" and "retarded" but we fail to realize what exactly "man up" really means. It means that the only way to show courage and strength is to demonstrate the characteristics of a male. And that's not fair.

While I was sick and during my current recovery I am using the phrase "fight like a girl." Because, breaking news, girls have the ability to be courageous, brave and strong. These are not traits merely possessed by the male species despite what many believe. Moira Smith, a decorated NYPD officer, selflessly gave her life saving others on the morning of September 11th. She was a hero and a woman. Malala Yousafzail, as a female teenager stood up to the Taliban in Pakistan to defend her right to an education. She showed bravery and courage in the face of death at the hands of terrorists. To be more detailed, if Malala had "manned up" she would have emulated the gender that was persecuting her in the first place. If Clara Barton had "manned up" she would have been on the battlefield dying along with the soldiers instead of putting her life on the line to save theirs.

These are just a few examples of the hundreds of women I could mention that never had to "man up" to do anything. They exuded their own courage. They demonstrated their own heroism. They were "tough enough" as women to do what they felt was the right thing to do no matter what their gender.

It is time we start changing our thought process when it comes to gender lines. And I think it would be a great stepping stone if the American government could at least refrain from using the term "man up." Women no longer want to be shown as the damsel in distress waiting in the wings for a man to rescue her. They are no longer (and never were) the victim and should not be subjected to terminology that makes them out to be one. Let's change the language and let's change it now.

Perhaps, if I were to go out on a limb here, I could simply start using the phrase "woman up" in times when someone is sick or injured. Eluding to the fact that a woman can withstand the incredible pain of childbirth means that your broken leg out there on the football field is nothing more than something you should just stop and "woman up" to. You didn't just deliver another human being with several pushes.

But I'm not going to do that because I'm not going to prolong the archaic demoralization of women as the weaker gender. We all know it's wrong. We all know it's unfair. And we all know the time has come to stop using the phrase. Who's in?

And so ends another soapbox rant that my brother feels is one of the main reasons to my current status as a single 29-year old female. Perhaps I have the inability to let my guard down and allow men to do things for me. But with all due respect, you may have opened that jar of jelly after I struggled for a good 10 minutes but I definitely loosened it beforehand. I may have to get another cat... and a housecoat. 

Pomp and Circumstances You Didn't See Coming (And what is "pomp"?)

It's that time of year again where schools hold their commencement ceremonies and little people run around in silky gowns and huge smiles. Many moons ago in the days of yore, I was celebrating my graduation from college. A time filled with hopes and dreams. A time filled with well-wishes and an uncomfortable cap. There were cards saying "congrats to the grad!" and there were dinners for celebrating. But as I sat in that huge auditorium, chewing on my tassel out of pure boredom, I had no idea that I was just receiving a piece of paper. Four years of exams, projects, internships, deadlines and a thesis (yes, for a Bachelors! I didn't think it was fair either)... was just the beginning of the education I was about to receive.

My parents were famous for always telling me "stop acting like a know-it-all because you truly don't young lady." Well, I was certainly hellbent (can I say that?) on making sure they knew I did know it all. In reality, I knew so little. When my parents were 20 they were married with a child. By the time they were 30 they were still married, holding down jobs and feeding 3 kids. They worked for every single penny they had. I don't know how they did it since there wasn't a lot of money in being a nurse and a police officer but we never went without (I'm almost 30, single, and my cats go without unless they remind me). Neither of them went to college. And here I was sitting at the age of 22 with a cap, gown and piece of paper telling me I was ready for the big world. That piece of paper should have come with a sticky note that read in bold: "JUST KIDDING." 

Today I went to a party celebrating the college graduation of a beautiful girl. I adopted her as my own "little sister" when she was in 8th grade and have been there as her "big sister" ever since. I know many of you are wondering why someone would look to me for guidance, boy advice and mentoring and I honestly can't give you an answer (and I judge you for wondering). But she did and I was honored to take on the role. At her party was a table filled with presents and cards. She continuously heard "Congrats to the grad!!" and the follow up question by every single person who walked up to her was: "So what are you going to do now?!?"

If you had asked me that at the age of 22 I would have said: "Work in politics. Run for office. Have 2 children. Marry a gorgeous man. Be a size 6. Save the pandas. Write a book. Solve world hunger." The reality of the situation is I have done absolutely NONE of those things since graduation. And I don't plan to either (I will NEVER be a size 6, let's be rational here kids). And the pressure of having to answer that question right after taking off your cap and gown is overwhelming. But she gracefully answered the question every time with her aspirations for the future. 

Sitting on that table of Hallmark cards was a handwritten letter to the graduate. The letter's author stated how proud she was of the graduate and how there are so many doors open to her now. But it also told her that life is now just beginning. Those 4 years spent inside the confines of a college campus merely held her hand as she left the proverbial nest. Now the real test of knowledge and wisdom came into play. The fear that comes from turning on the light switch and the light not coming on... Did I manually turn off the lamp or did the electric company win this month? The sound your voice makes when you ask the check-out boy "how do you sleep at night??" when he tells you the total of your groceries. The happy dance you do when you save 40 cents a gallon with your fuel points. The satisfaction of handing in your rent check knowing it won't bounce because you just raced to the bank, made a last minute deposit, flirted with the teller to make sure it processed that business day and raced back to hand the check in before it was deemed late. And the crack in your voice when your parents ask you "How are you doing?" and you want to tell them everything is fine and you're doing amazing on your own but really you would give anything for a piece of your mom's lasagna and have your flat tire fixed by your Dad. 

They didn't teach me how to do my taxes before they handed me that degree. They didn't teach me that showers cost money and therefore dry shampoo will become your best friend. They didn't teach me that when I have a problem I can't just walk into the Dean's office and make everything okay with a change in a schedule or an excuse note. They gave me books but I didn't learn. I didn't learn what it meant to be an adult. I learned what it meant to be "free" from my parents but I still didn't know that you should really separate your colored wash from the white wash (sorry mom). 

So somewhere on that table full of $3.99 Hallmark cards of congratulations, there was a letter of truth. A letter that I am proud to say I wrote to the graduate to let her know that the world is a really scary place. It's a really hard place. It's a trying, testing, and stubborn piece of work. But every electric bill you might miss or every microwave dinner you eat wishing it was home-cooked goodness is one "class" closer to graduating... A graduation that doesn't require a piece of paper but full knowledge in: Life. The hardest class you could ever sign up for but the most rewarding one you can ever pass. And hopefully you'll make the Dean's List. 

Really try to make it on there. It's great for your credit score. Which, again, the "Powers That Be" never tell you is more important than your silly GPA. 

Life After Gladys

I don't know if the saying is worthy of a bumper sticker or not but I can honestly state that I wasn't scared because I had no idea what to expect. Perhaps that's the bright side of ignorance? How can you have fear when you haven't come to terms with whatever it is you're about to go through? And with that, when you are constantly being told how much you're loved, prayed for, and thought of, you lose track of what exactly is going on that's negative.

On the morning of April 25th at about 6:45 in the morning (obnoxious hour, believe me) I think everything came rushing to me that was about to happen. That IV in my arm was about to have something put in it to knock me out cold. That air tube was going to go over my nose and make sure I kept breathing. That finger clamp thing, well, that was just going to keep me looking like E.T. ready to make a phone call. I took a cell photo pic with my mom as they began to wheel me away into surgery and I remember them just pushing me down the halls into an operating room with a huge light over my head. There was beeping. There was the clanking of metal (and I'm assuming rather sharp) objects on a tray. I was officially scared. I was scared because I knew that within the next couple of minutes I was going to be cut open and I don't even handle splinters very well so this was not going to be pretty. I was scared because my life was in the hands of some guy who put me to sleep and I was already incredibly difficult to wake up without medicine! I was scared because I knew my mom was in the waiting room, as a nurse, knowing exactly what was going to be done to her daughter but not having a single opportunity to do anything about it. And I was scared because I was 100% out of control of everything around me. I started to count backwards from 10...9.... Sure I'll play along... 8...

And: Unconscious.

I woke up in recovery with the oxygen on and the IV dripping. A sweet nurse was trying to get me to open my eyes. I had this idea when I went in for the surgery that I would come out with a few stitches on my side and call it a day. From my inability to move, I was thinking 1) These are some good meds and 2) I think they tried to fillet me with a scalpel. So I did what any strong, independent woman would do when she woke up in a strange place, dazed, and hooked up to wires. I cried out for my mom. (Did you think I was going to say I ripped the wires off, unplugged the tubes, grabbed my coat and waddled out of there? Ha!)

I know I was awake but I'm also pretty sure I was still asleep at the same time when my mom approached. I heard her telling me that Gladys was a much larger tumor than they thought. The incision was larger than they thought. The amount of stitches were more than they originally thought. But they are confident they got everything out and there are no cells remaining. Am I right, or did they do a lot of "pre-thinking" that  was really way off base? I can understand a pitch thrown a little up and out but come on this was verging on an intentional walk, right? But I was awake and alive and that's all that mattered.

After fighting with both the nurse and my mom (believe me, that's a recurring ritual that happened the entire week my poor mom stayed with me) to let me take the oxygen tank/tubes home with me (hey, an asthmatic has got to try!) I was put in a wheel chair and sent on my merry way. Still, basically, clueless.

I was clueless to the fact that when someone tells you to do something so you don't make yourself sicker you should probably do it. I was clueless to the fact that Little Miss Independent can't do certain things and must ask for help. I was clueless to the immense outpouring of support that was coming in through phone calls, apartment visits (I was playing Weekend at Bernie's), social media messages, and prayers. I was clueless to what recovery from this surgery would entail. I was clueless as to how long "we'll get the cancer test results next week" really is in hours and minutes. And I was clueless as to how this entire adventure was going to change my life.

Gladys is gone. Now there is a large scar that marks the spot where she was permanently evicted. While it appears we've conquered Gladys, upon further appointments I've learned that the probability of me developing more tumors like her is high. And even though my mom told me to take "deep breaths no matter how much it hurts"... I didn't. And it resulted in another emergency trip to the hospital where I was told I had developed pneumonia and pleurisy. (The nurses at the ER knew me by name... Yeah, that's how I roll kids).

But I will never complain. I may whimper. I will throw my fists up in the air with anger at the abrupt ending to my bikini supermodel career (and then subsequently eat cake to help that pain). But I refuse to complain. There are too many people out there who have not been and will never be as fortunate as I am right now. And for that, I am so very grateful.

As I sit here tonight writing this I've lost my job. I'm single. I'm almost 30. The Yankees lost 12-7 in the Subway Series (I take those losses very hard, dang it!). I take a lot of medicine. And I'm living on Easy-Mac. But I'm lucky. I'm so incredibly lucky because "Life After Gladys" has taught me so many things. It has taught me that I have little pain tolerance. It has taught me that I have the greatest friends and family in the world. It has taught me that I am surrounded by so much love and strength. It has taught me that you can't take on this world as "Little Miss Independent" all the time. And it taught me that my life is just beginning a new chapter.

Frankly, I am not entirely sure where this new chapter in my life will take me. But it took losing something from inside of me to learn what I am really made of and who I am made of.... I'm made of Love. Laughter. Friends. Family. And Sugar. I intend to fill that empty hole Gladys left in my side with those same things. Losing her just made more room for: Fabulousness.