Inspirational bit

A friend reminded me of this brilliant Middlemarch quote the other day, and it just resonated with me for so many reasons. And so, I share it with you. (That George Eliot was one smart chick!)

We run this town.

My view on a run. (Well, one of them.)

I used to be intimidated by Chicago's Lakefront path. In the warmer months, it's overflowing with people -- runners, bikers, rollerbladers, walkers, teenagers, tourists, beach goers, dog walkers, stray children who don't look before they dart in front of your bike, giving you a heart attack at 6 a.m. on your commute to work and making you think that you'll hit them and either kill them or die yourself in a crash. (Sorry... projecting.)

It took me a while to get used to frantic pace while still being able to keep my cool. (It's been more than six years since I moved here, and I still know my sanity will always be tested if I ride south of Fullerton on a warm summer afternoon. Been there, been hit in the head with the football by the drunk frat boys.) (True story.) (I also got hit by a flag attached to a passing triple-wide stroller. You can't make this shit up.)

I live about two blocks from the 18-mile-long paved path that runs along the waterfront. To dodge the crowds -- and my own insecurities when I started running -- I'd usually veer along winding dirt paths that splinter off from the main north-south thoroughfare. Sure, they might be muddy and devoid of bathrooms and water fountains. But they offered this incredibly different experience of exercising in the city. Running right along the water's edge, I'd loop around Montrose Harbor, following the shoreline south past the golf course and then trace the outline of Belmont Harbor before turning back north to finish a 5-mile route. You'd get spectacular views of the skyline while passing a few runners and picnickers off the main drag. (I learned the disastrous way NOT to bring the Mutt Puppy on these runs after an ill-fated outing where she stopped roughly every 500 feet to roll around in smelly goose poo and fish detritus.)

A storm washed out a huge part of my favorite splinter path last summer, so I've found other routes to call my own. In the winter, when the sun sets before 5 p.m., I hit the main trail. (Because treadmills are the devil.)  It's a wholly different experience to be out there in January. Bundled up in gaiters and balaclavas, you still see just a few runners and cyclists who are out in the cold. You nod as you pass each other, offering the trail version of a high-five. (I've been known to let out a loud squeal when the snowflakes start falling and the wind gusts kick up in single-degree weather.)

RunChi shirt from CafePress.

This past summer, I'd ride my bike six miles down to Oak Street Beach on Saturday mornings to get in a swimming workout while I was training for a triathlon. One morning in particular it felt like the path -- and the entire city -- was alive. It was warm and sunny on the way south as I passed my Chicago Endurance Sports teammates training for the marathon. Along the way I spotted an outdoor yoga class, cycling groups, people doing bootcamps, tennis players, people flying kites, walking dogs, fishing, picnicking and swimming. I finished my workout with this ridiculous grin, so proud of my city and the people in it. It was just one of those moments when I felt so much civic pride. I was so stoked to be able to call myself part of Chicago's dynamic running community.

The path is this weird place full of conflict when it's crowded and yet full of serenity when it's not. (And the views of the city are mind-blowing.) When I saw this photo posted on a Facebook page, I knew I'd have to share it.

If you're ever up this way, let me know -- I'll show you my trail. Just make sure you bring your camera.

Successes and failures

For years, I used to have dreams I was a secret runner. I’d fall asleep, lace up my shoes, and take off – running, bounding, practically flying through the air. It was easy and effortless. And the spectators – whoever they were on any given night – would be awed.  “Who is this girl? Why didn’t we know what she could do? How does she do that?”

I’d run, and run, and never get tired. The miles would fly by.  And I’d smile this big, huge crazy grin.

Then I’d wake up.  And lying there in the dark under the covers, I’d remember that feeling of effortlessness. I’d be inspired. “Maybe, one day,” I’d think, before rolling over and going back to bed, hoping the next dream would be just as good, vivid and real.

It’s been almost 23 months since I started Week 1, Day 1 of the Couch to 5K workout and 49 weeks since I ran my first half marathon. In 2012, I logged almost 689 miles on the path, finished 11 races, including four half marathons and a triathlon. (Since I started running, I dropped almost 40 pounds -- and gained roughly 10 back.) By my math, I worked out for well over 130 hours last year and went from being a running participant to a running leader – working out four to five times a week, pacing run-walkers with my training group and mentoring new runners who are trying to cross their own first-time finish line.

My 2012 medals and bibs.

With a turtle pace, my running isn’t effortless like those dreams from so long ago. But in two years, I’ve managed to transform myself from the girl who thought about things, to the girl who does them.

And so, catching up on TV yesterday I was surprised to find myself crying – REALLY crying. At every commercial break, there was another ad highlighting someone else’s weight loss success story. The married couple who’d shed more than 100 pounds on Weight Watchers.  The Medifast woman who has a tearful conversation with her future “leaner, happier” self.  

I was jealous. And defeated. And embarrassed. And frustrated.

I’ve worked so hard in the past two years, and yet here I am – still so far from where I want to be. I’m exercising harder and more frequently than I ever have in my life and the number on the scale isn't moving much at all. (I know, I know – it’s just a number. But when you stand there and stare at it, it sure feels like a measure of your own effort and self worth.) 

With every commercial, I felt more like a failure.  (Note to self: only watch things that have been DVR’d.)

I typed out a few tearful text messages to friends and after a few conversations, I had one of those knock-you-over realizations.

When I was fat and sedentary (instead of slightly less fat and active), I thought the hardest part of losing weight was going to be the exercise. When the thought of running even half a mile is intimidating and beyond your ability, exercise – and committing to make it part of your life – seems impossible.

Grand Rapids Half Marathon

But on a snowy Saturday two years into my journey, still sniffling from my meltdown, I realized that exercise is actually the easy part of the weight loss equation. It’s the food that’s the biggest, baddest mean girl bitch.

My life (and often my social life) now revolves around my training group. Some of my bestest friends in the city are athletic inspirations (ironmen, triathletes, marathoners, cyclocross riders). They encourage me and I support them.  We talk about training schedules, race bucket lists, rough workouts and speed drills. IT’S AWESOME.

(Pro tip, new Sporty Spices: When your community is all about exercise, it makes you want to be all about exercise. Who wants to bail on a workout if it means bailing on your friends? NO ONE, that’s who!)

So with a new year and new goals, I tried to talk me self out of my wallow fest. I decided to treat myself to a new yoga mat I’d been eyeing for months. (Shopping heals, y’all.) And I refocused. I thought about where I was and where I am and then how I’m going to get to where I want to go.  (Preview: it’ll involve a lot more mindfulness about food.)

Triathlon finish!

My word of the year is going to be “push.” Wallowing moments aside, I’m so proud of what I’ve done, but I know I need to push myself to keep going. I’m not where I want to be. and I’m working to be OK with that. Losing weight and changing your life aren’t supposed to be easy.  (Although seriously, you’d think the universe could have made losing weight nearly as easy as putting it on.) My wise BFF, The Modern Gal, points out that when I started this whole process, I would never have called running -- or any exercise -- easy. I've come pretty far to say that. So now it's time to do the same thing with the healthy eating. 

So here’s to another year of trying. And the reassuring fact that those skinny bitches in the TV commercials probably can’t run a half marathon.

So there.

Easter inspiration and an in-process theology

From today's Easter Sunday sermon, which quoted theologian Clarence Jordan:

“The proof that God raised Jesus from the dead is not the empty tomb, but the full hearts of his transformed disciples. The crowning evidence that he lives is not a vacant grave, but a spirit-filled fellowship; not a rolled-away stone, but a carried-away church.”

I'm an ordained deacon at my church, but I'll be the first to tell people that there are days when I'm more agnostic than not. My faith journey is something I usually struggle to articulate -- and I admit I have far more questions than answers about my own beliefs and spirituality. But sometimes there are those great eureka moments where you feel like something you read or hear or think about ... just clicks. I love those moments (fleeting and rare as they are) and I felt fortunate to have one this morning when I listened to Jordan's quote. 

I know there are a lot people who believe that the Bible is inerrant. I respect those who do, but I'm not one of them. I believe the Bible is a living, breathing document and its pages have been compiled, rewritten, debated, translated, mistranslated, retold, argued, compressed, omitted and transcribed. (And that's just part of it.) I believe it's a book of metaphor, poetry, symbolism, tradition, story, history, mystery, frustration, inspiration ... well, you get the point. (I should stop before I sound too much like Rob Bell.)

What I love about this quote is that it shows that it's not really a question about whether you literally believe the Easter story as a verbatim, factual account of a series of events that happened roughly 1,980-something years ago. Instead, Easter is about everything that happened in the days, weeks, months and years after. And it's about everything that's still happening today. 

Believe what you want. Create your own theology. Find your own metaphor in the texts of a pretty magnificent story. See it as allegory, fiction or fact. But as I celebrate Easter, I find it hard to argue that a pretty powerful seed was planted in our history, and it's still bearing fruit today. 

P.S. Fun fact about Jordan... he's considered the spiritual founder of Habitat for Humanity. The more you know.

13.1

It's been nearly a year since I first started running. It hasn't been easy. It hasn't always been fun. But somehow over the hundreds of miles, it's become an undeniable part of me.

I leave on Friday to go to Miami where, God willing, I'll finish my first half marathon. Last February, I couldn't run for more than a minute. This month, I toughed out an 11-miler when it was 9 degrees outside and five days later did sprints when it was a down-right frigid -8. Sunday, winding though the streets of a new and strange city, I hope to cover 13.1 miles before I collapse at the finish.

There's a lot to say about the journey. And a lot of stories to share. (Like the time a well-meaning colleague said I was aiming for distances beyond my ability. Or the first time I got scared about having to run for 20 whole minutes -- an inconceivable amount of time when you've just started. There was my first five miler, which left me so giddy I called my mom from the running path, still panting so much her first question to me was "What's wrong!?" And of course the 15K where I spent MILES dead freakin' last in a field of 20,000+ runners, which also happened to be the time I realize you cannot run and cry at the same time -- especially when police are yelling out you because you're going too slowly. But those are stories for another time.)

For now, as I pack my bags, I want to say this: It wouldn't have been possible without my friends.

From my friend who came over to keep me company during my first Couch to 5K workout ...
To my pals who ran with me in races and stood on the sidelines in freezing, raining and burning hot weather to cheer me on...
To the peeps who've listened to me endlessly prattle on about nothing but ridiculous details ...
To training partners who've become like family ...
And to the people at the table during carboloading dinners...

My friend's 5-year-old sent me this letter for good luck.

Thank you. From the bottom of my heart.


I haven't said a lot on this blog lately, because sometimes it's hard to really process how much your life has changed when you're in the eye of the storm. But 30 pounds, three sports bras, two pairs of sneakers and one well-used stick of body glide later, I'm beginning to wrap my head around it.

So there you have it. As they say: Running changes everything.

Say a prayer for me on Sunday.

Love,
Noodles

P.S. If all goes according to plan, I'll be sharing details from the weekend on Twitter and under the #runnoodleesrun hashtag.

A pageland eulogy.

Thanks to my editing gig, I don't write much for work these days. So when I was asked to write an essay about the end of the 200-year-old U.S. House of Representatives Page Program, I jumped at the chance. (I also almost yakked before the thing got posted, but that's another story.)

Here's my short piece on the year I spent as a high school junior living and working on Capitol Hill and how it changed my life.

Enjoy.

- Noodles, whose cover is officially blown by posting a link to something with my name on it. But that's OK.

This is a post about an ironing board.

Do not let the title of this post fool you. This is not a euphemism. This post really is about an ironing board. Specifically, this ironing board. Perhaps you'll agree with me that it has seen better days. (Note: All photos shot and edited on my iPhone because I was too lazy to do anything else.)

It's not just that this ironing board is The Ugliest Ironing Board in the History of Ironing Boards. It's that this particular ironing board has also lost a chunk of its padding, making it a shitty ironing board to try to use for its intended ironing purpose. (It's still great at holding groceries, fabric, books and laundry.) Adding insult to ironing injury: my condo is roughly the size of a shoe box. Add that to the fact that I keep my ironing board out a lot because, as anyone who has a sewing habit can tell you, you use your iron a damn lot when your sewing machine is going. Also: I am too lazy to put it back.

All this is to say that the World's Ugliest Ironing Board has been spending a lot of time front and center in my living room. Say it with me: BARF.

I keep thinking I'll sew a new cover. I don't. I keep looking at covers when I see the in the store and almost buy them. But they're too old-lady/paisley/vomit-colored. So I don't.

But on Friday, I found myself clicking through Etsy. Ten minutes and $33 later, I had a new ironing board pad and cover winging their way to me from this super-fabulous store.

For the curious, I disassembled my old cover/pad and discovered this disturbing-looking, totally flattened, and sorta crumbling bit o' foam underneath. It was sad.

Yes. Totally time for an upgrade. Here's the new pad in its bag. For the curious (com'n, nerd out with me), the pad is quilted and teflon-coated. This means it reflects heat, which is kick-ass when you're ironing.

Here's the cover. It's Joel Dewberry's Modern Meadow Sunflower.

Here's an extremely phallic-looking shot of the ironing board with its new pad. Sorta like a quilted space-like uber Trojan, no?

And finally, voila: here 'tis. The finished product. (Try to ignore the shit storm of clutter around it. If I was too lazy to use my real camera, you've GOT to believe I was too lazy to tidy up.)

So there you have it: Six photos and 400 words on my new ironing board cover. And one dick joke thrown in for good measure. (You're welcome.) (That's what she said.)

So much to say. So much to say.

"The rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated." - Mark Twain

Yes. I started a post with a quote. I'm that uncreative girl. Sue me.

Surliness aside, I thought I'd pop back to these parts to say hello and dispel any rumors (among the four of you who read this blog) that I've vanished. In fact, here I am! In all my saucy glory, alive and kicking.

Here's a much-abbreviated, much-forgotten summary of the past many months.

_ I started running. Yes. Me. And not like that last time, either. In fact, dare I say, I've become a wanna-be Sporty Spice since last we left this space. I started in February, doing the Couch to 5K program. I was running for 60 seconds at a time my first week, with the goal of doing a 5K by my 30th birthday in May. Somehow, some way, the process clicked and for the first time, I actually started to get the hang of it. I rocked the 5K with the help of some fabulous girlfriends who ran alongside me as part of the b-day celebration. (Sadly, I opted to leave a birthday tiara at home.) And after that, I kept going. And this Sunday, I shocked just about everyone (and most especially myself) and ran my first-ever 10K, running every freakin' step of the 6.2 miles. Craziest of all is that I knew after the hard run, I'd need to take a few days off to recover and I'm already antsy to get back out there. Say it with me: WTF.

_ I got to see The Modern Gal get hitched to her super awesome Modern Mister, who is technically known as The Modern Love Machine, but don't you just like Modern Mister better? As one would expect from someone with The Modern Moniker, her wedding was super fun and super chill and all around awesome, despite the crazy Memphis heat and the fact that one of the photographers had to go to the hospital to get stitches the morning of the wedding after getting thwacked in the head while shooting the guys playing disc golf. Unlike other weddings I've been to, where it's obvious people are trying too hard or trying to fit themselves into very specific boxes of what they think The Perfect Wedding should be, The Modern Matrimony (or, Modtrimony as we called it on Twitter) was completely authentic to this couple. It was a lovely, refreshing change.

_ I went to DC to hang out with my peeps. It was our annual reunion. We ate lots of crabs.

_ I turned 30. And celebrated by the aforementioned 5K, which was followed by karaoke. I have yet to have an Oh-My-God-I'm-30 Crisis. I take this as a good sign that this decade is going to kick ass.

_ I've sewed. A lot. And embroidered. And stuff.

_ I spent far too much money on stuff.

_ I read many awesome books.

_ I took a seminary class. And decided I should not, not NOT go to seminary. What was I thinking?

_ Despite all that, I made a new Chicago BFF, who of course is leaving in several short weeks for a new adventure in New Jersey where she's off to ... wait for it ... seminary. Follow her adventures here. And note I'm already lobbying for inclusion as a sermon anecdote sometime in the future.

_ I developed an unhealthy obsession with banana pudding. Please, if you're in Chicago, make me some.

_ Oh, and three days after my last post it snowed buckets and buckets and buckets. Today's 98 degrees.

There you go. You've been caught up on the past five months. Or something.

Feel better? Me, too.

Gorgeous

My current brain worm.



Doesn't this line just give you chills? "And promise not to promise any more." Sigh. Perfect winter song.

On books and tree rings.

I’ve spent the past few days puttering around my condo during staycation. Staycation during the winter means you don’t really LEAVE the house. (Have I mentioned I love staycation? You can stay in jammies for days, people. DAYS.)

The pragmatic side of me knew I had to use this time to organize, which is how I found myself spending a good solid hour tidying my book shelves. Before you fall over the fact that I spent a full-on 60 minutes playing with books floor-to-ceiling shelves, you need to know that at my core I’m a word nerd who’s never once been without a library card or a list of books to read. (Sidebar of a true story: I was such a delinquent book returner in my youth that in kindergarten my mother gave me a lecture about my overdue books, telling me that one day, if I continued my wayward habits, they’d destroy my credit rating. Take this time to imagine the blank stare a pig-tailed six-year-old gives to someone after this lecture.)

But I digress.

While I was moving shelves, sorting books, dusting and declutterring, I realized that in a way my bookshelves tell the story of my life. From photography to progressive theology, bookshelves are like tree rings that tell a story of a tree and its environment. There’s my entire collection of Paulo Coelho’s works translated in English, which I managed to accumulate after a friend gave me The Alchemist as a college graduation gift. There’s my father’s old photography books, that he gave me to me when I got my hands of my first SLR. There’s some of my favorite children's books, both from when I was kid (hello, Misty of Chincoteague) and some I’ve picked up along the way because I wanted to have them on my shelves. (Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day.) There’s vintage sewing books, feminist theory, Irish literature and some American poetry anthologies. There’s the Jodi Picoult I love to read on vacation along with books on yoga, journalism, politics, public health and tons of fiction that I just haven’t been able to part with over the years. (I have a rule that book collection cannot expand beyond the confines of the shelves that hold them, so I always prune a few times a year.)

There was a New York Times essay a few years ago that talked about how bookshelves can be used to judge a perspective date. It was snarky and sometimes snotty, but at its core is this pretty important truth that we are what we read. Or, maybe it’s that we read what we are.

I guess for me, the books I hold on to after sending off a pile to Goodwill are the books that sort of mark the stages of my life.

What do you think?

In which I stretch.

Stretch. That's it. That's my word for 2011.

I love the literal and figurative idea of stretching. It's about reaching, pushing, and sometimes pushing through. It's about moving beyond where you are and going some place that might not feel too comfortable at first.

I want to stretch beyond who I am, which, admittedly, is someone who sometimes feels like she's prone to staying in a bit of a holding pattern. I want to push myself to try new things and learn more and generally be comfortable in a place where I might be uncomfortable. It's not about radical change, it's just about becoming more limber -- bit by bit.

For the curious: I'll take a big stretchy step in February when I take my first grad school class in spirituality at McCormick Theological Seminary. (Full disclosure: I'm auditing it, so it's not the world's biggest thing, but stretching is about baby steps!) Another one will follow in the coming weeks when I start lending a hand at my local quilt store on Saturdays.

Literally, stretch is also about committing more to yoga. I'm still sweaty from this afternoon's class (where, by the way, I rocked out the wheel pose), and I'm hoping to make it to at least one of two special workshops being held at my studio this week. One is on New Year's Eve and the other is bright and early(ish) New Year's Day. I like the idea of starting 2011 by fully embracing at least one form of the stretch plan.

Meanwhile, as I wrap up The Sparkle Initiative, I've also been thinking about way to commemorate a the year. I think I've settled on this, with a bit of tweaking.

I've been loving reading about your words of the year. (And, of course, all the posts on Christine Kane's blog where people explain what they choose and why.) Keep 'em coming.

Peace out.

Image via: Elizabeth-Mae Swenson

Word of the Year.

Last year, I decided to follow the footsteps of the inestimable Christine Kane and choose a word of the year as a way to set a personal intention for the next 12 months. After some wrangling, I went with "sparkle." (For background on the WOTY, click here. Or, better yet, click on over to her blog and see the other words people have chosen and why.)

Eleven months and 27-ish days later, I think I gave it admirable effort. There were moments of radiance and some definite moments of ... well, not. But like I said here, my goal with sparkle was simple.

"I feel like sparkle just ... fits. Everywhere. It encompasses so many of the areas of my life I'd like to improve. It's a reminder of how to behave. What kind of result I should seek from my actions. How to treat others. And how to be."

Now it's almost 2011 (gasp, wasn't it August like 3 seconds ago?) and I've got to come up with another word. And, of course, so do you. So if you played along last year -- or want to get in on the action, it's not too late to pick a word that defines your intention for the year.

Think about it. Feel free to post your word and your rationale below and on your own blog. And let me know how you did on your word for 2010. When I pick my word, I'll put up a post here. And, like last year, I'm happy to make little photographic presents for you guys to help carry you and your word through the year.

Happy thinking.

Lots of love,
Your Sparkler.

Made to kick some ass.

There's a great blog post up on Jezebel about body image, weight loss, healthy, lady mags and society that is so amazing it just begs to be shared.

As someone who's struggled with weight and body image for the better part of my life, and is now trying to accept that it's not about how look, but I feel, I love the idea that exercise and eating right isn't about conforming to some size-six ideal that we think we should be. (Because, er, size six ain't never gonna happen with these hips.) Instead, it's about growing strong, and being strong, so we can do the things we love. Regardless of our size.

This paragraph is just full of awesomeness:

Your body was made for so much more than being looked at, deprived of food, and enjoyed by others. Your body was made for kicking some ass.


And so is this part:

Physical fitness doesn't have to be about anyone else but you or about anything else but becoming stronger. It's time we stopped associated exercise with a form of conformity and surrender, because do so is to deprive yourself of the potential that your body offers you.

And this part:

Maybe we should stop letting those things dictate how we see our bodies and start seeing our bodies as instruments of power rather than smorgasbords for others to feast on. Your body isn't a passive painting or a photograph, your body is a tool.

I think that's one of the many reasons why I'm loving yoga. I took a beginners' workshop this summer and have been going at least once a week, almost every week, since June. I'm not the most bendy person in my class, in fact, I'm far from it. But I love the way I feel when I'm doing it. And I love that I can feel myself growing stronger each week, holding tree pose higher or longer than I have, making my way -- wobbly arms and all -- through side plank.

So, amen to Morning Gloria for her post. And here's to all of us being strong. And kick ass.

Summer fades to fall.

The leaves are changing. I smell fireplaces burning at the huge houses down the street. The air is crisp. (So what if it was 80-something yesterday?) It's fall in Chicago. And fall is, by far, my favorite season. Sure, sure it's my best wardrobe. And who doesn't love the return of boots and sweaters? But I love the circle of life that comes with fall. I love the idea that just like leaves, we shed the things we've outgrown and no longer need, take time to hunker down and be and rejuvenate, and then bloom, renewed when we're ready to shine. It's corny, I know. But to me, fall is powerful. It's always been.

Of course, in Chicago fall lasts approximately 3 weeks before winter sets in. (Truth: my first year here I was at work and got sent out to cover an Oprah taping with Bono on Michigan Ave. for the kick off of Project Red. It was Oct. 6. And it snowed while we were waiting in a scrum outside the Gap.) So when it's this gorgeous weather in between the stiffling heat of summer and the too-cool-to-sleep-with-the-windows-open of late fall and the early hints of winter, one of the single purposes of my life in the Windy City is to be outside.

Which is why I found myself in Oak Park three weeks ago hanging with some of my best friends in the world, cooking out, sipping wine, letting the puppies go nuts and basking in the awesomeness of the changing seasons.

Here are some pictures of a simple-yet-lovely afternoon.






And so my bloggy peeps, what about you? Is it fall in your world yet? What do you do as the temperature changes? What do you love about the season?

Scene from my life.

Who: Me and my across-the-country co-worker bff.
What: A scene from my life. Or, why you should never get between me and my coffee fix.
When: Today, roughly 2 p.m.
Where: My desk.
Why: Because I'm an asshole.
How: IM conversation.

And, scene!

Me: So, I know I'm trying to be all mindful and not material and shit, but the effing coffee shop didn't give me my double-tall, extra-hot, non-fat latte.
Me: Instead, I just walked back to my desk and found out that all I got a regular Chai.
Me: Fuckers.
Her: So you're being the opposite.
Me: Yes. And I want my latte back. I'm bitter.

....
(At this point, we veer off topic. And I continue my amazement/bafflement/ashamed-at-my-own-materialism rant after discovering our church's young adult volunteer and his five housemates live on a $550 monthly household food/toiletry budget and they each get $100/month to cover ALL their incidental expenses. While living in Chicago. Then we talk about her two friends who've been laid off. Then we feel shitty. And grateful for what we have.)
...

Her: We really are lucky. This isn't shit to complain about.
Me: I know. But I'd be EVEN LUCKIER if I had the caffeine I needed.



This is why I'm an asshole. A tired, uncaffeinated asshole.

Fancy pants.

Discussion time.

My big summer accomplishment, other than not killing myself while hiking in Hawaii, was getting into yoga. I'm loving the practice, even though I have to remind myself that it is about the discipline of practice not perfection. While I go to a super low-key, not pretentious studio, I can't help but notice that practically every chick in the freakin' room has a Lululemon logo some on the back of her pants. Or on her top. Or both. Or sometimes on other items, too.

Which brings me to this question. As these pants really so magic as to justify their roughly $100 price tag? Because, I've gotta say .... Unless they're going to clean my house, walk my dog in the snow, do my dishes and pour me a cocktail as I walk in the door at the end of the day, I'm not entirely sure why I need $108 stretchy pants. Even if they *DO* make my ass look magic. (Especially when my $20 pair of Nike pants that I bought at Nordstrom Rack appear to be doing just fine. Thank you very much.)

And so, I offer this up to you. Beyond their trendiness and the cachet that comes with wearing that Lululemon curlicque logo, what's the deal? Worth the price? Are they made by magical yogic elves? Or do we just love their super-awesome bags so much that we need to buy the pants to justify carting our lunch around with their fancy-pants logo?

Operators are standing by.

Me. With jazz hands.

There's a lot brewing in my world right now. And so I thought I could best illustrate how I feel with the help of one Laura Bell Bundy as the inestimable Elle Woods.






The most prominent change is a probably a new job at my company. I'm super psyched, even though it comes with pre-dawn work hours. (Also, since I am eternal cynic, I should offer the caveat that it's still early, but so far all systems are go.)

So that's me. What's up in your world?

A prayer for peace.

I mistakenly thought it was my turn to offer a prayer for peace during today's church service. So I spent a bit of time last night trying to put pen to paper (or in this case, fingers to keys) to come up with something to say about the topic. Given the past events of the week, I wasn't exactly lacking material.

Since it's an ungiven prayer, I thought I'd offer it up here. (Apologies if prayers aren't your thing.)

God, if ever there was a time to pray for peace, it’s now.

We’re too easily swayed by voices that seek to divide us. The news this week has been filled with daily reminders that all too often our society defaults to hatred and separation, instead of remembering Jesus’ mandate of love and radical inclusion.

We are too eager to separate ourselves. Us and them. The haves and the have nots. The right. And the unrighteous.

And so today, we ask you to help us remember the importance of peace -- in all its forms. Within ourselves, in our homes, our communities, between orientations and nations, races and religions.

The Psalmists remind us that we are fearfully and wonderfully made. So we ask you today to help us honor that gift, and make sure peace stays with us during every step we take, filling our hearts and our minds as we walk in this world.

Amen.

Please pass the peace to your neighbor.

Underpants conundrum.

Unless you're one of those twig girls (at which point, there's an above average chance that we are not friends unless you are fabulously cool), you've had this great Bridget Jones-type dilemma.

You have a date. You're getting dressed. Do you choose the underwear that makes your outfit look good, or that looks good when you're out of your outfit? (In case my mom is reading, er, this is something I have NO EXPERIENCE WITH. WHATSOEVER. Or something.)

I tried to find the clip from the movie where Bridget wrestles with granny panties or a black thong, but the Interwebs didn't want to to cooperate. But I'm going out on a limb to say you get the dilemma.

All of this is a set up for this fab totally-humiliating-because-we've-been-there blog post about forgetting about Spanx. In it Vanessa raises a fairly interesting question after getting caught with her spanx on:

This makes me wonder what guys really think about our undergarment arsenal of
push up bras, chicken cutlets, wired and boned full-body contraptions that make us
look oh-so-much better.

So, riddle me this, peeps. What DO you think? Been there? Got a story? Does it even matter?

Discuss away.