First things first...

Growing up, I knew that long hair meant beauty. I don't know if I should blame it on the Barbies or the Disney princesses, but for as long as I can remember long curly hair made me feel glamorous, and all put together.

When I was little I begged for bangs and curly hair. My stringy straight locks were a handful and spent most of their time in a ponytail, and the cowlick in the middle of my widow's peak on my forehead laughed at any attempt to tame it. No amount of curl would ever stay and even if i slept all night with my hair wrapped in curlers it was straighter than a board the next day.

So I begged and begged, and my mom gave in to the curls. And I ended up with a Jew fro. There are all of two pictures from the stage in my life, and they were taken by my neighbor. Okay Okay you say, think about the situation, my mom was at home with three little ones under the age of five, there was no time for pictures, but it's easier to blame it on the hair.

So after the misadventure I moved on... the perm grew out and my hair went back to straight. I had a bowl cut for awhile and cried and cried after, and then I was over the hair. It stayed in the ponytail. I cut it off in the winters, only to immediately regret it, and life went on. Even though every time I went in to get it cut I thought about the bangs.

Fast forward 15 years to a summer spent far far away with amazing water. At least that is what I'm going to blame it on. I came back with curly hair, ringlets even, if it is humid enough (the one blessing to this god forsaken heat)

So the Barbies and Disney Princesses have been passed over and my dream for luscious curly locks has been achieved. And yet I still have a ways to go. Tonight, after a three mile run I decided I needed a haircut. So I borrowed a pair of scissors from my roommate and trimmed the ends a little, the whole time thinking about how easy it would be to cut the front short into the bangs I've always wanted. I was feeling brave, my hair was looking good, and even the back was cut in a straight line. I combed out the bangs, fought the cowlick, brought the scissors up to my eye line, and thought about the Jew Fro. Bangs just couldn't happen. Not by me anyway and especially if there was any possibility of the outcome looking anything like the last attempt at my dream hair.

And with that the scissors were put away and instead of bangs, I walked away with hair even curlier, with a borderline Farah Faucet cut. Not bad for a first timer...

who are you?

I've knocked off three weeks of kickboxing. I'm generally feeling pretty good about life. I fit in a dress that made my back look like I had cleavage and I'm selling sweet tickets to the gun show.

The classes go in the same manner. We warm up, we sweat, we squat, than we punch and kick, then we squat some more. We punch bags, balls even an occasional person, and then it is time to go home.

It's just, for the last six classes, I've been called the wrong name. The first night I walked in with a Courtney who has since dropped the class, but her name has stuck.

Three people attend the class. It's pretty intimate and hard not to have your named called. So the classes go on and the instructor says something like, "Courtney, kick higher." And I stay oblivious until about 30 seconds later I comprehend in my oxygen deprived brain that she was talking to me, and I pant something like "That's a long way for these legs to go." And the class moves on...

But then I started losing sleep, and I couldn't blame it on the sore muscles. I was playing out the scenarios about how I was going to approach the issue at hand. It was past the appropriate fixing stage...

So I got my courage up. I spent the whole day pumping myself up, getting myself ready for "The Conversation" I make it to class and there are 10 people in the class. 10 people. No way was I going to get this one out. So I left dejected and even more sore. It hurt, and I still wasn't sleeping.

Finally last night, I made it 15 minutes early to try and catch the instructor. I awkwardly approached her and tried to bring up the subject. Her entire frame would fit into mine, twice. She has maybe 5 feet on her. I can't squat lower than how tall she is, and yet it's still intimidating and the subject keeps getting skirted. I hear people talking out the door and I blurt out way too loudly, 'you've got my name wrong.'  We do the obligatory back and forth, i'm sorrys and the it's no big deals and talk about always getting names wrong.

Class starts, we kick and squat and squat and squat and squat. As we wrap up, gather our things and walk out the door, the instructor yells after me...

'Shelby, see you Thursday...'

And so, the show starts again....

I can kick, I can punch, I can kick...

I’m gonna wear you down, I’m gonna make you see, I’m gonna get to you, You’re gonna give into me...I’m gonna start a fire, You’re gonna feel the heat, I’m gonna burn for you, You’re gonna melt for me...

The sign up sheet said the class was on the third floor of the Health Pavilion. The third floor was deserted. No lights, no class, nothing. As I meandered around the corner i ran into a man pushing a huge laundry bin. He directed me to the fitness center. It was on the second floor, under the escalators in the opposite end of the Hospital. I walked around corners, past people nervously waiting, through a couple of swinging doors and finally made it to the center. The door was locked and the people inside were all furiously pushing themselves on treadmills and ellipticals, unaware of my dilemma, lost in their own fitness playlist. 

I slipped in behind a nurse and found the front desk. By now I was fifteen minutes late and had already been worried all day. See, I signed up for a kickboxing class. It is in the Hospital and I was imagining little old grandma's with their walkers kicking and punching for an hour. I was worried. 

I hate any type of class in a fitness center because of the mirrors.  These legs often make others jealous, and even take a few breaths away, and definitely get a few extra looks, but they add up to an ungraceful gangly mess. Especially when you are doing dance moves, or yoga, or kickboxing. Mirrors in these situations are my enemy. I not only have to concentrate on the steps, but I get the joy of watching my gangly mixed up self do it. Not attractive. Especially when you add in the extra active capillaries on my face that make it redder than a tomato the minute I start any type of physical exercise. 

After sneaking in and getting the directions to the right class I am off on another goose chase, hoping this time I'll end up in the right place. As I get off the final elevator and jog around the cafeteria I hear the music blaring. It's pumping, the instructor is yelling kick, punch, side kick, squat. I muster up all my gumption, wish I would have brought my walker (just in case) and swing around the corner to see a room full of average age, very mobile people sweating and kicking in time to the beat. 

I dropped my things, merged into the line, and smiled at myself because when i looked up all I saw looking back at me was a blue carpeted wall and a very energetic instructor. 

...I’ll use my eyes to draw you in, Until I’m under your skin, I’ll use my lips, I’ll use my arms, Come on, come on, come on, Give into me....

Paradise

Thirty days and thirty nights, Been putting up a real good fight, And there were times I thought you'd win...


The water lapped at my bare, bronzed toes. My dress danced around my thighs, begging for it's freedom. The sand gave in to my feet as we walked down the shoreline. The sun was slowing sinking, leaving everything basked in it's golden glow. The tequila had done the same hours ago. It made me feel invincible and the words out of my mouth delectable. It made the water exciting, and the sparks running through me, electrifying. His hand was glued to mine, squeezing so tight, maybe to keep me from running. Maybe to keep me moving. Either way we walked down the beach, laughing and comfortable. Caught up in our own buzz. His hair shone in the setting sun, my eyes sparked. Our real life seemed so far away and yet so close. We had rocked vacation. We had rocked the wedding, and the only thing left to do was to climb on a plane and take the long ride home to the real world. 


But for the night, we were content to just walk the beach, party with the wedding goers, and enjoy what the other had to offer. Tomorrow was still hours away and the real world could wait. 


Paradise was calling... and we had to answer

'Cause you and Tequila make me crazy, Run like poison in my blood, One more night could kill me, baby, One is one too many, one more is never enough...

yummy yummy

My roommate is a very routine oriented person. I can tell you exactly what she does in the morning, without even having to be out of bed. She plans her morning to a 't' so that she can maximize her sleeping time. She drinks her coffee strong in a matter of seconds. Eats blueberries with oatmeal in the morning (the bags of blueberries we buy are humongous) and stops the microwave at one second so that she doesn't wake me.

We are quite opposite, but it's cute really. I drink coffee for breakfast. I take my time in the morning and get ready in a different order every morning, just to switch things up. I don't like blueberries. I don't like oatmeal. I'm not a big fan of routine. It gets too boring.

But then there is the kitchen. Our apartment's kitchen is small enough that we can't have the dishwasher and fridge open at the same time. We can both hardly fit without invading personal space.

Surprisingly we are quite similar. In our little kitchen that we both can't fit into at the same time, we never measure, though we have measuring cups and spoons coming out the wazoo. We are adventurous with the spices, throwing whatever we can pull out of the cabinet onto the dish for dinner. I think though, in this category I'm a little more brave. I like my jalapenos.

We cook for hungry boys. These hungry boys

(Okay so the one on the far right is a cousin or something and we don't actually cook for him. But we would if he came over...)

We cook for ourselves. Delicious yummy things with pasta or cheese or lots and lots of garlic and herbs from our balcony garden (if i don't kill them) and vegetables and chicken and fruits...

It is quite fabulous. So much so, that I couldn't resist todays late night bounty. See for yourself and you'll want to be our roommates too. But we would require a bigger kitchen. And you would have to do dish duty...

The faint smell of cinnamon and the sweetness of raspberries floats from our little kitchen, tempting us with promise of sweet homemade goodness.

A promise for another morning of strong coffee, and this time another berry. A better one in my opinion

leavin'

You're the edge I just stepped off of, You're the sunlight through my window pane, You're the road I wanna break down on in the pouring rain

My mind wanders these days. It takes it's trek down the long roads that I have already traveled. The towns I've visited, the people that have become family, the interesting choices i've made, and the things I have seen. 

I'm not sure where I stand on the adventuresome life. Don't get me wrong, I live for adventure, but it isn't the same type of adventure that I longed for a year ago. 

I could still get up and go, without a moment's notice, but this time around I think I would have some regrets. 

There are just some people that would be too hard to leave. 

Maybe if they came with me.... 

'Cause I know I'm not easy to hold but you've reached me, baby, You saved me from me before I was too far gone..... I love you for taking me on 

Sometimes I sit on the toilet so long that my legs fall asleep. Not working on anything, just sitting.

Sometimes I have a really hard time spelling toilet.

And sometimes that's all that life gives ya...