BabyMama & The Birth Story

Every telling of a birth story that I have witnessed has felt like listening to a veteran. Someone who has been through something life changing that not everyone has experienced. Someone who has seen some stuff. Someone who may or may not have a little PTSD from the event. Someone who is a bit of a hero, depending on your definition of the word. 

It's a saga. A telling of joy and potentially trauma. It's the tale as old as time: that of new life. 

I'm not saying that this is any of that, but, with our baby girl coming up on the year mark, I figured it's now or never to tell the tale of her entry. Because sharing these stories is important - hearing these stories before and after my delivery helped me be aware of what to expect and connected me to others. As captain of Team-No-Kids, I hadn't heard many details about pregnancy or labor prior to being pregnant, and I feel like I'd have had a greater appreciation if I had. I'd have been more empathetic, more supportive. Birthing persons are super heroes. 

Disclaimers: 

• Semi graphic labor details to follow (will put the most graphic asterisked in a foot note, skip if you prefer - or if you're like a co-worker who stumbled upon this blog and is thinking "yikes, I don't want to know!"). 
• Note that the exact timestamps are because I had my husband texting updates to our immediates (which was actually nice to have a little log of the day) and had some photos from the day. 
• Every labor and delivery story is unique, this was mine: that of a healthy, white, middleclass,  cisgender woman, with a pretty straightforward pregnancy, a supportive partner, and access to a great hospital (plus the wonderful staff that came with it). 
• Despite my ongoing fear throughout pregnancy that I was going to die in labor, I never once felt in danger during my labor and delivery. I was very lucky to have a labor without massive complications. I won't go so far to say it was a "normal" labor, but it was not out of the ordinary. 

The scene: After our first ultrasound, our original due date was moved up a week. But that due date came and went.  Due to Covid and the strains on the hospital system, "elective" inductions were not allowed. One week post due date an induction is able to be considered "medically necessary" though, so that's when our doc put it on the calendar. At week 38, baby was in position and I was almost 2cm dilated, but it stalled out there and baby girl decided to hang out until the 41 week mark. Then induction day was upon us and it was go-time!

4:30am : Up to start getting ready and have a big breakfast. My doc warned me to eat because I'd be on a liquid diet upon arrival (which, is fair because you could end up having a major surgery - a C-Section - and you wouldn't be eating at the hospital before a major surgery), so I scarfed an eggy sandwich. We were scheduled for 6am but told to call at 5am to confirm availability. If a bunch of others had gone into labor overnight and the unit was full, we'd have to wait. 

5am : We called and got put on hold for the longest ten minutes of my life, but got the all clear! To get to the hospital and parked is about 25 minutes, so shortly after we got the okay, we were out the door.

((Stage 1: Early Labor))

6:02am : Checked in at Labor & Delivery. The Kyle Rittenhouse case was on the news, and the Christmas tree was already up in the empty lobby. 

Shortly after, we were in a room and I changed into my laboring gown. They strapped a bunch of external monitors on my belly and got the IV going. I had been flagged with Group B Strep early on in my pregnancy - something that is just a regular part of my body, that could be harmful for a baby on it's way out - which is very easily treated with antibiotics during labor as a precaution. So I knew coming in that I would have penicillin via an IV. Since I needed to be induced and wanted an epidural, an IV was always in the cards. 

The monitors fed a stream of fetal/contraction data to both a digital screen and an old-school printer which steadily drew a line showing my progress, upon a never-ending stream of paper. It turned out that the back pain I had been feeling in the days leading up had actually been minor contractions, they just didn't feel like "normal contractions" (whatever that means lol) thanks to my anterior placenta (my placenta was always on the front of my belly, which cushions baby movements - so I felt kicks later and less intensely early on). Watching the upticks in the line and matching them in real-time with how my body was feeling, I was able to know when contractions were happening. And I definitely thought, "Okay, this isn't so bad." Because everyone tells you "OH YOU'LL KNOW when they're happening!" but at that time, I would've still just thought I was achy. 

7:10am : They started the Pitocin in my IV. Pitocin is a hormone used to induce labor.*

9:18am : Up and walking about with my IV stand. I told them I wanted to be up and about as much as possible, and they largely left me to my own devices. I couldn't wander the halls or anything with Covid, so just paced about our giant delivery room (it was super swanky). 

10:15am : My "liquid diet" meal arrived. Broth, Jell-O, juice, popsicles. I ordered it asap after the Pitocin started, knowing it'd take awhile to arrive. (My biggest fear is being hungry, and I absolutely was justified about that worry later.) I absolutely made my husband take a photo of me holding my broth cup like Baby Yoda - no regrets. 

Random hospital thing: they measure your pee. The toilet in the room has a cup to catch and measure so they can make sure you're hydrated. As a pregnant woman, I peed every ten minutes basically, so the poor nurses had to deal with that a bunch. 

11am : Shift change for my nurses. I thanked them for all their help and said I hoped I didn't see them again when they came back (12 hours later). 

11:43am : They had been slowing upping the Pitocin, to the point where my contractions were regular but still not super strong. The nurses consulted with my OB/GYN and they planned to "break my bag of waters." There was a different doctor who was coming in to do that procedure. Two good notes with this:

• When they said my labor was not progressing much and they planned to break my water, they had to ask permission to take that step. One key bit I remembered from the online birthing class we watched (thanks Covid again - only virtual options were available) was the BAR approach. If there are decisions to be made, you don't have to know all about them in advance of your labor, you just have to know how to get an understanding to make an informed decision. So you ask: what are the Benefits? the Alternatives? the Risks?
• My OB was not present throughout my entire labor - she popped in to check on me a few times and consulted over the phone with my nurses, but she was not just hanging out all day. I was very grateful to have my specific baby doc for my entire pregnancy and the confidence that she would be the one delivering my baby. That helped me to have someone I really trusted (that woman saw me at my highest highs and lowest lows - I consider her a trusted ally). 

12:13pm : Water broken. Definitely a whoosh of fluid. This started my "I am... in a pool" joke with my husband. Pool of fluid, pool of tears, pool of baby spit: somehow, I'm always in a pool. My exact text describing the process of them "breaking my bag of waters" to my friends moments later: "It's like they tried to crochet a sweater up my snatch, but hopefully that'll get things moving!" Feel free to google "amniotic hook" on your own time. (You can also look up goodies like "bloody show" while you're there, if you're feeling feisty.) 

12:57pm : Up and walking about again. I was very determined to keep walking to help bébé labor down as long as possible. Once you get that epidural, the walking stops, so I was on my feet as much as I could be. The thing I didn't fully understand before being pregnant: contractions basically come in waves, fairly standard waves, and they get closer together and can last longer as you get closer to birth. So for example, they can last about 30 to 70 seconds and come about 5 to 10 minutes apart. So you can feel "fine" and be walking around and then suddenly have to pause and do some deep breathing during the contraction and then as it passes you can carry on. 

2:40pm : No updates, really. Contractions were coming on hard but the nurse seemed to think that it'd still be awhile. No epidural yet. Just up and walking about, listening to my labor playlist and chit chatting with my husband. Everyone told me to bring a book / shows to watch, but we didn't turn the TV on even once, and my book went unopened. I was pretty well focused on the task at hand, and didn't need/want any distractions. Just my approach on it. 

2:57pm : When asked about dilation status: they said 3cm but the last cervical check had been a few hours prior. They try not to do too many cervical checks, because after your water is broken, each check could potentially be introducing bacteria, disrupt labor, and just hurt like a bitch. (Cervical checks leading up to my due date, I equated to Hermione reaching into her magic purse #IYKYK)

With little progress, the nurses kept offering me options for pain management: use the birthing ball, lay down in a certain way, take a bath, take a shower, etc. The birthing suite basically had a swanky spa in the room. While the bath option was out since they'd broken my water, a shower was still an option. I love a good hot shower, but it's a little less nice when you have to roll your IV stand just outside the shower and stick your arm out the curtain. Not quite as relaxing. Did not make me feel less in pain, just made me feel awkwardly wet. 

The awkward arm-out shower stemmed from the DRASTIC mistake I made upon arrival of saying that I was 'not opposed to an epidural' vs making my intentions known that I did plan to have one. So, the nurses thought that by offering other things, they were following my wishes. And my damn midwest-nice attitude made me say "suuuure I'll try these things." But my contractions were coming on strong enough that I'd pretty much have to stop dead and focus up, and I was like "QUIT offering me these woo-woo pansy options and give me the damn needle in my spine!" I knew it'd take a bit for the epidural docs to come and get it all in, so when I knew it was time, I made my demand for it (and more Jell-O).

((Stage 1: Active Labor))

4:28pm : Epidural time and bonus cath LOL see this post for all the shit I didn't know about epidurals before needing one. Fun fact: I didn't realize until later that the doc who put the epidural in my spin was actually like the doc-in-training. THAT would've made me feel super stressed as fuck. But, the whole thing went smoothly. I am not a big fan of needles, but my game face was on, so, I think I did a damn good job. 

They always tell you to rest once you get the epidural in, so I did. Walking around was no longer an option anyways. I told the doc I could still feel my foot a lot though and that I didn't think it was working well enough. He said he could do a test and to let him know what I could feel. I told him I was ready for the test and he was already doing it - it's just an ice cube test. I thought I had feeling but I couldn't feel an ice cube on my foot at all. Epidurals are wild. 

6:16pm : 5.5 centimeters (after twelve hours in the delivery room). Which felt like nothing knowing I had to get to ten, and yet felt like we'd finally made some progress. At this point, I was absolutely starving and exhausted from laboring all day. While walking around had been something I felt so adamant about doing, it had worn me out. In hindsight, I'd have chilled with the walking about to save that energy.

6:50pm : 8 centimeters, 100% effaced. My OB was called in mid-dinner, and it felt like it was go-time. (Spoiler alert: I was about 4.5 hours away from having our little girl in-arm.) 

7pm : They began stopping the Pitocin, hoping I'd be able to get the last 2cm on my own. My OB was there, getting her scrubs on. They told us that if the last 2cm didn't come, they would turn the Pitocin back on for a bit. The hope was that the baby's heart rate would stay in a good place, and there wouldn't be a need for a C-Section.

7:11pm : It happened at different points throughout the day, but this was the time there was photographic documentation of it: the "labor shakes," in which one starts shaking/shivering uncontrollably. I felt cold and yet sweaty, and jittery as hell. The nurses put warm blankets on me and I tried to rest. It is apparently fairly common and basically happens because your body has a big old surge of hormones and freaks the fuck out (that's the medical description for it, obvi).

After further evaluation, my OB told us that while the baby was head down (good), it was in posterior position, aka "sunny side up," aka its nose was towards my abdomen instead of my back. This isn't the preferred position for pushing out a babe, because the baby’s head is more likely to get wedged against the pubic bone, putting pressure on mama's spine/sacrum. This can cause a longer and more painful delivery, a higher chance of needing a C-section, and other complications. Apparently, up to a third of babies are in this position in the first stage of labor - most rotate themselves into the right position before go time! 

Since the ideal position was for bébé to be facing nose-to-back, we talked through options for how to coax her into rotating. With the epidural, I was in jellyfish mode, so the nurses moved me about into various positions (to one side, to the other, etc.) and we waited. 

8:08pm : Next up to try involved them putting a giant peanut shaped ball/balloon between my legs to try and rotate that baby.

((Stage 1: Transition))

8:53pm : This time they sat me up into "throne position" where I rested and waited. 

Keep in mind, when I say "resting," I mean riding the contraction waves - as you transition out of active labor and into the actual birthing, the contractions are strong and close together - so every 3 to 5 minutes, and lasting about 60 to 90 seconds each. Not a very "restful" time. Thank GOODNESS for that epidural. Without it, I'd have been in a massive amount of pain - instead I just felt pressure. Like, I could tell when contractions were coming and happening, but it didn't hurt, it was more just like a wave of exhaustion. (Your body is running a marathon, you just can't feel your legs hitting the pavement.) 

More than any other feeling, for me personally, was that of hunger. I am an angry panda when not fed, and with naught but a liquid brunch eleven hours prior, and scattered Jell-O's thereafter, I was running low on fuel. I asked if I could have another Jell-O or anything before we hit the final stage, and my OB politely explained that they were about to put an oxygen mask on me, and many women throw up during labor - and that I did not want to vomit red Jell-O into that mask, because it would not be pleasant. And I was like.... touché, doc, no Jell-O.

((Stage 2: Baby Birthing Time!))

9:20pm : 10cm, baby is face down, pushing starting imminently. This was it. Game face on, I asked my OB how long women have to push for on average. She warned me that it could be hours, and I was like "challenge accepted" - I wasn't going to do this for hours. I was going to push and breath so well, and give this baby my very best, and we were going to get this thing done asap. 

My plan had been to not have my husband in the room during this stage - I needed to be in the zone, and have all my mental energy focused on the task at hand, not worrying about how he was doing or feeling. I didn't want the distraction. But with Covid, he wouldn't have been allowed to linger out in the waiting room and basically would've had to go wait in the car, and that just seemed stupid, so I asked him to stay out of the action, and back over my shoulder where I couldn't see him. Yes, I basically asked him to go sit in the corner. Comforting and hand holding and whatever else would've just made me lose concentration and probably pissed me off. ((Note: this had been discussed well in advance, and I'm grateful that he was respectful of my wishes, because I basically was asking him to not be in the weeds for the arrival of his child - something plenty of people told me I was being a jerk about, depriving him of this special moment. But, my labor, my rules.))

9:27pm : Pushing began. I have never been more focused on anything in my entire life than I was during those first few pushes. Our nurses were excellent and talked me through the breathing, pushing, etc. and I made AWESOME progress immediately. Everyone was all "wow, this is impressive, just a few more pushes like that and like, we'll be done" - much applause. I was a goddamn champion.

9:50pm : And then I was still pushing. Still doing great they told me. But as time went on, my pushes were not as strong because I was so worn out, and every time it seemed I was making progress, I was losing it. 

**See double asterisk subnote if you want the graphic, nitty-gritty details of this part - please skip if it'll make you uncomfortable. It sure made ME uncomfortable.

10:52pm : Still pushing, getting closer. We switched position/approach slightly. But I basically had two nurses holding my legs (since I couldn't feel them) at any given time. It's fascinating when you try to dig in your heels when you...can't feel your heels. 

At some point, my OB asked if I'd like a mirror to see the baby crowning so I could *see* my progress, to visualize/motivate me, or if I'd like to touch the baby's head: both were a HARD NO from me. Literally zero interest in either of those things. I feel like it would have been the opposite of motivating to see my poor body being destroyed by the exodus of our dear babe.

11:00pm : And there it was, the shift change. My nurse from the morning was back and I was absolutely disappointed to still be laboring.  The nurse who had been with me for the past hour and a half of pushing stayed around but had to go do the shift hand off, and other nurses came in. In the jumble, my OB hailed my husband over: someone needed to hold a leg. So much for me wanting to keep him as far away from the action as possible, but there was nothing for it: that leg needed holding. 

As the staff shift whirled about, I was still just there, waiting for each contraction wave, trying to muster up what was left of my energy to get our baby out into the world. I was so very tired. I wish I could say there was a sudden surge of adrenaline or something that got me through, but it was more just a primal need to be done. If it didn't happen soon, I wouldn't be able to have a vaginal delivery, and I was so scared of a C-section that I knew it needed to happen. 

My main pushing-nurse had been my rock in terms of counting and talking me through the breathing, and in the shuffle there were different people saying different things, my legs weren't being held properly, and everyone just seemed distracted from the task at hand. In my delirium, my project management skills came out and I had to give a wee speech along the lines of "hey, we all need to be on the same page - I need someone to do the counting again, I need my legs to both be held the same way, I need help, I need everyone to focus." And we regrouped, with my OB acting as coxswain for the finale. 

11:15pm : Our little girl was born. Nine pounds. Per my husband, it was like seeing a little inanimate thing flop out, and then just spring to life. 

((Stage 3))

I remember saying I wanted the baby cleaned off before they gave her to me for skin-to-skin, but that's apparently not a thing (babies don't get a bath until 24 hours after birth - the goo is protective for them), so the beautiful slimy creature I had grown was handed over, for me to cling to as my body collapsed under the weight of the effort it had just made. The doc began to "repair" the damage (which I could unfortunately feel most of, as the epidural was being tapered off) while we got to meet our sweet girl. A time later, I remember asking my doc about delivering the placenta (which I knew happened after labor), she kindly said it had already happened (so apparently the epidural was still working enough!). The nurses began kneading my stomach, something they'd come do throughout the time it took my uterus to shrink back to size. They did tests and assessments on our baby in the room, while I began recovery.***

Mom and baby were both safe and healthy, that's what mattered. My OB had informed me before pushing that with most insurances, we would get "two midnights" to stay in the recovery ward for a vaginal birth. Some people who are closer to the midnight mark stop pushing and wait... because America. (Seriously, how fucked up is our healthcare system??) So by the time we were moved out of the labor and delivery ward, we were already well into our "first night" for our recovery stay. 

At that stage in the pandemic, I was allowed one visitor in a 24-hour period, i.e. if I wanted someone other than my husband, it would be just that person for that day and my husband would be kicked out during that time. Needless to say, it was just us three. Just us three to begin this wonderful, chaotic journey. At the point of no return, ready to enter parenthood. We'd done it. We'd ticked a little +1 to humanity. It might have meant sacrificing my body in the process, but, she was finally on the outside, ready to start the big adventure called life. 

Life is rarely a straight line.

* NOTE that Pitocin can also be used in abortions, and with legislation restricting access to reproductive healthcare, this may become something unavailable to women - meaning that I would have had to continue to carry my baby for an undetermined number of days. I could have gone post-term and had to deal with a number of health risks to myself and my child. Getting an induction allowed me to have a safe labor and a healthy child. This is a reminder to please VOTE and understand that restricting reproductive healthcare extends well beyond abortions.

*** At my six-week postpartum appointment with my OB, I still was NOT recovered and had a lot of healing to do. I pushed a nine pound baby out, and she did not go quietly into the night. 

** When in stage two, you are still waiting for contractions. You feel the contraction coming on, like riding up the hill on a roller coaster. When the contraction hits, you push. When it ends, you wait until you go up another hill again. I ended up "pushing" for about two hours. With contractions about 3 to 5 minutes apart, that means I may have pushed about two dozen times. Putting your entire being into pushing a giant object out of a small opening, when you can't feel your body and haven't eaten anything? It's um, not delightful. Rather tiring. While I started with such verve, I got increasingly more fatigued. When I say it felt like I was losing progress, I was literally losing progress. With my initial pushes, the baby's head could be seen, but as things went on, each contraction the baby would push out a bit, and in between contractions/pushing the baby would slide back in. Literally two steps forward and one step back. You can imagine the impact of having a large baby head just there, hanging out in my vagina for two hours, bobbing in and out... it was, not good. 

My OB explained to me that the baby would not be able to fit through as things were, and that they might need to make more room for the baby to exit. I had made it very clear beforehand that I did not want an episiotomy (in which they strategically cut the perineum - the area between your vag and anus - to enlarge the opening for the babe to come through) unless absolutely necessary, and that I preferred to let things "expand" (i.e. rip/tear, sigh) naturally, if needed. Dazed, I tried to reiterate this, asking how bad the tearing might be if we just continued on. And **skip to next paragraph if you want to avoid the most traumatizing thing a doc has ever said to me** my kind, straightforward doc, who I deeply trust, looked at me and told me that things were not looking to rip backwards....they were looking like they would rip upwards if they didn't intervene. If you're a woman reading this, take a second to let that horror sink in. If you're a man, just move along. 

And I finally caved: I started crying. Out of pure frustration and exhaustion. I had thought I'd be this rockstar who would push this baby right out. My mom had told endless tales of how we had basically walked right out of her vagina into the world, so I had thought that my "child bearing hips" would make for an easy go of things. And here we were. I took some deep breathes and told my OB she could proceed. She was already on it. We needed to get the baby out, we'd come too far.  The pushing needed to continue.... Okay, jump back up to the timeline now <3 

BabyMama: Weight For It

Note that this post was “written” via very slow typing in a notepad on my phone during late night feedings back in January and February. I’m truly terrible with touch screen keyboards, so the effort to type up even a text message is appalling. So just know that this post took WEEKS, for this old woman to smash out. And then has sat on the backburner waiting for me to find time to edit the ridiculously autocorrected 2am garbles... I’m trying here!

---------------

In America, pregnancy is one of the only times when weight gain is exalted.* Every pound packed on is an addition towards a noble cause. Gone are the billowing tents of yesteryear, used to hide one's now-curvy figure. While everyday-pooches are to be strategically hidden, bumps are to be flaunted. They are badges of honor. Bodycon for bumps is a THING.

As long as you're pregnant, it's fine. But once that baby is out, those extra pounds go back to being judged. ‘Bouncing back’ is a dreaded expectation. You were granted nine months where society allowed you to be larger, but they won’t abide by much more than that. Sure, you have a new human that you’ve grown, and have gone through a massive physical (and emotional) trauma bringing them into this world, and are now trying to figure out how to care for them outside the bump, but, you OBVIOUSLY need to find time to work out and prep/eat healthy meals, too. Else, you’re failing as a mother. And as a wife. And as a woman. And just like, overall. 

And it's a bunch of bullshit. 

Okay, so. Before I dig in, disclaimer:

I am ALL about new moms taking time to care for themselves. They need and deserve that time. And for some, that absolutely is time for yoga, or a run, or to get veggies at the farmer’s market. And if getting back into a certain physical condition more swiftly helps a mom mentally/emotionally, as well as physically, then YAS queen, do as you will. This is more a rage about a societal expectation put on new moms, and how unrealistic and harmful it can be. And how we need to continue to normalize changes to our bodies as we grow as people (whether or not that involves birthing a baby) and embrace feeling healthy and beautiful over a number on a scale.

So let's go down the full weight journey rabbit hole of the last few years: like most women, I gained weight as I progressed into my thirties. Not a substantial amount, but there was a point where I suddenly realized I was in a different decade on the scale (the 140s) and literally my brain thought it was the one I’d “always” been in as an adult (the 130s). Because brains are funny that way. 

When we got engaged in 2018, set to marry in fall of 2019, I thought “this is it - if this won’t motivate me to workout and eat better and 'get skinny' and hit my 'goal weight,' nothing will!” ... And then I spent a year not being motivated. (I was too busy doing wedding prep and other stuff.) Sure, I did more toning, and walks, and made a point to eat/drink out less, and tried a bit harder in random bursts, but overall I didn’t go nuts about it. I also jotted down my weight every single day, just for awareness, without stressing too much over the number. But, with all that minimal effort, when done over the course of a year, I did lose about a dozen pounds before the wedding.

I continued my daily weight tracking, and in the months following the wedding slowly bopped back to my "normal" weight again. Then, 2020 came, and I watched with morbid fascination as the pandemic hit all of our waistlines. And with no where to go, no happy hour calories to be had, and endless at home time to focus on myself, I thought “this is it - I don’t have being busy as an excuse- if this won’t motivate me to workout and eat better, nothing will!” ... And then I realized motivation is often lacking when in deep states of depression and overwhelm. But, for the first several months of Covid, I had an irrational fear that we would run out of food / not have access to groceries. That, plus stress, caused me to lose about six pounds. But don’t worry, I hit my baking and stress-eating stride just like everyone else and rolling into early 2021 I was back up again to that pre-pani weight, plus a couple pounds. But we all were about there. The memes were endless, but so were the ads for online exercise classes and Peletons.

Then I got pregnant. And knowing that the nutrients I was putting in and how I was treating my body would directly impact our precious child, I thought, “this is it - if this won’t motivate me to workout and eat better and focus on my health, nothing will!” Andddd spoiler alert... that motivation just didn't come. I was good about avoiding some bad eats and not always overindulging, but overall I did not massively change for the better. I got more steps in, and did more stretching, and ate my veggies/fruits, but, I was too exhausted to properly dig in on meal prep and things like I thought I should. Shame on me, I know. (But at least I HYDRATED!)

With the weight gain of a new human life came the weight of placenta and fluids and everything else to house and grow that life. And the fun baddies like the almost-outie belly button, horrible back pain, swollen everythings, and just all the discomfort from the additional strain put on my body from rapid weight gain (just as there would be from rapid weight loss). I gained 33.5 pounds while pregnant and hit a number I’ve never seen on the scale. I carried that weight solely in my boobs and belly, which my porcelain skin will never forget. All of which cumulated in me delivering our beautiful (but massive), nine pound bébé, a week past my due date.

And there’s just no fucking way a body springs back quickly from that. Not on any front. Even with breastfeeding - which, people rave about as if it's some miracle weight loss program, but it is NOT. (Don’t get me started about how much I need to consume in order to stay afloat for that life sucking miracle.) The entire process was such a massive shift (to my organs, hormones, and life), that any expectation to return to "normal" in a rapid manner seems just so insane. 

The rare free time I’ve gotten with a newborn is spent scrambling to do laundry, or organizing so my mind feels some semblance of control, or stuffing a pop-tart in my face... it’s not spent at the gym. And maybe there will be a point where that shifts. Maybe when I’m WFH and our baby is at daycare I’ll do lunchtime workouts. Maybe. Or maybe I’ll just embrace the fluff and nap...

UPDATE: it's especially evident in the last paragraph that this post was written prior to my return to work. Having been back at work for a few months now, I can confidently say that working out during lunchtime is NOT a thing, though is not out of the realm of possibility. I also am grateful for having stopped looking in mirrors during the pandemic - it overall means I have the ability to bop out into public and not care at all what I look like, so any additional weight has not bothered my self esteem on a public front. I've embraced the parts of my wardrobe that fit my body as it is, and the fact that my body has a death grip on certain pounds while I continue to breastfeed. After I'm done breastfeeding, will reassess. I'm currently still up about 13 pounds from my "normal" weight (which I used as my baseline for all the gain/loss numbers in this post), so have lost about 20 points since giving birth. Given that it took nine months to gain that weight and I'm now about 7.5 months out from labor and delivery, I feel like I'm doing alright. For now, I'm comfortable where I am (though I miss wearing some of my slimmer fit clothes) - big boobs and all. 

We plan to have our cake and eat it, too.

* Well, that and when celebs are “committing” to a role, à la Batman Bale.

Faroes: Packing Wins and Fails

Now that I have thoroughly ranted about all the amazing adventures in Copenhagen and in the Faroe Islands, both IRL and all over this blog, it's time for a wee bit of retrospective on one of those linchpin things from the trip: our luggage! For a full rave about packing, check out this post on how I fit seven days of stuff into one carry-on. I was glad to have read a lot of packing suggestions before we went, but some just didn't hold water, and others were SPOT on.

When it came down to the stuff I opted to bring along, I had some serious wins, and a few fails...

Things I was happy I brought:

• The number one top thing(s) I brought that I loved: bags!
• Cross body bag was a MUST! It was so easy for carrying around cameras and miscellaneous stuff. It was easy for hiking but could easily be worn to dinner, too. (One doesn't need to pack more than one purse!)
• A reusable grocery bag :
  A) most grocery stores in Europe don't give out bags
  B) it made it easier to move between different hotels: I didn't have to pack up tightly into the carry-on and could just toss extra stuff into the bag to be figured out later
  C) it was a fabulous snack bag
• "Vacuum seal" bag: this was a lifesaver for my sweaters! I was able to pack almost all the sweaters I wanted but still have tons of space in my carry-on for other essentials.
• Lots of extra bags in general : zip locks and just grocery store bags. For stuff like smelly socks and muddy boots, it was nice to have something to wrap that stuff up tight in before storing it for our transatlantic flight.
• Menthol patches : Fun fact, I sit at a desk all day normally. I do not have an extremely "active" lifestyle. So, with a trip that consisted entirely of hiking and tromping about, my bod was a little confused. IE by the last day, I was basically covered in these life saving patches! At the end of a long day, I could slap one of these on a puffy knee or aching back and it was fabulous relief. 
• Paper tape : The beau has used this in the past to prevent his toes from rubbing together while running, to help avoid blisters. I took a page from his playbook and likewise used it to avoid / protect blisters while hiking. It also was awesome for sealing up various snacks we bought (ain't nobody got space for chip clips!).
• Good waterproof hiking boots : Seriously. This was SO essential. I'm glad I invested in a good pair (also, I only got one tiny blister - see paper tape), whereas if I'd have had a shitty pair of shoes, I may have ended up either with perpetual wet socks (I HATE WET SOCKS) or a serious injury. These bad boys kept me dry and stable! 
• A Pen : Europe has a great system with chip credit cards and pin numbers. Unfortunately, our American credit cards don't have pins, so most places we'd still have to sign. This caused much confusion as various vendors and restaurants were like "Uh, you have to sign?" Since it's so uncommon, they'd scramble about looking for a pen. But voila, we had our own! So, BYOP if you want to just speed things up. (Thanks, internet, for this tip!)

Waterproof boots: because the wilderness isn't as dry as Abbey Road!

Things I could've done without:
Luckily the big theme of these all is that they were small things that didn't take up much space. So it wasn't like I filled half my suitcase with unnecessary junk. Go team!

• Waterproof everything : The Fores get approximately 300 days of rain a year. We lucked out and it was perfectly sunny! Since we had heard a lot about the rain and sudden turns in weather, I had packed monsoon gear basically. Waterproof boots, pants, jacket, and even waterproof mascara. While the boots and jacket were still great, the pants and mascara were not necessary at all - and waterproof mascara is just more of a bitch to take off.
• Gloves : Would've been great if it had rained, but it didn't. And it was never too cold - plus my coat had the thumbhole sleeves, so that was good enough.
• That extra hat : It was tiny, so no major foul here but... I brought an additional hat solely for vanity (so every photo wouldn't have me wearing the same exact hat). One hat was more than sufficient. Lesson learned, ego.
• Dramamine : Because I don't know if I even get seasick, and we didn't end up getting to take the ferry anyways.
• PJ pants : For some reason, I imagined I'd be lounging more often? But, obviously I was lying to myself, because when I'm in vacation mode, I get very "don't waste a single second! adventure awaits!" Should've known this trip would be no different and that I'd run us around like crazy as long as the sun was still shining. (Which was approximately 4:30am til 10:30pm every day! Yay for being so far north!) Again, didn't take up much space, and I could have worn them as leggings really, so it's my own fault they went unused. 
• SO many snacks : I'm forever worried about a shortage of food. So while it was nice to have  hiking specific snacks, I didn't need to pack enough food for a small army.
• Plane activities : I brought two sudoku books and my old school mp3 player for the plane. But ended up either talking, sleeping, eating or watching movies the whole time. So neither was really needed. The beau also brought a book (yes, a physical book) that he didn't end up reading at all.
• A few honorable mentions that the beau said he didn't need to pack:
• An extra pair of pants : because boys don't change pants hardly ever!
• A hat : his ears don't funnel the wind like mine do, so for me, my hat was essential - but he never even wore his once.
• Running shorts : since we were getting in so many steps hiking, he didn't have that energy to get up a 5 am to go for a run before our day like he thought he might.

Snack Attack! Mama needs her treats!

Things I wish I had packed:

• MORE SOCKS : Because waterproof boots are great at not letting moisture in, but also kind of trap in sweat. It'd have been nice to swap out socks more often, because, as y'all know, I frickin' hate wet socks.
• Detangling hair spray : Yes, like a child. Do you have any idea what the ocean breeze, on a mountain top, does to one's hair? Let alone having a hat on all day while that wind assaults half your hair?? It's a wonder I'm not completely bald after all the knots of hair I ripped out of my skull every night. 
• A little trinket : In the past, when travelling, sometimes I've taken a little trinket, or a paper heart, or something. A little tchotchke that I could take photos with at various locations to make cute little contingent photos. I was too panicked about packing to remember this time though. 
• Honorable mention from to the beau :: Briefs instead of boxers : something closer fitting to protect the boys when hopping around on rocks, ya know!

Because i just made a list, I can't honestly say "there's not a thing I would change!" about our trip. But I will say that the trip was pretty near perfect, just the same. At some point, you'll get a new series of posts for our next visit to the Faroes, because it is definitely a place I plan to return someday. I already have a little list going of place for next time.... Mykines (I'll be back for you, puffins!); Múli (and the other abandoned settlements in northern Borðoy); the entire island of Suðuroy (with it's awesome sea cliffs); the Kallur Lighthouse and the Kópakonan (aka selkie) statue on Kalsoy... Some day, friends. Some day. And next time, I'll know exactly what to bring along.... 

My Life as an Accidental Spectathlete

I'm not what one might call "athletic." As a teen, when all my gal pals were picking which Spice Girl best represented them, Sporty Spice wasn't even in my top five. (Yes, I know there were only five. That's how unrelatable I found her, her tracksuits, and ridiculously high pony.) And yet somehow, I've found myself in a relationship with...  a runner.

I assure you, he was not a running man when we started dating, or else my love-being-lazy-Spidey-senses would've gone off. But, as is his way, when he decides to be passionate about something, he goes ALL in. Cue last spring, at which point he had run a total of three 5ks in his life, just for funsies, and was one of those guys who never went to the gym, but somehow stayed super skinny (due to willpower - that personality trait which continues to elude me). Then one day he woke up, and decided that running was his thing. (Very Forrest Gump of him.)

And here we are. A year later. Since that revelation, in 2017, he ticked off the following races (not to mention countless training hours):

• Nine 5ks
• Two 8ks
• One quarter marathon
• Three half marathons
• And one 1-miler burrito run (don't ask)

2018 is just over three months in, and he's already surpassed the 300 mile mark. Beyond practice, we've had four races so far: two 5ks, one 10k, and another half marathon. Of these 20 competitions: I've so far only missed three.* Which means that, despite my general inability to run properly, firm opinion that running should be reserved for snagging the last donut in the break room / fleeing if one's life is in danger (zombies), and overall confusion as to why anyone would put their body through that torture... I've accidentally become a Spectathlete.

Running down the dream....

Being a Spectathlete goes beyond just showing up. That shit's for pansies. That was me, once: wandering aimlessly, bringing way too much shit without having anything helpful, and basically being more of a burden than a help. But now, I'm a well-oiled machine. A mix between the cranky-old-man coach from Rocky, cheerleader, and psychotic mama bear. While he's prepping by putting on the miles, I'm preparing to be the ultimate support system.

So, what does an average race day look like for someone who is acting as beach mom, coach, caddie, chauffeur, dasher, doctor and documentarian, all in one?

PRE
The weeks leading up:

• Constantly check the weather. The worse the predicted conditions, the more annoying I am about convincing the beau that racing is awful and he should stop.
• Read and re-read the event website. Figure out the best place to stake out. Memorize parking and street closure details. (I also scope out what kind of food/rewards will be given, so I know what snacks I can expect to hijack.)

Finisher freebies: breakfast of champions!

The night before:

• Continuous commentary about weather conditions.
• Nail down wake-up time based on start time. Set backup alarms.
• Make sure attire is laid out and ready (last minute laundry, as needed). Add backup race gear into my backpack (extra socks, fresh sweatbands, windbreaker jacket, etc). 
• Carbo load. This is for me, not the beau. He carbo loads prior. This is just an excuse for me to eat more while I stress about him somehow injuring himself the next day. 

The morning of:

• Awake at ass crack of dawn / stupid early. Make sure the beau is up / showering.
• Hydrate and have a quick breakfast. Pack second breakfast (usually candy) to eat while standing along the trail, staring at all the runners sweating and panting. 
• Argue about how he should wear more clothes, it's cold out. Slather some sunscreen on his face and neck as he squirms away. Try to convince him to wear a hat, lose the battle, pack said hat just in case he changes his mind. 
• Add last minute stuff into beach mom backpack - typically just body glide. You know. For the nips. 
• Freak out that we're leaving late and rush out, with a spiked hot cocoa in hand. 
• Since my man's legs don't need to be doing any additional work, I put the pedal to the medal. Sometimes that means a quick drive to an easily accessible lot near the starting line. Other times, it means having left too late and being blocked at every turn by various event barricades and me shrieking, "I'M GOING TO GET YOU TO THIS RACE!" while taking evasive action. 
• Arrive at course. Convince beau to stay in the car as long as possible. 
• Once we're in the throng of people, it's time for pre-race stretches. Because he doesn't stretch on his own ever, in the minutes prior to the start, I force him to do some leg swings, toe taps, and some bring-it-around-towns.
• About 15 minutes before the start, he gets antsy and leaves me to go stand in the corral, pushing his way to be near the pacer of his choice. I go find a spot past the start line and take a zillion rapid click photos trying to capture him among the crowd as the race begins.

Cocoa, cocktails, and cowbells

DURING

• As soon as he's off. I'm out. If it's a long run, I'll hoof it to get food, or will walk about. If the weather is awful, I'll hop back to the car and read or write up my weekly to-do list. If it's a short run, I don't go far. 5ks are a quick ordeal, and I want to be there for the finish. 
• For the long runs, I prop myself up along the route, ready to give the beau a mid-race cheer, a quick kiss, fresh socks, that hat he swore he wouldn't want, a tissue, etc. This also means I'm in prime position to have him chuck his empty water bottle or a sweaty jacket at me, to lighten his load. (At which point, I typically fail to catch whatever he threw, and have to dash into the course to chase after said object.)
• Yes, I carry a cowbell. When I'm not frantically waving it, being a screaming fanatic, it dangles off my beach mom backpack and I sound like a lost, stray sheep.
• Despite my tendency to eat ice cream while spectating, I genuinely try to support all the runners, even if it's stupid early and in typically less-than-optimal conditions. I've learned to yell helpful things, like "Don't forget to breath!" or "There's a GIANT puddle a few yards up - veer left!" or "You're just behind the 8:30 pacer!"
• Depending where I was staked out, sometimes I need to drop into a dead sprint to make it to the finish line in time. Cutting the course and dodging between the crowd to get to that final victory moment. It's a tuck-and-run, speedy little ninja scenario.
• Near the finishing chute, I hold my ground among the proud spouses, moms, and various fan clans. We make small talk. Many of us have already spoken while hanging out along the route. All of us want to catch that final photo of our loved one crossing (or about to cross) that finish line. We need to be there to give that last hurrah and to mop up their sweaty foreheads as they clumsily put on their medal. I'll cut a bitch if they get in the way, even if we're new race-day-BFFs. Plus, sometimes someone pukes after they cross the finish, and who doesn't want to have a front row seat to that ridiculousness??

Keep it up, runners! I'll be right here, snacking.

POST

• As official record keeper, I immediately shove a camera in the beau's reddened face. Especially for the winter races he foolishly signed up for (IN WISCONSIN), I was sure to photograph his frozen misery as a future cautionary reference. And then whatever photo I take, I text to his mom. #BecauseMoms
• After I've consumed his freebie finisher snacks, and he's had his post-race beer (again, Wisconsin - every occasion ends with a beer), we head to the car. He regales the tales of his adventure, providing a play-by-play of every pace change and hill. We critique the group who hosted the event and compare notes about how well they did (or didn't do) with setup, course markers, etc. 
• Once home, the commentary continues, as my dearest man obsesses over the posted times of others in his age group. I make the occasional comment and offer suggestions. He showers and (after much training) hangs up his sweaty clothes. 
• Have you ever seen a runner's feet? Don't. If you have to, just be ready to play doctor and patch up some bloody toes.** Forcing a man to take care of his body is like trying to force broccoli on a toddler - they'll thank you later. 

And then he's back to normal. I force him to hydrate, and he consumes an entire day's worth of calories in one sitting. Life returns to its usual pace, and I get a full 24-hours without hearing the comment "I'm going to pop out for a quick run..."

And then it starts all over again. 

No, running is not something I'm good at. Per my doctor, "Some people just aren't meant to be runners, sweetie." And no, it's not even something I really comprehend as a choice of hobby. BUT, once a year, instead of taking on my usual role as a spectathlete, we run a 5k together. We​ don't run side-by-side like some couples, because in this arena, we're not equals. He excels, and I'm so proud of him. When we're in the same race, he high-fives me while coming back around (when I have yet to even hit the turn around point). And when I huff my way, red-faced across that finish line, he's right there, cheering me on. Because at some point in the past year, running went from being a solo activity, to being a team sport. And since then, we've been running down that dream... together. 

Teamwork makes the dream work...

* In case you're curious as to why, of the three I missed: one I was in Vegas for a bachelorette, another I was in NYC for work, and the last one I had a going away happy hour for a coworker who was departing to go write her novel (worth celebrating!). So. Valid ish reasons, in my opinion.
** Helpful hint for preventative foot help: medical paper tape is good, Body Glide is better.

Playing Hooky

Cutting class and going on madcap adventures is the golden stuff that 80s movies are made out of. It's glamorous. It's exciting. You always get away with it, and even if you get close to being caught, it doesn't matter because shenanigans!

Ferris Bueller is that cool guy who I aspired to date in high school. In reality, I ended up being more of a Cameron. Pretty sure the only time I really skipped class was in college - to go see then President-Elect Obama give a speech. So, even when I cut class, I was still a total Cameron about it. Guess I just wasn't cool enough to pull that shit off.

As an adult though, playing hooky is more up my alley, because I'm using my well-earned vacation time to do it! (#TypicalCameron) Since the year is drawing to a close, the beau and I decided to hook it up together, and took off a random Thursday. Here's what the adult version of madcap, skipping-class-and-being-youths adventure looked like...

We slept in - til 8 am. Before hitting the road, we scooped up some local donuts and coffee. They had a Homer Simpson style one, which was obviously my pick.

"I could be the walrus.
I'd still have to bum rides off people."

The destination: IKEA. Along the way: a Jelly Belly distribution center. So for second breakfast, we got to sit on a train, wearing silly paper hats, while our conductor explained all the delicious ins and outs of the jelly bean business to us. With all that knowledge, we promptly proceeded to raid the giant gift shop. Samples and sales meant that we walked away with at least five pounds of candy (in bags, and on our person). It was heaven.

"It's a little childish and stupid,
but then, so is high school."

Next stop: Gurnee Mills. AKA a giant mall also on our route. The remainder of the morning was spent walking about,* checking out the occasional store, buying miscellaneous things like a shower curtain and candy cane tights. We discussed life, the holidays, the logistics of hijacking a dinosaur mall scooter rental, etc. Naturally, I went from zero to starving at some point, and figured that since we were on a mini vaycay, we should escape to somewhere tropical... the Rainforest Cafe.

One raving recommendation from a hostess later, and I had a giant mango mojito in front of me (the glass came free with the drink - and was promptly re-gifted for a White Elephant exchange a week later). The beau had a beer and a sandwich, while I partook in chicken tenders. The creepy animatronic animals (whose homeland is the uncanny valley) raged on as each "storm" rolled through, and by the time we were ready for the check there was a beautiful starry sky above and a rainbow nearby. Yeah, I'll say it, being two of ten people in a Rainforest Cafe is my jam. I drank the koolaid. I'd do it again. It was worth every overpriced penny. 

"It's one of my personal favorites and I'd like to dedicate it to
a young man who doesn't think he's seen anything good today."

Following our jungle excursion, the beau proceeded to run about the oddly massive (for a mall) arcade area, attempting each and every claw machine. There were at least a dozen. All clearly rigged and not acting in his favor. This spurred our departure onto the next location, the end goal, the mecca: IKEA. The place most relationships go to die.

At approximately 90 miles away, our "local" IKEA is at what I like to call a "safe" distance. Just far away enough to not often damage my wallet and cause an overload to the small square footage of our apartment. I allotted three hours to roam, which was just barely enough. The beau knew going in that I treat IKEA like a scavenger hunt / playground. Since we don't make the pilgrimage often, I insist on going through every display area on every floor. I let the arrows lead me and follow the floor plan they've specifically designed to entrap me. Unlike a timid rabbit, sniffing around a trap, I simply walk right up and lay upon said trap, and die happy. (Too morbid?)

"The place is like a museum. It's very beautiful and
very cold, and you're not allowed to touch anything."

At various points, I settled into my lovely living room of choice and take a little sit break to tally up what things I plan to squeeze into the car (and to calculate dimensions to see if it will jigsaw into the trunk). The whole plan of attack went smoothly.** We also stopped for some meatballs #BecauseSwiss (and because whenever I'm even slightly stressed, the beau assumes hanger and promptly feeds me - a fair bit of assumption that I chose not to argue against). And in the end, we both spent barely any money (sub $100 between the two of us) but took home lots of goodies and a few essentials.

En route back home, we swung into a swanky strip mall restaurant (where the walls were literally just bottles of wine and we were next to a fireplace) to meet up with some of our best dear friends for a catch-up dinner. Hours later, after what was probably our fifth meal of the day, darkness surrounded us as we cruised up the super-secret-spy-route to avoid tolls and head home. We were exhausted, and we had work the next day, but we were content.

So there you have it, a skip day that was perhaps the opposite of oh-so-glamours (NO-so-glamorous?), but was just what the doctor ordered. Candy, cocktails, furniture, food, friends. And at one point, sure, maybe we randomly broke into song in the middle of a parade. Maybe. It's all a bit of a blur. After all, life moves pretty fast...

* Fun fact: mall walking is one of my fave things. Like, old people mall walking where you just get your steps in, not even like shopping mall walking. 

** Until we ran into the random houseplant section near the checkouts - where I ripped open my wallet, started making it rain credit cards, and shouted "take my money!" Or something to that effect. 

Binge Hip

There's a certain phenomenon that's been spreading like a plague the past decade. It's an issue that has increased exponentially as the years have gone on. A phenomenon I fondly refer to as "binge hip."

You know how it is. You've had a long week at work. Hell, you've had a long frickin' month. The summer has been busy, you've barely had any time to yourself, and then this workweek decided just to give you the dagger.

Getting home, you wish to slip into some sweet abyss. You click on the TV. And there it is, an escapist fantasy tailor-made for you (and your demographic), blinking in a spotlight feature on your fave steaming platform.

Some new season has just dropped. It dropped harder than you dropped your weekend plans. A half-hearted "Not feeling well. Raincheck?" text, followed by your prompt phone call to the local delivery joint. All the food. You tell them to bring all the food. These provisions will need to last you for at least the next 8.5 hours. A mug of cocoa. A heap of blankets. You kill the overhead lights and plug in that random strand of holiday bulbs that you've somehow never taken down* and you settle the fuck in.

This is for the long haul. You've earned it. You deserve to just turn on, tune in, and drop out... but without psychedelics, and instead with a solid binge-watch. This is your means of escape. This is your time.

The doorbell buzzer goes off. Only an hour has passed, you've barely gotten into the second episode, and your food has arrived. A brief hiatus to tip the delivery guy and grab a fork from the kitchen (since of course there wasn't one in the bag - #TipRegret). A timely switch from cocoa to wine. The briefest of bathroom breaks. And you are BACK in it.

That'll do. Just enough to get through the
emotional roller coaster of the last seven episodes.

Before you know it, day has become night. Night has high-five the witching hour as it drove past it, on its way into what one might call the "wee hours." You've already had a judgmental automated prompter ask you not once, but twice, whether or not you're still watching. (The answer is, yes, I am. Save your criticism for my "to watch" list, bitch.) And then there it is, the black screen. Actual final credits rolling, instead of the usual spillover into the next episode. At least a minute before it'll serve you up the trailer of some similar black hole for you to crawl into as it sucks away your time. You stare into the blackness, back at your own haggard reflection, and click back to the main menu.

It's over. Accomplishment unlocked. You've concurred another wave of content. The water-cooler talk on Monday will be filled with your epic tales of this adventure you've had. You are a g'damn champion.

Blinking, the moisture slowly returns to your eyes. You look about and debate whether a move to the bed is actually worth it, or if you should just remain in your nest, surrounded by empty food and drink containers. It's so late, it doesn't seem worth it. After all, you've got a lovely imprint on the couch that is swaddling you just fine. But then that twinge of guilt hits, over what you've just "accomplished," and you decide that moving to the bedroom would be the "adult" thing to do.

You go to stand up, and a loud creak emits from your hip. Despite your best effort to rotate couch positions, you had continually settled back into that one spot. Nestled firmly into your blanket mound, with one hip holding you slightly aloft so you could snack. And that hip is not happy to have beared the burden of your binge.

To the bed you go, limping like someone sixty years your senior. You collapse into a deep sleep, your eyes embracing the darkness and lack of television glow... Nearly half a Saturday is gone before you finally glimpse the world again. You roll over and out from under the sheets to take a step towards the shower. A creak, a crack, and a pop later, and your hip has proclaimed its continued state of rage. Its warning you. Don't do this again. Go out into the world, walk about, exercise, move, or otherwise give it some room to shake its thing. That hip wants to be free.

You shuffle your way through a shower, your foot barely clearing the edge of the tub as you lift your lifeless leg up and over. A sleepy towel dry, and you promptly return to your pajamas. Grabbing a half-frosted pint of ice cream out of the freezer, you make your way back to the couch. The binge hip lets out a loud protest as you return under the covers and queue up yet another show. Real life, responsibilities, and binge hip be damned -  willpower was never one of your strong points.

If it's not on social media,
did it really happen?

* Hey, it worked in college, right? Strands of cheap lights can set the mood and are arguably less harsh than regular lighting. Let's not shame that shit. It's twinkly bulb magic and should not be typecast as only being able to supply a dull holiday glow. Also. I definitely typed "bulbs that you somehow've never taken down" and then stared, wondering why "somehow've" wasn't recognized as a word. You don't know me, spell check! 

If I can make it there...

I can’t hide it: I’m having an affair.

A love affair that started many, many years ago. One that I’m not ashamed to have last a lifetime. We don’t see each other often, but when we're apart my mind wanders and I can’t help but think about the time when we can be together again. Maybe someday forever…

It’s New York. NYC. The Big Apple. The Empire State. The city that never sleeps. 

And it’s got my heart.

Growing up, my addiction to silver screen classics often led my small-town imagination down its

crowded streets. As sewer steam created a smoky frame around a smoldering dame and some suited Mad Man / sing-songy sailor, they fell in love, just as I did. Sure, they were mostly all just cheesy sound stages of city stoops with bright lights flashing in front of painted backdrops featuring one of the many iconic locales, but they were enough to hook me. When we got the new TV guide each week (dating myself much?), I’d scan for “On the Town” and would insist that my grandma turn it on if she was watching us (she had the cable, duh).

Fast forward to age eighteen, where I frantically signed up for a UN Seminar class that would take me to that concrete jungle where dreams are made of. For several glorious weeks, I got a little taste of what I wanted to become: a badass boss lady in the big city. Of course, three years later, as graduation approached, my logical bastard of an inner voice talked me out of it... How could one afford the big city without a good paying job? No job, no move. Too pricey. You don’t know anyone. Totally rebellious. Be safe. You can always go later. It comes down to reality...

And later I did go. Back to visit as often as I could (earlier this month being one such occasion). But every time, I swear it only makes it worse. It’s always just a tiny taste. Like getting a big burger and fries, and you can only nibble at the fries because you’re still waiting for everyone else at the table to get their food and don’t want to be rude. Sure, the fries are good, but like, you WANT the burger.

I'm in a New York state of mind...

So I go. With a shit-eating grin plastered firmly underneath my stern New Yorker face. Because I don’t want everyone to know how thrilled I am. I want them to think I belong.

• I stomp rapidly down the sidewalk in Midtown, crossing just before the light changes, in my business best.
• In Chinatown, I pretend to walk away from that bag that I “don’t really like all that much” and then haggle over dollars that don’t really matter with a woman who barely speaks English.
• I can gather all the news I need on the weather report.
• On the subway, I avoid eye contact, while discreetly judging everyone around me (earbuds firmly in). I run to switch to an alternate line, even though I’m not in a hurry to get anywhere. And then spend all day bitching about that “crazy commute.”
• I get my pizza for 99 cents ($2.75 if I want two slices and a coke). And I fold it when I eat it. Standing on the sidewalk. Next to a trash pile and a sleeping homeless man (and his cat).
• On 5th Ave, I window shop at night: after all the tourists are gone.
• I wear practical footwear, but have heels in my bag.
• Like a pro, the Staten Island Ferry is something I take to avoid paying more money at other tourist locations. I’d say that I pretend to be a commuter there: but no one really wants to go to Staten Island.
• Bagels. I eat SO many bagels. And I suddenly have strong opinions on them. 
• I don’t use a map (on my phone or in hand) to navigate: I use the g’damn grid. Except when I’m south of 14th. Then I’m just lost.

And when no one is looking…. I put one hand in the air for the big city. And give change to that oddly talented homeless saxophone player on the street. And I smile; I smile like a damn fool as I grab photos of some hilarious graffiti on an alley wall or a wittily named ice cream joint (looking at you, Cold Mess). And I sing Frank Sinatra under my breath. And, yes, I’m that asshole who feeds the sparrows in Bryant Park. Just because I like to watch them fight.

Every time I wake up in that city that doesn’t sleep, I am recharged. I see iconic places, which I would go back to every single day and stare at if I could. Also, I see places that I never knew existed. There are entire boroughs I have yet to explore. Even the thought, gives me a thrill. There is so much new food to try. New faces to see. Streets to stomp. There is just so much that draws me in.

I don’t want just the fries. I want the whole damn burger. Now. Not later. Because there may be a

turning point…. Maybe later it won’t be as good. Or maybe making the move would ruin it for me. Maybe New York is meant to remain the mistress in this story. I hope she knows how much I adore her, and that she’ll be well taken care of, no matter what lies ahead.

Til next time, these vagabond shoes are longing to stray.

I don't have any reasons, I left them all behind.

That's what you get (for waking up in Vegas)

Staggering our way out out into the light, I couldn't help but feel a bit like a mole. Blinded by the light. Stunned by the sudden dazzling sunbeams.

Only instead of being a furry little rat clawing at dirt, this mole was wearing a low-cut LBD, clutching a handful of singles and a devil-may-care attitude. The underground we were emerging from was a strip club. The time was 7:20 am. It was departure day.

This was Vegas.

After three full days of shenanigans in the desert oasis, this was it. We'd made the most of the final evening and now it was time to make a frenzied return to the real world. The four of us found a chariot and were whisked back to our borrowed mansion, returning twelve hours after we had last left it. 

Pool inflatables lay scattered about. Most of the house was still asleep. Those awake were gathering belongings and seeking out additional trash bags to contain the overflow of bottles. Someone was rolling up a life-sized poster of the groom, covered with "decorative" stickers. This bachelorette party had been a roaring success. 

I nodded to my airport carpool buddy and we parted ways. She to a bed, me to a shower. Still filled with sugary sweet libations, I sang my best Elvis in the shower - wishing that there were more than 24 hours in the day. 

8:30 am, my head hit a pillow. 9:30, with those neon lights still flashing in my eyes, I was back up, jamming possessions into my bag as we summoned an Uber. At the airport, the tiger mom with the hook-up and I parted ways and headed to our respective airline terminals. 

Buzzing on a Vegas high that just wouldn't quit, I sought out the drunk food that I'd been craving all night. A retro diner in the airport, bumping the very best oldies, called my name. And I answered. In spades. Moments later I was at a table with a large burger, heaping basket of fries, and a chocolate shake, merrily watching the passers-by and stuffing my face. I perused photos on my camera, hummed along as Mr. Presley's ode to the city once again filled the air, and waved jovially at anyone who walked by. 

Eventually I moved to a slot machine (#BecauseAirportSlots #BecauseVegas), where I continued to lose money and have a good time, as is the way in that City of Sin. My own flight departure was not until 1:30, so I had plenty of time to walkabout, enjoy my food, grab a giant bottle of Mountain Dew to chug, etc. By the time we were boarding the plane though, the lack of sleep and constant frolicking in the 100+ degree heat from the past several days started to sink in... I was damn tired.

The second my butt hit the seat, I clunked out. Nestled against my window wall, using my scarf as a blanket, I was down for the count. 

Dreaming of that desert oasis and the fountain of boozy youth.

My dreamless sleep abruptly ended with a shudder. A child slamming into my seat from behind. I groggily looked about, my brain filled with the plane engine hum, thinking we must have landed at my layover in Minnesota. The woman next to me was mumbling curse words under her breath. No one was deboarding. I opened the shade and there it was: that same glaring desert sun and the glittering strip. Checking my watch, it was just after 2 pm... We hadn't even left yet. 

The engines flared up and an announcement came over the speaker: we were cleared for departure, apologies for the delay. The plane lurched forward. 

And that's when my hangover hit. 

(Like a ton of fucking bricks.)

As the plane slowly rolled forward, I was filled with utter dread. Waves of nausea swept over me. The woman next to me continued her quiet stream of swearing (apparently a nervous tick) as I muttered, "Get your shit together, girl, this'll pass" and started taking deep breaths. Mentally begging my stomach acid to chill and deeply regretting every round of bottle service. As we taxied in line, I leaned back in my seat, eyes closed, but it was no good. I was death.

The plane then made its final charge down the tarmac and I experienced what was literally the worst turbulence I've ever felt in my entire life (and I used to fly RyanAir so like, that's saying something). My deep breathing became frantic as we were jostled about and I gave up on the attempts to be zen. Ripping out the stupid airline mags and miscellaneous trash left by a previous passenger, I searched desperately for an air sick bag.... only to find that there was none.* The lady next to me glanced over, in realization, and her eyes took on a slight look of pity as she went into her latest round of what sounded like an explicit rap version of Hail Mary. She had her own shit to deal with. 

This wasn't going to pass. I looked down at my purse for a split second and then quickly thought better of it. My only hope was to make it to the restroom.

I stared up at the seatbelt fasten icon, still illuminated, and cursed the gods (the old and the new) for the lengthiness of this ascent. The unsteady rise through the clouds grew rougher. With the jolt of what was surely a battle-royale with a particularly gnarly cloud (or penance for every sin I've ever made), my stomach swayed - the burger. The shake. Oh sweet lord, the fries. All sloshing about with three days of booze and a giant Dew serving as the mixer.

The odds of me making it shot to zero as the seatbelt light continued to shine. 

But then - just after the jolt hit, I saw her. A petite Asian woman who had sprung up, clutching her willpower and her stomach, and had bolted towards the bathroom as the flight attendants squawked their warnings. That was all I needed. I, too, sprung up from my seat, emboldened by her mad dash. Pushing aside the woman with the extensive vocabulary, I clung from seat to seat, aisle after aisle. I heard the ding noise, as the seat belt sign finally went off, just as I made it to the restroom. Someone else had beat me to the second stall already, so I waited.

Now standing, I took a deep breath and thought, "This is okay. I'm okay. I think I just needed to stand and stretch out." Looking around, I saw several other folks, green in the face, glancing back to see when the bathroom line had died down. One of them, with a deep sigh, grabbed the nearest attendant and ordered a Bloody Mary. "Make it two," proclaimed his friend. And I smiled. We were all there together, having survived that bright light city, which had set all our souls on fire. With a little solidarity and some hair of the dog, we were going to make it. It was going to be fine. 

The bathroom door opened, and the petite lady who had inspired us all darted out. I shrugged at the guy in the back row and he chuckled, "Some people just can't handle Vegas!" I gave him a grin as I closed the door. We were a kindred, and we were a-okay.

And then I turned around.

I'll spare you the lavish details, but... as the smell hit me and I saw the remnants of her weekend sprayed about the tiny space... It was over. I was toast. 

No point in pretending that it's all glitz and glam. Sometimes, that's just what you get for waking up in Vegas. Til next time, Sin City <3

Party on, lil guy.

* What the HELL kind of plane doesn't have air sick bags on a flight OUT OF LAS VEGAS?! Are you mad?? That whole damn plane was full of hungover people! Was the staff just like, playing a practical joke on the entire plane??