A Christmas Miracle

I have never been the girl that dreamed about her wedding day. The proposal on the other hand... I have always tried to imagine how this would happen (even when there was no guy in the picture). I would watch TLC's the Wedding Story and listen intently to Oprah specials about insane wedding proposals. I never fully landed on how my proposal would happen, but I would think about different scenarios:

At a baseball game? NEVER!

In a hotel room, with roses scattered around? Unlikely.

At dinner, the ring floating in champagne? I nixed this because the daydream ended with me choking on said ring.

Maybe in Central Park. Or during a late night walk around the monuments. Or perhaps at the finish line of a race we ran together.

But no matter how it happened, I always thought I would cry. I imagined a tearful, YES! And then more tears.

So what really happened? The abridged version:

Christmas morning. 8:45 a.m., in front of a fireplace full of presents and a silent Miami home. A ring box placed strategically in a cup next to Santa's cookies. Down on one knee, "Will you marry me?" First I said, "What are you doing?!" Then I said, "Are you serious??" And finally I said, "Yes, Yes, Yes!"

And the tears? They weren't there, well not at first. And I realized...

It doesn't matter how much you dream about your engagement day. It will never turn out the way you expected. And that's the best part...

Because no daydream, no matter how wonderful, compares to the magical moment of reality, of actually hearing the words, of finally saying YES out loud.

I'm Emotionally Unavailable Right Now, Please Leave a Message

I have been highly emotional lately. Yesterday, I teared up while reading a People Magazine article about a dog named Nubs; cried at the end of So You Think You Can Dance; and sobbed while watching the movie Gran Torino.

I'm trying to figure out what to blame this wave of instability on... and I have no idea. I even took my temperature today to see if I had been inflicted with Swine Flu (I'm not, in case you were wondering; apparently, excessive emotion is not a symptom).

Maybe I just need a break from life. Perhaps my hormones are literally crying out for respite from my everyday routine.

Luckily for them (and my tear ducts) I'm packing my bags and heading out to the Dominican Republic on Sunday.

Though I'm sure I'll tear up a bit as I say adios to my boyfriend for two weeks. But then, my body should be prepared for a drought!

To Friend or Not To Friend

Until recently, I have never been the stalker type. When I met a guy at a bar, I never even thought about looking him up on Google (although, in hindsight, this might have saved me from several terrible dates). Once in awhile I would type in the name of an ex-boyfriend to see if any marriage notices would pop up, but that was the extent of my stalking effort.

But now that I'm full-fledged, everyday user of Facebook, I'm obsessed with finding out what former foes, friends, exes and classmates are doing. Are they a train wreck? Are they divorced? Have six kids? Live in my hometown? Gained weight? Lost weight? Stayed the same???

I've also recently found out that there is only so many times you can stalk the same people (apparently, people's lives don't change that dramatically day-to-day). So I've been thinking of friending people I never even spoke to in high school. I'm thinking of pressing the "add as friend" button as I scroll over the names of people I hated in middle school.

But then I stop. And I stare at their face. And I get heart palpitations at the thought of letting them into my Facebook life. And while I want to know what they're doing to and how they look now, I don't really want to click the button because it seems be implying that we ARE friends or that I want to BE their friend.

When I don't. I just want to take a peek into their lives. I wish they had an "I want to judge" button. Then I wouldn't feel so conflicted.

So I took the advice of AF, my actual friend in real life and on Facebook, and hit "add as friend" to a former college best friend; a girl who I had a major falling out with just as we headed off into the real world.

And it came back as saying, "Error. Please try again."

I did not. I promptly aborted this friending of non-friends mission.

I take it as a sign that I will stick to just friending the people I know (or at least don't have any bad memories of from years before), rather than actively friending people I want to stalk (if they choose to friend me, I will happily click the "accept" button).

And if this means I can only peer into the lives of 200-something people, I think I can handle it.

The Stress-tro

I used to stress out about track meets, about passing tests, about what to wear on the first day of school. Now, I have the usual stresses, but I've added one more - the METRO. In the grand scheme of things, public transportation is not something to stress about (and based on my last post, I need to reduce my stress level to maintain my youth).

BUT.

When it's 8am and all you want to do is stroll down the one non-working escalator and people are blocking you from getting to your train and then you have to push past these people who give you dirty looks even though we are ALL supposed to be sharing the one escalator... It's pretty freaking stressful.

And when I finally get to my next train and I have to risk my life by standing almost in front of the incoming train just to make sure I get on and get a seat and then people run in front of me as soon as the doors open and then I watch as my seat is taken... it's pretty freaking stressful.

And then, as I'm standing in my sardine filled metro car with my gym bag and my work bag and my newspaper, in my uncomfortable heels, and I'm jostled foward and my newspaper goes flying and I fall into a sweaty worker bee and they give me a dirty look even though I apologize... it's pretty freaking stressful.

Sigh.

Perhaps I AM going to need botox...

Falling Forward

I am highly disturbed. I just watched an HBO special about getting older. Whoa. Oh. My. God. Girls who are 25 are getting botox. Women who are 60 LOOK 25. Stretched faces and unnaturally wide eyes and lineless faces. I knew all of this (I think), but to see it on my 42" plasma (thank god not high definition)... it made me cringe (for about an hour and a half - that is a lot of cringing).

Of course, once it ended, I ran straight to my bathroom mirror and inspected my face for lines. And immediately doused myself in lotion and anti-aging skin cream. And practiced looking incredulous without moving my forehead.

A Life Rut

I'm in a funk. A rut. Whatever you want to call it. I'm not depressed, I'm not wallowing, I'm just... bored. The routine of everyday life is, well, routine. Wake up. Go to work. Go to the gym. Go home. Make (order in) dinner. Watch TV. Go to bed.

BLAH.

Even writing that made me sleepy.

So I've got to figure out how to spice things up. Because if I don't, I'm going to do something stupid. An idle mind is the devil's playpen, right? Right.

For example, I once contacted a TLC show that reconnects old flames. I asked them to put me in touch with an exboyfriend because I was bored.

For example, I start scouring web sites to see if I can get deals on things like a Kitchenaid Mixer or a set of high end pots. Not that I like to cook, that I even know what I would use the Mixer for, but just because I might one day use those items. Just because I'm bored.

You get the hint.

So any suggestions on how to add a little oomph! to my "lull you to sleep" every day life are welcome.

It's Amazing...

...How many deep conversations happen after drinking 3 (fine, 5) glasses of wine. It's likely that I solved the economic crisis and not remembered the next morning.

...How easily I justify my ever-expanding hips on my body being "child-bearing ready" (please note, body may be ready, the rest of me is not)

...How many times I mistake a random person for a former ex-flame (I totally freaked a guy out at an AT&T story today by staring at him for a good five minutes only to determine that he definitely wasn't who I thought he was)

The Un-Friending Effect

I've been UN-friended.

This shouldn't be a big deal, this small action shouldn't cause me to get excited, shouldn't make me huff and puff about the nerve of someone hitting the UN-friend Facebook button. I mean, if they UN-friended me, I probably wasn't that friendly with them to begin with.

BUT.

The ex-boyfriend, the one you might have read about yesterday, the one who FRIENDED me just a day ago... well, he UN-friended me today. A Facebook break up! Not as dramatic and hardly as hurtful - but a breakup nonetheless.

Granted - if he read the blog post, he probably realized it was about him, and I'm sure he was insulted.

But, as I pointed out, I'm not the one who friended him. I would never have actively hit the "add as friend" button. I mean - he broke up with me 3 hours before we were supposed to go on a vacation together. 3 HOURS! What was he expecting? A welcome back party back into my life?

BUT. I digress.

As the shock of being UN-friended wears off, I find myself a little disappointed (no more stalking!) But more importantly... I feel a sense of joy. Sort of similar to what I felt yesterday.

Because apparently, my ex-boyfriend and now former Facebook friend, still has commitment issues.

Validation? I think so.

The Ex-Boyfriend Ambush

Sometimes, it feels like they are everywhere - skulking down every street, eating in every restaurant, drinking at every bar. And just when you think you've avoided them, purged them from your system, detoxed from the devil they have to go and invade your dreams or text you, maybe send you a tweet or facebook friend you.

That's right. I'm talking about the ex-boyfriend ambush. Out of nowhere they just pop up, making your day go topsy turvy for a few minutes (or sometimes a few hours).

It has been a long time since I've seriously thought about the guys who have broken my heart. It's a rare moment that I even think about where they've ended up or what my life would be like if I had stayed with them.

But... when one of them friends me on Facebook (as one just did today)... it's hard to hit the "ignore" button. I wanted to, honestly! but some part of me needed to know. I had to find out! Call it morbid curiosity. Call it an insatiable craving to stalk, to satisfy that "what if" itch that rarely rears its ugly head (but when it does... it is impossible not to scratch).

Is he married? Does he have kids? Is he happy?

Turns out: Yes. Yes (OMG - th exbf I knew should NOT have been allowed to have children). And... I don't know.

Another realization (after the speeding up of my heart, the obsessive clicking over each photo, the analyzing of each image and every message on his wall):

I am SO happy he broke my heart. I mean, listen - I would NEVER want to go through that pain again... the tears and the stomach aches and the days without eating.

But years later, having moved on several times over... I can be grateful. That short, static glimpse of what could have been, of where I might have ended up, of who I might have become... makes me SO incredibly thankful that he is a memory of my past, that he is just a friend on Facebook... that he is not the face of my future.

Aggressively Normal

My friend WR pointed out to me the other day that one side effect of taking Ambien is that you can become "aggressively normal." After much research, I still don't really understand what this means.

Because honestly, what's normal? Much less aggressively normal???

If I pop an Ambien, instead of getting sleepy will I become exceedingly friendly? Will I scream at the Starbucks lady for taking too long to make my drink? Will I offer my seat on the metro to a perfectly healthy human capable of standing on their own two feet?

I feel like I'm far from normal, so maybe it would just make me act like a normal person, rather than an aggressively normal person.

New to my bucket list: Take an Ambien and see where it leads me

From the Trenches: Embrace Being 30

An interview with MFK - a former wild child turned domesticated 30-something.

Were you nervous about turning 30?

Actually, no. I was looking forward to it, to be honest. I felt that turning 30 meant people were now going to start taking me seriously in the work place. It just felt like a pretty cool right of passage. Turning 30 - it's huge!

But what about getting older? Were you scared about that?

What's an age? People tell me I look like I'm in my 20s all the time. I'm more afraid of 40, that's what scares me. But 30 is the new 20.

When you turned 30, did anything change?
I made it into a bigger deal than I needed it to be and spent my 30th in Miami. Until I hit 32 (wait, am I really 32?) it wasn't until then that I settled down a little bit.

What's better now that you're in your 30s?

I am wiser. I think I've had a lot of work experience, life experience. I've met all sorts of people. I'm definitely more settled and I"m more confident. I'm definitely in better shape at 30 then I was at 28. It's all mind over matter - it's all about how young you feel. My grandmother always told me, age does not matter; and that woman rocked it in her 70s... rocked it for a long while.

Is there anything you miss about being in your 20s?

I would say, to be brave, to take chances and risks because you are only going to be your 20something self for so long. I used to think I was too old to conquer something, but it's not true. You're never too old - and I'm sure I'll tell my 30something self the same thing when I'm 40something.

Any parting words for those of us turning 30?

Embrace it. You never know where you're going to be in a couple of years.

About MFK

Married: YES! (A newlywed of 2.5 months married to a hot 20something)

Music Lover: YES! (all-time fave band: The Beatles)

Sailor: YES! (just recently found her sea legs)

Home owner: ALMOST! (fingers crossed)

What Do I Want To Be?

People used to ask me, "What do you want to be when you grow up?" When I was five, I wanted to be a vet. When I was ten, a writer. When I was 15, an actress. At age 18, a journalist. At 22, I finally landed in the public relations sector.

And then all of a sudden, people started asking, "Is this what you want to do with the rest of your life?"

My response: Heart palpitations. Sweaty palms. Hyper-focus on my daily life in the office.

The REST OF MY LIFE. It's so ominous. It's so (hopefully) loooooooong.

IS this REALLY what I want do forever? If it's not, what is it that I DO want to do??

Do I want to go back to school? Write on the weekends? Visit a life coach? Up my Zoloft intake and call it a day?

How is that as I get older, I find myself more lost?

ISO A Big Belly Laugh

It has been a tough couple of days. Maybe it's the end of summer blues. Maybe it's the stifling heat. Maybe it just... is. I think I might be, what is clinically referred to as, "in a funk." Not a life threatening one. Just a little one. But a funk nonetheless.

So when my colleague mentioned going to see Wanda Sykes, I said SIGN ME UP! I'm in need of one of those stomach clenching, cheeks aching, tears running down my face laughs. I don't care if it causes 80 more wrinkles around my mouth and 55 additional crows feet. I need a Big Belly Laugh.

And while I'm not sure Wanda is exactly what the doctor ordered... she is close enough.

Eye Opening

These magazines are doing a number on my psyche (or, playing into all my insecurities about getting older). Either way, I am starting to become obsessed with finding products that will help me maintain my youth.

I spent about 30 minutes in CVS the other day walking up and down the aisles debating if I should get restoring hair serum, wrinkle reducing face cream, nourishing body lotion, lip plumping gloss, and a host of other products that promise to reverse the signs of aging.

Turns out, your lips become thinner over time (the only part of our bodies we wish would gain weight).

Turns out, the skin around your eyes need to be pampered as much, if not more than, the skin on your arms and legs.

As usual... SIGH.

But since I'm broke, I decided to only purchase one necessity: L'Oreal Eye Defense.

Hopefully the next time you see me, I'll be free of dark circles and crow's feet.

AARP Has Come Calling

I came home a couple of weeks ago I opened my mailbox and pulled out, well, the mail (shocker, I know). I sorted through the pile

• AT&T bill


• Crate & Barrel catalog


• Bed Bath & Beyond Coupon (YAY! I also then proceeded to search through the waste bin by the mailslots to find the discarded coupons. I mean really, who throws away COUPONS that NEVER go bad?!?!)


• People Magazine


• AARP Packet

Wait. What?

Yes, a whole packet asking if I would like to join the AARP community and subscribe to their magazine.

Thoughts flew through my brain on the elevator (as I hid the packet between the 10 Bed Bath & Beyond coupons and People magazine).

How did they get my name?

Why do they think that I'm old enough to be part of the retirement community?

I fell into a deep depression for about one minute, ranting and raving throughout my one bedroom apartment. Then I remembered - while I'm only 2 years away from turning 30, I'm 20 YEARS AWAY from turning 50!

Even so.

I promptly through the packet into the garbage and then swiftly tied up the trash bag and threw it down the shoot.

Out of site. Out of mind.

Living on the Dr. Seuss Farm

Cankles.

Muffin Top.

Bunions.

Crow's Feet.

Spider Veins.

It sounds like a I live on a Dr. Seuss farm.

Lately I feel like I've been inundated with stories about how to cure the above ailments.

The other day, as I daydreamed about a Baked & Wired cupcake and stared angrily at my boring lunch (Campbell's soup - again), the Today Show had a segment about "cankle lipo!"

On the plane last week, Self magazine informed me about how to rev up my metabolism. Turns out, you have nothing to worry about in your 20s, but once you hit 30 you better be hitting the gym. Hard. And counting calories. Often.

Good thing that Self magazine also had an article on the best way to pose in a picture to hide those pesky flaws. I studied that story and the accompanying image for about five minutes.

Because if I can't flaunt it, I better know how to fake it for the camera.

Guess who is turning 30?

Nary a wrinkle, and still eating like he's 21 years old, Pacman is celebrating his 30th birthday next year. In his honor, they've already created a zippo lighter and I'm sure we'll see a major PR blitz surrounding his foray into his third decade.

People - have you started planning for my big 3-0?? You've got a little less than two years to figure it out. I suggest you get started, lest I'm outshone by a yellow arcade icon.

Fading Into Nothingness...

Back in the day, when I was in my young 20's and single, I had stories. A whole lot of them. Stories that involved random acts of hooking up, stories that consisted of dates that would jump out of the bathroom naked and/or stripped for, storise that I tried to piece together the next day as I nursed a hang over.

So you can imagine, back then, this blog would have been a lot more exciting. There would have been drama. There would have been heartache. There would have been many embarrassing moments.

I've been struggling for the past couple of days - after long hours at the office and planning for my upcoming mini-vacation to Rhode Island - on what to write.

Hence my silence.

Getting older has meant... less excitement.

Which is good on one hand. I don't have it in me to stay out until 4am (even on a Saturday night) and juggle a plethora of crazy guys.

On the other hand... my life no longer provides great fodder for party conversations. My only update at the moment is that I've noticed a few more wrinkles around my eyes.

Apparently, my life no longer makes for exciting blog posts either.

For this, I am sorry.

The Self Esteem Factor

There are lots of UNglamorous things about getting older, but to be fair, there are a few truly AWESOME things that come with advanced age. One of them? Feeling comfortable in your own skin.

Sure, I still hate my curly hair. My eyes could be bigger. My butt rounder. My cheekbones higher. But I know that I will always hate these things. I've ACCEPTED that I will always hate them and have come to peace with the hate.

Unlike in middle school and high school and even college - I rarely stress about my looks, if I'm wearing this season's "it" outfit, if I'm part of the "cool crowd."

Do I still care about the zit that is currently perched on chin? Sure. Do I try to (unsuccessfully) cover it up? Of course. But do I spend hours stressing over it? Hardly.

Eye rolls, judgemental looks from passerbys, snubs by the male gender - they roll much more smoothly over my now thick skin.

Even the ridiculous comments made by my family don't faze me quite as much.

For example, back in the day, when I was 13 and my self esteem was probably a negative 25, I used to pose in front of my bedroom mirror. Very Next Top Model. One day I asked my mom, in a vulnerable, teen moment, I said, "Mom, do you think I'm pretty."

Her response: "Honey, I mean, you're no supermodel but..." She might have said something nice after the "but" but I can't remember, nor do I think I even heard it.

I mean, HELLO!?!? I'm her daughter. Aren't I supposed to look like supermodel even if I was gangly with frizzy hair and no boobs?!?!

To this day, I remind her of this and she (conveniently) says she has no memory of this conversation.

But now, when my mom says: "But Kimmie, you look 100 times better with straight hair," I get mad. But not AS mad.

I calmly, confidently, in a very self assured manner, blame my genetic flaws on her.

The Scariest Part of the Gym

It's not the boot camp class. Or the camel toe I get if I pull my spandex shorts up to high. It's not the sweat stains, or the germs on top of germs on top of the mat that I use to do my pushups and situps. Lately, the scariest part of the gym is when I have to input my age.

It used to take many finger punches to get to my age. Now it's about 3 or 5. I'm at 28 before my finger even gets warmed up! Sometimes I think about lying and putting in 21. But then I feel guilty. As if the treadmill is going to know and, in retailiation, speed up and cause me to trip and fly off the moving object.

So I never lie. It's too risk. And I now slowly punch the button to get to my actual age before I begin trying to jump start my ever-slowing metabolism.

The Average Age...

I have always been a late bloomer. My first kiss? Age 16. My first boyfriend? Age 18. My first marriage? Oh, wait...

Anyway, I decided to see how far below the curve I fell. Turns out, I am really really not normal. Not anywhere close to it.

The typical age an American...

• Loses their virginity, according to a worldwide Durex survey, is 17.3 years - I was 18 years old when I lost mine prom weekend (feel free to use the Virginity Calculator to help you determine the average age of when you should - or were supposed to - lose your virginity)


• Gets married is 26 years old for women and 27 years old for men


• Has their first child is 24.9 years old


• Buys their first home is 30 years old

Late bloomer status is fully embraced.

Ticking Time Bomb

My mom has consistently told me, as I have gotten older, that the only children she really liked when we were growing up were her own. So you can imagine, with this warm, fuzzy influence, that I am far from what you would call a "baby person." Or a "kid person." I'm definitely more of a dog person. In fact, I already know what I'm going to name my first dog.

But lately I've been noticing that instead of cringing when I see babies, I actually (gasp!) smile. On the metro, I find myself staring at the (quiet) toddlers and stroller-bound bundles of joy and waving my hand at them. Instead of pushing myself closer to the window to steer clear of their germiness, I'm finding myself inching closer and trying to make them smile.

WHAT IS GOING ON?!?!

Trust me, I am nowhere near wanting kids. Friends who are pregnant have to suffer through my incredulous looks and (I'm sure inane) 20 questions. They are foreign creatures that I cannot relate to. I am so happy for them, and grateful that it is not yet me dealing with morning sickness and swollen ankles and the scariness of childbirth.

But I can feel my biological clock very slowly, ever quietly, gearing up toward movement. Maybe when I turn 30? I'm not sure when it is going to dentonate, but I know it's not yet. In fact, even thinking about possibly being pregnant is enough to make me reach hastily for my birth control pills.

In fact, writing this has freaked me out thoroughly. Which is actually sort of reassuring. I STILL don't want babies and my clock has not been activated. Thank god!

Until the ticking time bomb that is my biological clock goes off, I'll happily stare at these little creatures from a distance and "ohh" and "ahh" over my friends' beautiful children.

And do the "no baby dance" every month with glee and joy.

Being Single Stinks

I was single for a long time, which probably comes as a surprise to those who didn't know me pre-domesticity. I think I might have dated most of the (crazy) New York City guys and half of the Hoboken male population. I won't go into the traumatizing stories (strippers, naked bathroom guy, the American Girl Place pianist) and the crushing disappointments when I realized that Mr. Perfect Investment Banker was actually Mr. Bipolar Disorder with Control Issues.

Needless to say, I hated dating. I hated being single. I hated flirting (despite becoming a master), and the small talk and the uncomfortable silences and (what felt like) endless, unsatisfying first (and last) kisses.

And people always ask, "But you are in a relationship now; can't you look back and go, 'oh that was actually fun'?"

They say, "Wasn't it all worth it? All the stories? All the bad dates?"

I need to let everyone know that, yes, of course it was all worth it. But for all the funny stories and fantastic fodder it has given me, I wouldn't want to re-do it. Nope - not even knowing the outcome, not even having the hindsight that I would meet my love, would I want to go through it again.

That said, dating is a necessary evil. It needs to be done. And as one very wise friend, SB, has said, "Every asshole you date, every guy that breaks your heart (or you break his!), brings you one step closer to the one you are going to end up with."

So for all my single ladies - grab a wing woman, take a vodka shot, and put yourself out there.

Remembering When...

I was standing in my office with coworkers, about to head out to drinks, when the news of Michael Jackson's untimely death began trickling in. It's one of those moments that will stay ingrained in my memory, one of those, "I was doing this when I heard the news" moments. I believe I've gotten to a point in my life, to an age ,where people have started to say, where were you when X happened?

And the funny thing is that, while I can't remember what I did for my 26th birthday or my second Valentine's Day with my boyfriend, I can remember where I was when...

1. OJ Simpson was acquitted of murder (hopping on the yellow bus after school; when I got home, I wrote about it in my journal)


2. Princess Diana was killed in a car crash (IM'ing on my computer in my family room on Long Island, with the computer playing in the background; it was also my brother's birthday)


3. The twin towers fell (in London, on a quiet street, with only the sound of a tinny radio playing the news)

So as all these remember when days flood my mind, I know that I've just added a new one. And I raise a glass to Michael Jackson and his music (which bubbles up a whole slew of other, less momentous remember when moments).

The Girl Who Never Grows Up

Brooke Greenberg is the size of an infant, with the mental capacity of a toddler. She turned 16 in January.

This story made me stop and reflect on my steady spiral towards 30 - and makes me feel grateful that I have the option to complain about it.

Lessons from the Kickball Field

When I first told a colleague I was joining a kickball team in DC she was like, "You are on the edge, Kim... 28 is toeing the line of being too old to play." I was outraged. Until I realized WHY she said it.

The kickball scene in DC is crazy, it's wild, it's truly out of control. But here's the thing, there is very little kicking actually going on. DC Kickball should be called DC Sexball. People are playing the field, not playing ON the field (sorry, I had to!) They join this sport to drink and makeout and play endless games of flip cup. The Kickball league leader even sends out a weekly newsletter describing (in detail) all the hookups that happened the week before.

But, despite the lack of actual ball kicking that takes place on the National Mall, I have learned some valuable lessons:

• Once an athlete, always an athlete... and if you were NEVER great at sports, you probably never will be. Kickball may be a game you play in fifth grade gym class, but if you weren't able to whack that red ball far back then, you won't be able to do so now (trust me, I know first hand).


• Competitive, obnoxious bullies still exist... and can be found bunting balls (grrr!), disputing the referee, and planning strategic ways to slaughter the opposing team. It's kickball people - calm it down.


• Frat guys and Sorostitutes might have once been hot... but definitely lose their shiny, beer goggles appeal a few years out of college. 20 and 30 somethings slamming beer cans agains their heads, grinding up against sticky walls in the basement of a bar, and drinking until they are blacked out are NOT attractive.

Are you ever too old to play kickball? No way! I'll be missing balls and not getting on the base until I'm 80 years old. (I also don't think you can ever be too old to rush down a slip n' slide but that's another story).

But I do believe there is an expiration date on some of the extracurricular activities associated with DC Kickball.

And now... I will go hide under my bed as every DC Kickball person throws balls at my head.

The L Word

Some people love using the word "love." I'm not one of them. I carefully weigh that word before it comes out of my mouth. Which is not to say I never use it. I say, "I LOVE" daily.

I love mint chocolate chip ice cream.

I love dancing when I drink.

I love my mom's dog, Reggie (in fact, I love all dogs)

I love my bed.

I could go on. But what I'm trying to point out is that, while I do love many things, it takes me a long time for me to get to that "love" point. I mean, it took me 8 months to utter the three words to my boyfriend. Some people are already living together by 6 months!

So when people ask me, "Do you love DC?" I always pause. And I know this makes them feel awkward. But I have to think about it. Do I love it?

Nope. Not yet.

But it took me 3 years to develop my love affair with New York City.

So, as the awkward silence ensues the next time you ask me that question, just know that saying "I love you, DC" is going to take awhile.

For now, I can honestly say, "I like you, DC, I'm just not in love with you quite yet."

My Single Finger

When I was 14, all my friends and I could talk about were boys. Dating boys, kissing boys, holding hands with boys (I was in the "late bloomer" crowd).

When I was 16, all my friends and I could talk about were guys. Dating guys, hooking up with guys, sleeping with guys.

Then I turned 26 and all of a sudden all my friends and I could talk about was marriage. Sure, we still talked about guys - dating them, sleeping with them, hooking up with them; but all of a sudden, marriage was an ever-present topic, hanging over most conversations ominously.

Men began equaling marriage, rather than crazy nights and funny hookup stories. The following sentences peppered, what felt like (and feels like), every conversation:

• "It's not like we're 25 anymore"
• "I'm not going to waste my time with a guy I don't see a future with"
• "I just don't think he's marriage material, so what's the point?"

And trust me, I'm a culprit of this type of talk. I can often be the leader of the conversations. But that doesn't mean I'm not annoying myself.

As much as my ring finger is, well, silently screaming to be dressed up in some bling, I need to put a muzzle on it. Marriage is important, but it's not EVERYTHING. And I"m going to try not to let it dominate my thoughts. Or conversations.

This is my birthday gift to my boyfriend :)

To Smell or Not to Smell...

If you don't know, I have anosmia. Which sounds a lot more scary than it is. Anosmia is defined as being unable to perceive smells. So technically I AM smelling, my brain just doesn't know it. Which is why, YES, I can taste.

According to the Anosmia Foundation (yup, there is a FOUNDATION - a REAL one) states that there between 2 and 5 million American adults suffering from this condition.

Guess what?

The ranks just grew - perhaps even exponentially!

That's right people - Zicam is being pulled off the shelves because it might cause people to lose their smell. In fact, the anosmia wikipedia page already updated their entry to include a section about how "the FDA cited complaints that the product[Zicam] caused Anosmia. The manufacturer strongly denies these allegations, but has recalled the product and has stopped selling it."

All I have to say is, Welcome to my (smell-less) world folks!

All The Single Ladies

There must be something in the water. I'm convinced. Recently, I've heard ridiculous breakup stories that included guys saying the most ridiculous things. Such as:

"I'm sorry, I just can't dial into this relationship right now"

"You don't go to the gym enough"

"You never talk about your job or what you do while at your job. It makes me think you lack passion and ambition."

I could go on, but you get the point.

What the F?!?!

I'm trying to think of the breakups I've gone through and the stupid things that were said to me, but apparently I've blocked them out. I remember how the worst ones have happened: three hours before a graduation trip to Virginia Beach; the night before a Chemistry final in college - those are the ones that stick out and make me feel queasy even thinking about them. But I don't remember the exact words that were used - though I'm sure they were similar to the ones above.

Which brings me to my next point.

Thank goodness. Thank goodness for me that the struggling actor, the bipolar finace guy, the alcoholic journalist (I could go on and on) broke my heart and left me. I can look back now and say THANK GOD!!!!!!! And soon, one day in the near future, my fabulous friends will say, "I dodged a major bullet - now I'm free to find guys worthy of my time."

In the meantime, though, they are allowed to cry and eat lots of ice cream and drink tons of wine.

So here's a shout out to all the single ladies - when that song comes on, I'm going to dance extra hard for you and pull out my best moves in your honor!

Get Low Get Low Get Low

On Saturday night I went out, had lots to drink, and then demonstrated my So You Think You Can Dance modern dance moves in the basement of Irish Times (to songs such as "All the Single Ladies" and "Poker Face").

I woke up the next day and realized...

I had severely strained my back.

Seriously. No joke.

Sigh.

Brace Face

Back in the olden days, dentists and orthodontists thought that retainers only had to be worn for a few years after having braces. Turns out, they were wrong. In fact, they now tell you that you should wear a retainer for the duration of your life so that your teeth don't shift.

So this morning I went to my dentist to get my new retainers to prevent my teeth from shifting further. And while these 'tainers were expensive, let me tell you, they are so much more hi-tech. Gone are the days of ugly wires and a red palate (meant to resemble your actually palate I would guess).

Sexy, I know.

My retainers are clear and look like the Crest White Strips! I honestly can't wait to pop them in tonight and show them off to my boyfriend (who has old school retainers - hah!).

We'll be adorkable together :)

Aging Soles

In a search to determine why I can't seem to stand on my feet for hours on end, to figure out why after a night of dancing the bottoms of my tootsies are crying out in pain, I ran across an article titled, "What's in Store for Aging Feet?"

I had no idea that the soles of my feet could age! I had no idea that your feet keep growing! Apparently, similar to your nose, your feet get longer. And flatter. In fact, people over the age of 40 can gain half a shoe size every year.

Whoa. This is really depressing news for someone who prides themselves on nice, average size 7 shoes (8 in running shoes)

Also, our soles lose their padding. No wonder my feet are hungover after a night of bouncing around the Irish Times dance floor. It makes me not want to use the ped egg. Shouldn't we be conserving our calluses, not ped egging them off?

This is a lot to digest on Monday. I'm going to kick up my slowly deteriorating feet and mull over my next steps.

Unpopular Memories

I grew up on the north shore of Long Island (groan) so it shouldn't come as a big surprise that I was not popular in high school. I had friends, just not many. I went to parties, but very rarely. I sometimes ate lunch alone and spent the hour before track practice doing homework in the library rather than heading over to the local drugstore to pick up snacks (or whatever they did over there - I still have no idea).

This all makes me sound very pathetic - but I did have friends. In fact, my best friend was really really popular - although somehow, that didn't really boost my social standing. In the end, I just didn't fit in. I wasn't cool by any stretch of the imagination - I was track runner rather than tennis player; I pulled my brown curly hair into a bun rather than sport a silky, highlighted loose side pony tail; and no matter how hard I tried, I was always one step behind when it came to fashion.

So when I got the Facebook notice that our ten year reunion was around the corner and the former popular queen bees and soccer playing drones were planning a get together I had two immediate reactions:

• Oh. My. God. I have been out of high school for ten year. TEN YEARS! Whoa.


• Should I go? Do I want to see these people? Isn't that what Facebook is for? I already know who is fat/pregnant/married.

Now, I know people change, they grow up, they put aside petty behavior and judgemental looks and catty comments (or at least that's what I've been told). But, when I think about my high school classmates, all I feel is dread. I'm thrown back to a time when I my hair grew out rather than down, my Friday nights were spent watching TGIF and wondering why no boys liked me, and everything I did just wasn't... right.

And then I received another update, with exclamation marks thrown all over the email. The reunion would be held on a booze cruise! Free flowing alcohol! A live DJ playing the songs we grew up with! A slideshow of happy memories projected onto the walls of the boat!

No way. No How. Not going to happen. Out in the middle of the water with these people with no way out? I get (sea)sick just thinking about it. I can imagine ten minutes into it I would be rapidly downing whatever alcohol was available and then possibly (likely) saying things that had long ago been put to rest.

After that went down, I'm pretty confident the night would have ended with me frantically paddling through the Long Island Sound away from my old life and back to my high-school free world.

But, considering the people I grew up with are used to nothing but the best, they would likely have thrown me a Burberry life vest as I drifted back towards dry land.

It Only Takes Two

If you didn't know me before I turned 25 years old then you didn't know the Kim that could drink a bottle of wine and not throw up. You didn't know the Kim that slugged a 40 in her subletted Upper East Side apartment, booted, rallied and then headed out to Mad River for a wild night of dancing. You didn't know the Kim that slammed back body shots at a college bar and stayed out until 5 in the morning on Thursday, Friday, AND Saturday nights.

That Kim is long gone. For the past few years, it only takes about two drinks to get me to THAT place - the one where I start slurring my words, dancing (bopping) around, and craving late night (10pm!) pizza. Two drinks is all it takes to bring on drunken tears, to garner stories of mysterious eggs showing up in my purse the next day and random tales of spitting water at my boyfriend as we lay in bed and have conversations I can't remember the next day.

In fact, two drinks is all it takes to elicit an unpleasant hangover - and if I go beyond two drinks, well, then I have a hangover that won't go away for a few days. Which is why the enjoyment of drinking is losing its luster. I hate the idea of wasting a day, of waking up with a pounding headache, of craving crappy food slathered in ketchup and fried in oil.

Now that my Saturday nights are spent playing board games with a group of couples while sipping wine rather than pounding beers while playing Asshole and Shoulders ; I hope somewhere, someone has a lingering vision of the Kim I used to be: a dancing maniac double fisting two beers, stumbling home at 3am and getting up to go for a 3 mile run the next day.

The Weighting Game

They say that 2 pounds on a dog is equal to something like 45 human pounds. I'm a small human being, so I think this comparison works for my body type. Therefore, although I don't LOOK like I've gained weight, I have. And my pants can attest to this fact.

I've been blaming my weight gain on:

• Getting older
• Birth control
• My pinched nerve
• Longer work hours

But finally, I had to take a step back and re-evaluate. Yes, my metabolism has slowed down. Yes, I have been abstaining from runnning due to my sciatica. Yes, my birth control SUCKS. But... my addiction to Starbucks caramel macchiatos, my drunk binge eating on Saturday nights, my lack of self control when it comes to all things ice cream MIGHT have something to do with this sudden increase in waist size.

Sigh.

I remember when all of the above and drinking five nights a week wouldn't even make a dent in my toned abs. At my roof deck pool I stare angrily (and forlornly) at the young 20 somethings that have washboard abs. I don't even know where my abs have gone! It's slightly depressing. Especially since this is the first time in my life I feel uncomfortable wearing a bathing suit.

So I have vowed to work out more (even if that means I have to wake up at 5:45am to get to spin class). Eat less. Munch on healthier snacks. And hope that, despite a diminishing metabolism, a pinched nerve, terrible birth control, and decreased self control, I can get back to a semi-bikini body before the summer ends.

After Shocks of Turning 28

Three weeks, 2 days, and five and a half hours after turning 28 years old, I've been diagnosed with a plethora of problems including, but not limited to:

• Sciatica - often associated with the elderly, this is a pinched nerve in my lower back that causes pain to spread into my butt and makes me hobble around after long runs and during rain storms


• Dermatitis - an extreme version of dandruff; the doctor told me it was unacceptable to live like this (I honestly didn't think it was THAT bad) and gave me an unlimited prescription for special shampoo


• Early Onset of Periodontis - the dentist is usually my safe haven, a place where they endlessly compliment my smile and my teeth; this time, although they did bestow glowing praise, they also let me know that I have the beginnings of gum disease. I'm currently at a level four, but if I get to level five they'll have to... The sentence was never finished, the hygenist just shook her head ominously

And those are just the highlights. Seriously. What is going on? I'm on the fast track towards old age and I'm only 28. Or perhaps, this is older than I had originally thought. When I tell the 23 year olds in my office that I'm 28, they stare at me in shock and say, "OMYGOD really? You're 28?!" Which is a compliment in one respect (I'm assuming they think I look like I'm 25) and an insult at the same time (Apparently 28 is a crazy age).

And maybe it is. I remember when I was 23, I called my dad to tell him about my boss. He asked how old my new boss was. I was like, oh she's older, like 30.

I want to tackle my younger self and knock some sense into her. But I'm worried I might inflame my sciatica in the process.