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.